There was a name whispered in old barracks and faraway temples.
Mahvindra.
People called him many things, wanderer, swordsman, monster, hero, but none of those names ever felt big enough.
He was tall, red-skinned, and strong. Four arms, each one made for holding a blade.
He didn't serve any king. He didn't pray to any god. He simply walked. From one place to the next. Never asking. Never waiting.
One day, he passed through a city and found a slave market.
Children in cages, people sold like things.
He said nothing. But his swords moved. By the time the sun set, the market was gone.
Burned to ash. The slaves were free.
The kingdom panicked. Soldiers were sent after him. A hundred knights. A hundred adventurers. All trained.
Mahvindra fought them alone, and won.
But he didn't kill them. He never killed unless he had to.
That's when another legend came forth. Aurus, the first Hero.
They fought for hours. Dust turned to storm around them. Mahvindra lost, barely.
