"I... I won't let you escape!"
The voice trembled with fury and pain.
Before him stood a man—shirtless, his upper body battered with bruises and drenched in blood. Dark brown hair clung to his sweat-soaked face as he struggled to stay upright, fists clenched in defiance.
Towering over him was a demonic entity—seven feet tall, skin marked with ominous sigils that pulsed faintly. He wore a flowing white kimono that fluttered with the wind, and from his forehead curved a single, jagged horn. His eyes glowed with arrogance.
"You are far too fragile to oppose me, mortal," the demon said, voice low and rumbling, laced with condescension. A faint smile played on his lips.
"I have slain gods. And you, a mere man, can't even scratch me. Now... accept the honor of death. May your soul find peace in the afterlife."
SLASH!
The man's body collapsed.
Death was swift.
"Arghhh... there he goes again with his endless speech," muttered a boy, around 16 years old, standing 5'6" tall. Fair-skinned and slim, he adjusted his specs with a sigh, clearly fed up. Dressed in the standard school uniform—a crisp white shirt, navy-blue pants, and a matching tie—he looked every bit the reluctant listener.
"How does he never run out of words? Seriously, man..." groaned the boy beside him, also 16. He stood a bit taller at 5'9", with a balanced build—neither too bulky, nor too thin. He too wore the same school uniform, but his tone suggested he was mentally far away from this assembly.
The two stood side by side in the long, slow-moving morning assembly line, somewhere in a typical bustling city school.
"So, that's all for my speech today, kids. I'm quite sure I've drained every ounce of your patience," the principal finally declared with a slight chuckle, wrapping up his seemingly eternal monologue.
"Thank you, sir..."
The entire student body replied in a lifeless chorus, their voices flat and hollow, as if their souls had just barely survived the ordeal.
"Ugh... finally. His speech came to an end," the shorter boy sighed as he and his friend climbed the stairs on their way to class.
"By the way... Armaan, did you bring your maths project?"
"Wait—what? Maths project? That's due today?" Armaan stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. "Samarrrrr... I swear I'll kill you! Why didn't you remind me yesterday?" he growled, smacking Samar's back with frustration.
"Hehe, I thought you knew, Mr. Class Monitor," Samar grinned mischievously. "But hey, since you didn't bring it, I'm not submitting mine either. Fair and square."
"Don't change the topic, dummy!" Armaan muttered and gave Samar another soft punch to the head.
Armaan and Samar had been friends since class 7, right after schools reopened following the pandemic lockdown. It had taken just two days for them to bond in the new environment. Now, in class 11, they still shared the same bench—joined by another friend, Roumit, whom they met this year.
Roumit was a year older, roughly the same height as Armaan, but fairer and noticeably bulkier than both. He was also the only one among them who wore real prescription glasses.
"Hey, Roumit. You brought your maths project?" Armaan asked, spotting him peacefully seated and buried in a physics book.
"Yeah, I did. But looks like I won't be submitting it—thanks to some irresponsible punk," Roumit replied, adjusting his glasses with a deadpan look.
Armaan smirked. "I was outside the class when the teacher announced it, doing something for Hindi ma'am. And of course, some people didn't even think of letting me know."
Samar suddenly wrapped an arm around Armaan's neck, grinning.
"Forgive our sins, oh great monitor," he said with mock drama.
"Just shut up..." Armaan groaned, brushing off Samar's arm and sighing heavily.
During the lunch break, a girl with a delicate face, grey eyes, and long dark brown hair approached Armaan. Her expression was a mix of nerves and shyness.
"Hey Armaan, umm... did you bring your English literature project? Ma'am asked me to collect them and hand them over."
Her cheeks turned slightly pink. She'd secretly liked Armaan ever since he stood up for her—saving her from a group of upperclassmen who were pestering her to go out with them. She was the class monitress alongside him.
Armaan, sipping mango juice, was so caught off-guard that he spat it all over Samar's face.
"D-Did you say English literature project, Alya!?"
Alya blinked at the dramatic reaction, then composed herself.
"Yes. The teacher announced the deadline the day before yesterday. But… I think you were absent. I'll talk to her for you if you want."
"Wait—really? Thank you, Alya. You're a total lifesaver. I mean it," Armaan said, a relieved smile forming on his face.
"W-Well… you owe me one… Never mind!" she stammered, suddenly flustered. Turning on her heel, she rushed out of the classroom, her face now fully flushed.
"Huh? What was that about?" Armaan blinked, confused. Then his eyes narrowed as he turned toward Samar and Roumit—both doing their best to look anywhere except at him.
It was 11 PM. The moon hung lazily in the cloudy sky, occasionally peeking through the mist that swirled over the narrow streets of Howrah. Armaan's footsteps echoed faintly as he walked back from his coaching institute. He was late—only because the entire batch had celebrated their teacher's birthday with cake, snacks, and laughter that stretched into the night.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack and kept walking when suddenly… a heavy chill kissed the back of his neck.
A low growl sliced through the silence.
He turned.
Out from behind a crumbling boundary wall emerged a danawa.
Its body was twisted—over 8 feet tall, a hulking beast of cracked obsidian-black skin that shimmered like coal under moonlight. Its arms were far too long, ending in clawed, dagger-like fingers. Veins of glowing red coursed through its body like lava beneath a crust. A crooked horn sprouted from one side of its forehead, and its mouth—too wide to be human—was filled with rows of uneven, jagged teeth dripping with black slime. Two yellow, lidless eyes glared at Armaan.
And then it pounced.
Armaan's instincts kicked in—sharp and fast. He ducked. Rolled. Jumped back. Each time, he narrowly missed the deadly claws. He had no weapon, no powers—but something deep inside him responded to danger like second nature.
The monster roared and lunged one last time—
But vanished mid-air.
Armaan stood panting, heart racing.
But then—BOOM!
The rooftop beside him cracked as the danawa leapt from it like a panther, this time catching Armaan mid-run and pinning him down.
It opened its mouth wide—ready to devour.
"Jwala Shakti.... Second Pulse.... VAJRA JWALA!" echoed a commanding voice.
Suddenly, a blazing arc of crimson fire slashed through the air.
SHHHHHINKK!
The danawa froze, split down the middle, and crumbled into glowing ash.
Armaan looked up, stunned.
A man stood before him in a black uniform. His long jacket fluttered in the wind, with "RAKSHAK" written in bold Hindi on his back. A glowing, silver logo shimmered on the left side of his chest—a stylized flame inside a shield.
He had sharp features, a faint scar over his jaw, and burning orange eyes that matched the flicker of his blade. His black hair was tied back, and the hilt of his weapon was still smoldering.
"You alright?" he asked Armaan calmly, extending a hand.
Armaan nodded slowly, still in shock.
The man's gaze lingered. "You've got potential," he said. He pulled out a small scroll and handed it to Armaan. "Go here. It's a village, 25 kilometers from Howrah. Someone will be waiting."
"Wait—who are you?" Armaan asked. "What is all this?!"
The man smiled faintly. "I'm a Rakshak—a protector. You'll understand everything... once you get there."
And with that, he vanished—leaving behind nothing but silence and ashes.
The Next Day
Armaan stood at the door, backpack in hand.
"Mom, I'm going out with my friends for a while," he lied.
"Okay... Have fun!" she shouted from the kitchen.
He grinned nervously and left.
An hour later, he reached the village—a mix of modern and traditional life. Paved roads, some concrete buildings, and lush greenery all around. The address led him to a simple two-story house—cement walls, a small iron gate, faded blue windows, and a clay-tiled roof. No cars, no guards. Quiet.
He entered.
FWIP! FWIP! FWIP!
NEEDLES!
Dozens shot from hidden slots in the walls. Armaan ducked, rolled, dodged—but one grazed the side of his face near his eye, leaving a tiny red line.
"AHH! Seriously?! What the hell is this?!" he yelled.
A calm chuckle followed.
An old man stepped out from the shade of a pillar. He had long white hair and a flowing white beard, and wore a loose kurta-pyjama with a shawl draped over his shoulder—simple and dignified.
"Good reflexes," he said. "You must be Armaan."
"Yeah, and you must be crazy! What kind of psycho throws NEEDLES at a guest?! What's next, fireballs? Exploding laddus?"
The old man chuckled again. "I'm Farmaan Akram. And that 'psycho' who saved your life was Rahul—a Rakshak."
Armaan blinked. "Rakshak again? What even is that?"
Farmaan's expression softened as he looked into the distance for a moment. "He was my student once... a stubborn one, but full of fire." Then he smiled faintly and muttered to himself, "Rahul has got good eyes. He saw the spark in this boy too."
Armaan raised an eyebrow. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," the old man waved it off, then turned serious again."Rakshaks are the unseen saviours of mankind. We fight Danawas and Shaitans that roam the shadows of this world. After harsh training, a Rakshak awakens the power hidden in his soul and earns the right to wield an Aether Blade—a sacred sword fused with the spirit of its original wielder."
Armaan asked, "Why me? What does all this have to do with me?"
Farmaan's eyes softened.
"Because you have fire in you... not just skill, but purpose. Let me ask you one thing, what is your goal, Armaan? "
Armaan's voice became quiet.
"I want to kill the one who murdered my father."
Silence followed. Even the birds had gone still.
Farmaan sighed.
"A noble cause... but remember—vengeance burns fast and dies. A Rakshak doesn't fight just to avenge. He fights to protect. You must learn both."
Armaan looked up. "Will you help me find my father's killer?"
"I'll train you to find him yourself," the old man replied.
Armaan nodded slowly, but in his mind, a smug thought lingered:
"This old man is kind... and looks weak. How hard can this be?"
Little did he know...
The next few months would break him in ways he never imagined.