Long before anyone could count days or name stars, this universe was nothing but silence wrapped in emptiness. Then came the Creator of All Time — a presence older than light, whose breath stitched the stars and whose whispers gave birth to existence.
From his thoughts came MANAV, the first sentient beings — complex, emotional, and blessed with curiosity. Alongside them, he crafted beasts, birds, and plants, each placed in harmony within the great system of life. For centuries — or perhaps eons — the world remained peaceful. MANAV flourished, learned, built tribes, and survived.
But time… time is never still.
As they hunted beasts for survival, something invisible crept into their world — a sickness born from decay and neglect. MANAV, though advanced in spirit, still lived with the mind of stone. They knew fire, but not soap. They could carve weapons, but never understood the value of cleanliness. Among decaying bodies and untouched food, the disease was born — one that attacked the mind, devoured memory, and turned people into shells of rage and confusion.
The Creator watched in silence. His beloved creation, gasping — falling.
Unable to bear their suffering, he did something he had never done before — he wept. And from his divine sorrow, a second chance was born: not a cure, but a transformation — a new soul for humanity. A race carved from memory, redemption, and pain. They were called "Varven".
But the world did not greet them as saviors. Fear bred hatred. Where there should have been unity, there was division.
Scene Shift — A Home on the Outskirts
The fire crackles gently. Shadows dance on the walls. An old man, wrinkled and kind-eyed, rocks slowly on a chair as a little girl, no older than 8, sits cross-legged on the floor.
"Dadaji... why do we hate Varven so much?" she asks, her voice sweet and unsure.
The old man pauses, staring into the flames. His fingers tremble slightly.
"I... I don't know, beta," he says softly. "You will have to find that answer yourself."
The girl frowns, "Dadaji! You always say that! You're joking again!"
He chuckles faintly, but his eyes remain troubled. "It's too late now, little one. Go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
As the girl gets up and yawns, her mother, , enters quietly. "Don't bother Dadaji, **Cuziko**. He's not well tonight."
The little girl nods and takes her mother's hand, leaving the old man to the silence. The flame in the fireplace flickers out, and the night deepens into an uneasy stillness.
The Next Morning
Birds chirp softly. Dew clings to the wild grass. The girl skips toward Dadaji's room, clutching a little flower she picked for him.
She knocks gently.
No answer.
"Dadaji?" she calls. Again, silence.
She pushes the door open just a little.
What she sees stops her breath.
Dadaji is holding a sword. Her mother, Cuziko... lies lifeless before him.
Blood stains the wooden floor. The air is still. The girl's heart thunders in her chest.
She doesn't scream.
She just stands there
Half credit to my partner : Suraj_Kumar_5151