The field was still.
Too still.
Storm clouds churned above like bruises smeared across the sky, lightning cracking veins of light through the heavens. Thunder didn't roar—it rumbled, like a beast muttering in its sleep. Below, the ground was fractured and scorched, the blackened earth thirsting for more blood.
Two figures.
Facing one another.
Unmoving. Unblinking. Unforgiving.
Veerath took a slow step forward. The storm caught in his eyes like old fire.
"I've waited long enough for this, Parashu," he said. The words weren't loud—but they slid through the air like a blade being drawn. Cold. Clean. Without mercy.
Parashu didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Only clenched his fists, shoulders taut, his body humming with barely-contained fury.
His voice, when it came, was rough—like stone scraped against steel.
"Because of you… someone I loved is dead. He just wanted peace. A life. You took that from him."
He stepped forward.
"You don't deserve the air you breathe."
A moment passed.
A breath.
Then—WHUMP.
Parashu disappeared.
In the blink of an eye, he was behind Veerath—his hand a vice around the man's throat. Then, like thunder made flesh, he slammed him into the dirt. The earth buckled beneath the impact, dust spiraling into the air like smoke torn from a funeral pyre.
Veerath didn't fight. Not yet. He groaned—more from memory than pain.
And then, half-breathing, he murmured:
"Maybe this is it… maybe it ends here."
But there was no fear in his voice.
Only something older.
Grief.
Ancestral.
Heavy.
> "Why?"
"Why does your blood always rise while mine rots beneath it?"
"First my father… murdered by Jamadighini. And now me—crushed beneath his son."
---
⚰️ Years Earlier – Another War, Another Night
The home was clay-walled, dim, and warm. A father and his boy sat close, steam rising from a humble bowl of lentils.
Then—BOOM.
Not thunder. Something worse.
Steel-footed boots stomped the earth outside.
A voice called. Hard. Empty of compassion.
"Come out. I don't want to ruin your house."
Jamadighini.
His shape filled the doorway—tall, motionless. A statue cast in blood and discipline.
Inside, the old man placed a trembling hand on his son's arm. No sound. No movement.
Then—CRASH!
The door was no more.
Jamadighini stepped in.
"I'll ask once," he said. "The Secret Treatise. Hand it over."
"I… I don't know what that is," the father stammered.
Jamadighini's eyes never changed.
"Then die."
---
🌩️ Back to Now
Veerath's back hit the dirt, and his breath wheezed out.
He stared up at Parashu—the face of his family's ruin.
"I won't… I can't die like this," he spat. "Not next to the mud. Not under you."
Parashu's voice was low. Nearly kind.
"Your father chose his side. And this… this is where that choice ends."
But then something shifted in him.
His gaze softened.
His words… slower. Like something remembered.
"Before I finish this… tell me your name. I lost someone. Never got to know his."
Veerath closed his eyes. Then opened them, like he was remembering how to speak.
"Veerath," he said. "The last ember of a bloodline buried in dust. Son of the fallen. Raised by rage. I am the storm that survived the fire."
He rose, body shaking, and drew a curved blade—its edge whispering in the air like a secret. His voice came steadier now.
"And tonight… your story dies so mine can live."
---
⚔️ From the Lost Treatise – Motion's Grasp
> "To move is to spit in fate's face. To strike is to carve your truth into the bones of time."
---
Parashu blinked.
And Veerath was gone.
Behind him—again.
Steel hissed as Parashu turned, blades catching sparks from the stormlit sky. Veerath stood there, voice low and aching.
"You know what's strange, Parashu?" he said. "I can't even remember my father's laugh anymore. But I remember—clear as day—the sound he made when your father shoved a sword through his ribs."
He swallowed, eyes unfocused.
"I remember the heat. The burning. The screams. But worse than that… I remember the silence that came after."
He stared straight into Parashu's soul.
"They called Jamadighini a hero. Just like they call you now. But to me? You're just his echo. Another storm wrapped in the skin of a man."
He stepped forward.
"They say blood forgets. That time washes it clean. But mine?" His eyes glinted. "Mine remembers. Mine burns."
He exhaled.
"You didn't kill my father. But you wear his shadow like it's a crown."
Then—barely audible:
"Tell me, Parashu… can you bear what your name has cost?"
Steel rose.
The storm screamed.
"Let's finish what your father began."
---
🛡️ The Final Exchange
Parashu didn't flinch.
Didn't posture.
Only lowered his sword—slowly.
"I won't pretend I'm blameless," he said, voice steady. "But I'm not him."
He stepped closer.
"My father was a weapon—nothing more. He followed orders. He killed without pause. And I've spent my whole damn life trying to be something else."
His voice grew quieter. But no less strong.
"You think grief is yours alone? I buried my brother in a ditch because your allies burned our camp. I didn't chase revenge. I buried him. And I walked away."
His eyes found Veerath's—steady as iron.
"Because if I became the thing that killed him… I'd be the one who dug his grave."
A beat. A silence.
"I'm not Jamadighini. And you? You don't have to be your father's shadow."
He raised his blade again.
"But if this is how it ends…"
His tone turned to steel.
"…Then let it be for something real."
He took his stance.
"Not revenge.
Not legacy.
Truth."
---