The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, a loud knock banged on the wooden door of Anshuman's hut.
His mother rushed to open it, wiping her hands on her faded saree.
Outside stood two men in deep navy cloaks—the symbol of the Hades Academy stitched on their sleeves in golden thread. The air around them crackled faintly with power.
"Anshuman," one of them said, "you've been summoned to the Academy."
His mother's breath caught. She looked at Anshuman, confused and afraid.
Anshuman stepped forward. "Why?"
The taller man, who had scars down his neck, replied coldly, "Final evaluation. The Headmaster has permitted one last test. If no power awakens… your eligibility will be permanently revoked."
The younger siblings watched from the corner, wide-eyed. His youngest sister whispered, "Is bhaiya going to become a real Hades now?"
Anshuman gave her a small smile.
He wanted to believe that too.
---
The path to the Academy was long and winding. It sat on the hill beyond the village, surrounded by thick stone walls and guarded by glowing runes. Only chosen students ever passed through its gates.
Anshuman had walked past it for years—always outside, always forgotten.
Now, the gates opened before him with a low, mechanical groan.
Inside, the world looked different.
Polished stone corridors. Floating orbs of light. Students flying, teleporting, training with blades that pulsed with magic.
He was escorted through a large hallway toward a round chamber lit by glowing crystals embedded in the ceiling. In the center stood Headmaster Drona, a silver-haired man with a staff shaped like a crescent moon. Around him were several senior teachers, watching quietly.
"Anshuman," the Headmaster said, voice calm but unreadable, "do you know why you are here?"
Anshuman nodded. "My last chance."
"Correct. At sixteen, if a student's power has not awakened, we deem them incompatible. But… unusual energy spikes were detected near your home last night." He stepped closer. "We're not sure if it's a mistake. Or a warning."
Anshuman's heart pounded.
They sensed it.
The flicker. The mark. The voice.
Headmaster Drona gestured. "Stand in the circle."
Anshuman stepped onto the ancient sigil inscribed on the floor.
A teacher raised a blue crystal toward his chest.
No response.
Another added a fire orb.
Still nothing.
Some teachers frowned. A few turned away.
The humiliation crept back in like old dust.
One teacher whispered, "False alarm. Waste of time."
Anshuman lowered his eyes.
Maybe… maybe it really was just a dream.
Then suddenly—
A low rumble shook the floor beneath him.
The crystal in the teacher's hand shattered, spraying sparks across the floor.
One of the walls cracked slightly. The wind inside the chamber howled for a moment—unnatural, alive.
Everyone froze.
Headmaster Drona narrowed his eyes.
"Did you feel that?" one of the instructors asked.
"No aura detected," another replied. "But the earth moved."
Drona stepped closer to Anshuman.
"You have something," he said slowly. "But it's not normal Hades energy. It's deeper. Buried."
He turned to the others. "He will stay. On probation."
Gasps echoed in the chamber.
A girl with braided hair spoke out. "He doesn't even have a power. Why should he stay here?"
Drona didn't answer her. He looked directly at Anshuman.
"You will train. You will be watched. Fail to show improvement in one month… and you will be cast out."
Anshuman bowed his head, hiding the surge of emotion in his chest.
"I understand."
---
They gave him a small uniform, a dusty room in the far end of the dormitory, and no warm welcome.
By sunset, whispers had already spread.
"That's the powerless boy."
"He cracked the stone with no aura?"
"He's cursed, maybe."
"I heard he made the ground shake with just a stare."
But Anshuman didn't care.
That night, he stood alone on the Academy terrace.
The stars were clearer here. Colder.
He placed his hand on his chest.
"I don't know what I am," he whispered, "but whatever is inside me… I'll find it."
From deep below the academy, where forbidden relics and ancient scrolls slept, a seal trembled.
A voice echoed—forgotten, broken.
"You are not a boy. You are a god... waiting to remember."