The Crystal Mirror Cage stood in an eerie stillness, a prism of silence that seemed to amplify the only sound within it: the jagged, gasping sobs radiating from the center.
Roumit. The Roumit. The boy known for his glacial composure, the strategist who never cracked under pressure, lay shattered. The unshakeable foundation of the group had crumbled into dust.
"What... what am I supposed to do?" he whispered, his voice cracking as he rubbed eyes that were raw and rimmed with red. He looked at his hands, trembling and weak. "My real parents... they threw me away. I don't know why, but it had to be me. There had to be a crack in the mold. A flaw so deep they couldn't stand to keep me."
He fell silent.
It wasn't a peaceful silence; it was a heavy, suffocating weight. For a long time, Roumit simply sat there, a small, confused figure huddled against the cold grandeur of the mirrors. He looked like a child lost in a labyrinth of his own reflection, staring into the abyss, waiting for it to stare back. The logic he usually relied on had failed him, leaving him adrift in a sea of identity crisis.
But in that dark quiet, a spark flickered.
"I don't know why Mom and Dad hid the truth from me," he murmured, the words barely audible. "But..."
The mirrors seemed to ripple, and memories washed over him, warmer than the cold crystal surrounding him. He saw it clearly—his father tossing him into the air, catching him with strong, sure hands. He saw his mother's eyes, not filled with pity, but with fierce, overwhelming affection as she patched up a scraped knee. He remembered the scoldings, too—the strict discipline when he strayed from the path.
They never hesitated, he realized. Not once. When it came to me, they were never unsure.
"Then why should I hesitate?"
He slowly lifted his head, the slump in his shoulders beginning to reverse.
"Even if they don't share my blood, they are the ones who watered the soil I grew in. They raised me. They molded me."
His voice grew stronger, the vibration returning to his chest.
"Even if I wasn't meant to be alive by nature's design, I am here. I am breathing."
Images of his friends—Armaan, Samar—flashed alongside his parents. The bonds forged in battle, the laughter shared in peace.
"I have real friends. I have a family." Roumit clenched his fist, feeling the strength flood back into his veins, driving out the cold despair. "So why do I even care about biology?"
He wiped his face, his expression hardening.
"If all of this isn't real..." Roumit whispered, staring at his palms, which were now wreathed in a faint, ethereal glow.
"Then I don't know what else is real in this world."
A cyan Prana began to outline his silhouette, shimmering like the surface of a deep, calm ocean disturbed by a sudden storm. It wasn't just light; it was presence.
"They didn't hide the truth to hurt me. They did it because I wasn't ready," he realized aloud, the pieces finally clicking into place. "I wasn't mature enough to understand. I would have felt isolated, cast aside... and that is the last thing they would ever want for me."
He stood up.
The movement was simple, but the effect was catastrophic for the cage. As he straightened his spine, the cyan Prana flared violently, turning his eyes into twin pools of glowing turquoise light. The atmosphere inside the cage grew heavy, dense with the sheer pressure of his spiritual energy.
Craaaack.
The sound was sharp, like a gunshot in a library. Spiderwebs of fractures raced across the crystal floor beneath his feet, shooting up into the mirrored walls. The reflection of the crying boy—the weak version of himself—was obliterated by the fissures.
"I don't care what the reason was for showing me this," Roumit declared, his voice cutting through the groaning sound of the stressing glass. He looked straight ahead, addressing the trial itself. "But if this was another test... I have the answer now."
The moment the words left his lips, the pressure reached its critical point.
SHATTER.
The Crystal Mirror Cage exploded into a billion glittering shards of light. The noise was deafening, a symphony of breaking glass
The scene shifted violently.
Gone was the shattering glass and the weeping silence. Instead, the world was a tunnel of roaring gray. A colossal cyclone churned around him, a wall of wind moving at terrifying speeds, yet in the dead center—the Eye—it was unnervingly still.
Samar hung suspended in that pocket of calm, his body drifting weightlessly while his mind raced a mile a minute.
"What did that dragon mean by 'decision'?" he muttered, crossing his arms in mid-air. "And wait... hold on."
His eyes widened, and a grin broke across his face, completely ignoring the gravity of the situation.
"First of all, Armaan has actually met my brother!" A surge of genuine, simple-minded joy bubbled up in his chest. "That means he's real! He's out there!"
But the smile faltered as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a furrowed brow as the second half of the information finally processed.
"But... we still don't know who he is. Or what he looks like." Samar scratched his head, rotating slowly in the zero-gravity space. "And the dragon said he's... evil? That makes zero sense."
He tapped his chin, his internal monologue spiraling into a chaotic debate.
"I mean, now I know he's alive, which is great, but he's a bad guy? That's impossible. They are Rakshaks. By definition, they are protectors. That's the whole point of their existence!"
He frowned, staring at the wall of wind whirling around him.
"Then how—and why—is he evil? Wait..." A dark thought crossed his mind. "Has he become something like a... a Danava?"
Samar shook his head violently, dismissing the thought immediately. "No, no, no, no. If he had turned into a Danava, he would have been hunted down and killed ages ago. He wouldn't be walking around meeting people."
The confusion was starting to make his head spin faster than the tornado outside.
"So if he's not a Danava, how is he evil? And more importantly... when exactly did Armaan meet him?"
It was a single frame of , heavy with dread.
A figure stood with their back turned, the broad shoulders encased in a uniform that demanded respect: the Rakshak standard issue. In the dead center of the back, the silver Rakshak insignia gleamed. But unlike the noble shine associated with the protectors, this silver seemed to devour the light around it.
Samar, completely oblivious to this haunting specter, continued his internal debate, scratching his head in the stillness of the Eye.
"And what damn 'decision' do I need to make anyway?"
He paused, his body rotating slowly in the zero-gravity vacuum, as the dragon's riddle finally clicked together.
"Wait... did that ancient lizard mean that if my brother has truly become evil, do I still want to meet him?"
The habitual goofiness evaporated from Samar's face. His expression hardened into a steely resolve rarely seen by anyone other than his closest friends.
"If that's the question, then the answer is yes." His voice was steady, echoing in the windless void. "I never said I'd leave with him, or join whatever twisted crusade he's on just because we share blood. I just want to see him. That's it."
He clenched his fists. The air around him began to heat up rapidly, shimmering with intensity.
"But even after that... if he really is evil, I won't hesitate. As his younger brother, it's my duty to beat some sense into him and kick that evil ideology right out of his thick skull!"
A roar tore from his throat as fiery orange Prana erupted from his body. It wasn't just an aura; it was a blazing inferno that pushed back against the oppressive pressure of the Eye, a physical manifestation of his burning determination.
"Now you have the answer! End this test now!" Samar yelled, throwing a massive, Prana-infused punch straight into the empty air in front of him.
The effect was instantaneous.
The deafening roar of the cyclone cut out abruptly, as if someone had yanked the power cord on the universe. The swirling grey clouds evaporated into nothingness. Suddenly, there was no storm, no Eye, just vast, empty, clear sky.
And gravity.
"Eh?"
Samar blinked, hovering in place for a split second like a cartoon character who hadn't yet realized he'd run off a cliff. He slowly turned his head, looking directly outward, staring straight at the reader with wide, panicked eyes.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—!"
His scream trailed off into the distance as he plummeted like a stone towards the ground far, far below.
The scene shifted once more, plunging into the abyss.
The Deepsea was a world of suffocating darkness. There was no sound, no current, only the crushing weight of an endless ocean. The only connection to existence was a single, faint glimmer of light filtering down from an unreachable surface miles above—a star dying in a void.
Armaan stood on the invisible floor of this ocean, a solitary figure drowning in the open air.
His face, usually set in a mask of determination, had crumbled. The walls he built around his heart had collapsed, leaving him exposed and raw. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot tracks of sorrow that felt alien in the cold dark.
"I became so blind..." His voice was a hollow whisper, swallowed instantly by the silence. "I was so blinded by the search for power that I left everything behind. I burned my own life to the ground, all for a single, desperate dream of avenging my father's death."
He looked at his hands, clenching them into trembling fists.
"From the very beginning, I knew it was a fool's errand. My goal was impossible. I didn't know who killed him. I didn't have the strength to do anything about it even if I did. I was chasing a ghost in the dark."
He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders heaving.
"But when I became a Rakshak... I thought I found a way. It was a new hope. A path. I thought, 'Now I can become strong. Now I can find the killer and slaughter him with my own hands.' But I was wrong."
He looked up at the faint light, his eyes filled with a heartbreaking mixture of longing and self-loathing.
"I forgot that power isn't free. With power comes responsibility, and that responsibility... it became a burden I wasn't ready to carry. It weighed me down until I couldn't breathe."
A fresh wave of tears blurred his vision.
"And in that darkness, I forgot who I really was. I forgot my real ambition. My dream of becoming a footballer... of wearing the jersey, of lifting the World Cup for India."
He shook his head violently, the denial bitter on his tongue.
"No. I didn't forget it. That would be too easy. I abandoned it. I took the thing I loved most and threw it away for vengeance."
He dropped to his knees, the invisible floor catching him as he bowed his head in defeat.
"And look at me now. Now that I'm supposed to be strong... I hate it. I hate losing. I hate being the one who always needs to be saved. I sacrificed my dream to be strong, and yet, here I am... weak."
"You have barely ever lost," Xarthos's voice pressed into his mind, not as a sound from the outside, but as a heavy vibration resonating deep within his skull. "Yet you fear this more than death."
The invisible floor seemed to sink. The inky black water rose, cold and silent, climbing past his waist, up his ribs, until the ocean reached Armaan's chest. The pressure was building, a physical manifestation of the conversation.
"I hate it." The confession tore out of Armaan, ragged and raw. He gripped his own arms, his nails digging into his skin. "I hate needing to be saved."
The water around him trembled, sending ripples through the eternal dark.
"Why?" the dragon asked. The single word was heavier than the ocean itself.
Armaan gasped, the rising water making it hard to draw a breath.
"Because if I fail for even a moment..." His voice shook, cracking under the strain. "Someone else pays the price."
He squeezed his eyes shut, the image searing behind his eyelids.
"Because... Because..."
The ocean surged, the weight of a thousand miles of depth suddenly pressing against his ribcage, crushing the air from his lungs.
"One second of my weakness killed Tara."
The abyss answered.
It didn't speak with a mouth; it spoke by looking back.
Deep in the crushing blackness, miles away yet suffocatingly close, two eyes opened. They were colossal, spanning the horizon of the deep—twin voids darker than the water surrounding them.
Ancient. Void. Endless.
They were the eyes of Xarthos itself, staring into the soul of the speck of dust that was Armaan.
"You believe strength means solitude," Xarthos's voice rumbled, vibrating not just in Armaan's mind, but through the water, rattling his very bones. "You believe that if another hand intervenes, if another shoulder bears the weight... your worth decreases."
The pressure intensified. The water tightened around him like a closing fist, threatening to crush his ribs into dust.
"You are wrong!" Armaan snapped. He forced his head up, fighting the crushing weight, staring directly into those colossal, unblinking voids. "I don't care about my worth! I just don't want anyone else hurt because of me! I won't let another Tara happen!"
The dragon's gaze didn't waver. It sharpened, dissecting his defense, peeling back the layers of his guilt to find the arrogance hidden beneath.
"And yet," the voice whispered, louder than a roar, "you measure yourself by what you carry alone."
The ocean surged. A massive, invisible wall of force slammed into him, encompassing him entirely.
Armaan gasped as the realization hit him harder than the water.
This was not punishment.
This was exposure.
Armaan's Prana surged.
It didn't explode outward like a bomb; it poured out like ink, heavy and substantial. Shadow Black Prana swirled around him, forming a dense anchor that held firm against the crushing weight of the miles of ocean above.
He refused to be crushed. Not here. Not now.
As the physical pressure mounted, his mind broke open. The darkness of the deep sea was suddenly pierced by fragments of light—flashbacks playing out like a reel of film against the void.
He saw a child—himself, years ago—laughing with pure, untainted innocence, oblivious to the cruelty of the world.
He saw Samar and Roumit, their arms slung around each other's shoulders, a brotherhood forged in sweat and blood.
He saw Alya, her expression soft, a moment of quiet peace amidst the chaos.
And then, the sound of laughter echoed in the silent ocean.
He saw the Kalambhaar Cave. He saw Advika cracking one of her terrible jokes, her face lit by the campfire. He saw Reet and Manvi clutching their sides. And he saw her.
Tara. Laughing. Alive.
Armaan's hand shook violently, but he didn't turn away from the giant, abyssal eyes staring him down. He held onto the pain, and he held onto the love.
"I'll get stronger," he whispered, his voice cutting through the water.
He lifted his head. His irises, usually a deep brown, began to transform, shining with a brilliant, metallic Silver.
"Not so I never need help," he declared, his voice rising, resonating with a new kind of power. "But so I am never late again. Not only will I avenge my father... I will protect everyone. I will make things right."
Silence.
The crushing pressure didn't vanish, but the hostility within it evaporated. Deep beneath the water, something shifted—a ripple of ancient acknowledgement.
Approval.
And then, the floor vanished.
Armaan gasped as he began to sink rapidly, the water rushing into his mouth, his nose, filling his lungs not with death, but with a sudden, jarring transition.
Everything went black.
"Hah!"
Armaan's eyes snapped open. His body jerked forward, lungs heaving as if he had truly just broken the surface of the ocean.
He wasn't in the water. He was on solid ground.
To his left, Samar was gripping his chest, panting heavily. To his right, Roumit was wiping sweat from his forehead, his eyes wide and trembling.
They stared at each other. No words were exchanged, but the message passed between them in a single electric glance.
The sorrow, the shock, the terrifying clarity—they had all been there. They had all walked through their own personal hells and come out the other side. It was a shared dream, a connected nightmare woven by a single hand.
"Congratulations, boys."
The three of them snapped their heads up.
Zykarith stood a few feet away, her posture relaxed, arms crossed loosely beneath her chest. There was no malice in her expression, only a calm, terrifying satisfaction. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips—sharp, knowing, and undeniably approving.
"You have cleared Stage 3."