"I'm the son of the creator of the Draconic Realm—the Black Hole Dragon."
Armaan's breath hitched. The space around him twisted for a second, the void pulsing as if it had a heartbeat.
He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself midair, his voice cracking slightly,
"W–Why are you showing me all this? What do you want from me?"
The dragon's massive, serpentine form shifted in the shadows. Its voice was like thunder echoing through eternity—
"Because you are the storm I've waited for. The one born to reclaim what was lost… and awaken what sleeps within."
The colossal dragon's void-black eyes dimmed slightly, as if reflecting upon an age buried beneath mountains of time.
"I ruled the Draconic Realm for millions of years…" it began, its voice low and somber, "but every being in this vast existence—no matter how powerful, no matter how divine—must face a single, undeniable conclusion, whether they desire it or not…"
Armaan's voice barely escaped his lips, "…Death."
The dragon nodded slowly, the crimson veins across its body pulsing like the tides of an ancient sea.
"Yes. Death."
The void around them began to ripple like disturbed water as the dragon continued, its voice deepening.
"The Draconic Realm was not born with your stars, or your solar system. It was forged in the primeval silence of existence—trillions of years before your Sun ever ignited. In the beginning of its reign, the Realm was governed by its first and strongest ruler—the Black Hole Dragon. A being so powerful, his very breath could bend time, his roar collapse galaxies."
"He ruled for millions of years, unmatched… until the day he too succumbed to the law of endings. And then, I—his son—ascended to the throne. The Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon. Me."
A beat of stillness passed as Armaan watched, wide-eyed, each word etching history into his memory like carvings in stone.
"I led for another millions of years. After my age, the dominion passed to my descendants. One by one, each powerful enough to shake the foundations of creation.
The Seer Dragon…
The Inferno Dragon…
And finally, the Storm Dragon.
But then…" his voice dropped lower, darker—
"…came the Great Draconic Dominion War."
The void twisted violently for a moment, responding to the sheer weight of that memory.
"The Storm Dragon… the last ruler of our bloodline… was slain.
And so, the throne passed to an outsider.
The Comet Dragon."
He leaned forward through the darkness, his presence oppressive, his gaze sharp as blades.
"Thus, among the five that ruled from our lineage—the last true rulers of the Draconic Realm—were:
1. The Black Hole Dragon – the strongest of all dragons.
2. The Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon – me.
3. The Seer Dragon – keeper of forgotten futures.
4. The Inferno Dragon – whose flame never dies.
5. The Storm Dragon – master of sky and fury."
The void went still.
And Armaan, frozen in air, whispered,
"…Why are you telling me all this?"
The dragon's eyes narrowed like collapsing stars.
"Because your blood sings with our legacy, Armaan. And something ancient stirs once again."
"And what do you mean by 'again'?" Armaan asked, his voice unsteady, curiosity now overriding fear.
The dragon exhaled a slow, ancient breath. The void trembled in response.
"After the Great War… when the Draconic Dominion fell, the powers of the five ruling dragons—the legacy of my bloodline—were scattered across different worlds. Fragmented. Sleeping."
He paused, eyes glowing like dying suns.
"Over the millennia, many beings have inherited fragments of my power. Some used it wisely. Most were crushed by it. But the powers of my family—my brothers, my kin—they were never found again.
Yet… I feel them. Like whispers in the wind, faint heartbeats in the cold of space. I know they live on—hidden within vessels not yet awakened."
Then he went silent. The void thickened with tension. And slowly, the dragon's immense gaze locked onto Armaan—his void-black eyes drilling into his soul.
"And you, Armaan…
You are the next inheritor.
The one chosen to awaken my legacy… as the '…"**
His voice glitched into static. The word disappeared.
Armaan blinked.
"As the what?"
The dragon repeated… but again, the word blurred into silence, as though the universe itself rejected it.
Armaan frowned. He gave up on asking again and let the dragon continue.
"…form. With it, you will wield 40 to 50 percent of my entire power. Enough to—should you choose—reduce your Sun to dust and scatter its ashes across time itself."
Armaan's breath caught in his chest. The dragon's voice deepened.
"But this isn't just a gift. It's a bond. A pact. You will help me find the vessels—those carrying the remnants of my kin. The Seer. The Inferno. The Storm."
Then came a pause, followed by words like thunder in Armaan's ears:
"In return, you may wield my power as your own—use it in your battles, your justice, your purpose… even to avenge your father."
"Because the universe you know is merely a fragment—just one shattered shard of a far greater, far darker truth."
"There are beings beyond the Danavas, the Shaitaans, or the Daityas. Beings that don't just crave power—they crave dominion over existence itself."
"Entities that should never have existed... yet they do. And they're watching."
He leaned in closer, his voice now a whisper that roared louder than screams.
"But remember this, Armaan…
Power that shakes stars will also shake the attention of gods and monsters alike. The moment you inherit the Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon's force—
you become a beacon… and your planet becomes a target."
He paused. Let it sink in.
And then the dragon said, in a voice that could carve fate itself:
"So carve this into your soul—
Power doesn't just demand strength…
it demands sacrifice. With it, you don't just fight wars…
you invite them."
The void crackled. The weight of destiny settled.
"Now you understand what I meant when I asked—
When are you coming…?
To the Draconic Realm.
To awaken what sleeps within you."
Armaan went silent.
His breathing slowed… and something within him shifted.
The fear faded—not vanished, but twisted into thought.
His gaze lowered. His fists clenched on his knees.
And then…
His eyes—those warm, golden eyes that once could melt any heart with just a smile—began to darken.
A shade slid over them, like storm clouds devouring the sky.
They weren't cold.
They weren't angry.
They were sharp.
Eyes no longer meant to dazzle…
But to pierce.
Eyes that, if looked into long enough, could crack a man's soul.
They were a little less than half-closed, like a hunter measuring its prey.
Still. Focused. Deadly.
The dragon observed him with quiet pride.
And then the ancient voice came again—calmer now, deeper, echoing with care.
"You don't need to answer me now, Armaan."
A pause.
"You are still a 16-year-old teenager… with a heart. With dreams. With a world that hasn't yet shown you all its colors—good or cruel."
The void softened.
"Take your time. Think. Feel. Choose not with fear, but with purpose."
The dragon slowly began to rise, its massive wings folding behind.
"You… you're one of the few beings I've come across in the last million cycles that I can truly place my belief in."
"So I, the Great Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon… offer this not as a demand, but a request."
The void dimmed like the close of a curtain.
"Take your time. Decide when your heart stops shaking. And when you're ready—when you choose to become more than mortal…
come find me."
A silent wind blew. The void began to shimmer.
"Your answer… can shape the next age."
And with that, the space around Armaan began to distort again—folding inwards, calling him back.
Armaan returned to the room. For the first time since the nightmares began, he wasn't panting, nor was there a drop of sweat on his forehead. The void hadn't shaken him this time. Something had changed—he had changed.
He stood silently for a moment, gazing at the empty room, and then called out,
"Gramps, you can come in."
Farmaan entered slowly, but the moment his eyes fell on Armaan, he froze.
There was something different about the boy standing in front of him. Not in his posture, not even in his expression—but his eyes.
They were no longer the bright, carefree eyes that once sparkled with mischief and warmth. Now, they carried a heavy stillness—a depth that could pierce through flesh and soul alike. The look of someone who had faced something ancient... and hadn't flinched.
Farmaan instinctively took a step back.
But then he composed himself and stepped forward, speaking softly,
"What happened in there, Armaan?"
Armaan looked at him and, without hesitation, began explaining everything the dragon had told him—the truth of the Draconic Realm, the great war, the inherited powers, and the warning of creatures that defied the laws of existence.
Farmaan listened, silent and still, absorbing every word with the weight it deserved. And when Armaan finished, he took a deep breath and said:
"This path… no one can choose it for you, Armaan. Not even me."
"This isn't just about power—it's about purpose, consequence, and the very core of who you are."
"You'll have to find the answer on your own."
After that, Armaan gently bowed his head.
"Thank you, Gramps," he said, his voice calm but laced with weight. Then, without another word, he stepped out into the night.
Rain had stopped. The streets shimmered beneath the faint glow of the streetlamps.
Each step Armaan took echoed the war waging in his mind.
He was still walking... but mentally, he was still in the void.
The dragon's voice echoed again and again in his thoughts.
"With great power comes not just responsibility… but consequence."
"You'll become a beacon… and a target."
The thought clawed at him.
There were undeniable advantages—strength, answers, justice for his father.
But the price?
His normal life. His safety. His humanity.
Meanwhile, back in the house, Farmaan sat alone in his room, staring blankly at the flickering lantern.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his thoughts heavy.
"What will he do now?"
This wasn't something any training or wisdom could prepare someone for.
Armaan was no longer just a schoolboy skipping class and chasing dreams.
He had crossed into a realm of beings that didn't even exist in the textbooks of Rakshaks.
"He's become something else," Farmaan murmured to himself.
"He's entangled in the legacy of ancient dragons... something no other human has ever faced. Not in history… not in stories."
A long silence followed.
Farmaan looked out the window, toward the path Armaan had taken.
"I wonder…" he whispered.
"What is he, really?"