I stared at the page of the book ,which split open and man in the illustration of book looked like ~ A black tiger with red eyes majestic but yet ruthless.
I didn't realize I had started reading properly until my eyes burned.
The pages weren't fragile like I expected. They were thick, uneven, almost fibrous, as if paper wasn't what they were originally meant to be. The ink wasn't faded either. It looked… refreshed. As if it aged backward.
The first heading made my throat go dry.
On the Origin of the Pisāca–Vetāla Bloodline
Recorded before names were discarded.
I swallowed.
So this wasn't just about monsters.
This was about them.
Of Pisāca
The script is uneven, as though written by one who did not wish to remember.
In the womb of hell, Pisāca lived.
They were creatures without soul, without consciousness. They did not think, nor choose, nor dream. They existed because existence had been forced upon them.
Pisāca were cursed to live forever.
They were condemned to face every consequence of the universe—time, decay, collapse—without release. They could not die. They could not escape the void. They endured the tearing of their bodies, the slow rotting of every cell, again and again, without end.
Their flesh decayed while they lived.
Their stench was that of rotten meat. Their bodies broke, reformed, and broke again. They were neither dead nor alive, and they possessed no soul at all.
Pisāca did not suffer to learn.
They suffered to remain.
Of. Vetāla
The ink here is darker, pressed firmly into the page.
Vetāla were born with strength.
They were powerful, whole, and conscious. Their bodies did not decay, and their minds did not scatter. Yet they were denied the sun.
Unable to exist beneath daylight, Vetāla hid in dense forests and shadowed lands, waiting for the sun to fall. When night arrived, they hunted.
Pisāca were their prey.
Only Vetāla could end the existence of Pisāca. Without being hunted, Pisāca would persist forever, rotting endlessly across the universe. Vetāla fed upon them—not for hunger, but for completion.
Their purpose was singular.
To finish what punishment had already lasted long enough.
Under moonlight, Vetāla shone like silver. Their eyes burned red, sharp enough to pierce even diamond. Their bodies were strong as tigers, their movements precise, their presence dominant.
Among the creatures of earth, they stood above most.
~Of the Fracture
The script here changes. The hand that wrote this hesitated.
Everything changed when one Vetāla left his kind.
Rakta Kumbha —once counted among the hunters—was cast aside. Whether abandoned by his own will or driven away by judgment, the record does not agree. What is known is this: he walked alone, beyond forest and law.
There, he encountered a Pisāca.
Some say it was spell.
Some say it was hunger mistaken for mercy.
Some say the Pisāca's body itself was a lure—rotting, cursed, yet unable to perish—calling not for death, but for completion.
Rakta Kumbha did not finish it.
Instead of tearing the flesh, he remained. Instead of ending the curse, he crossed it. He gave what a Vetāla was never meant to surrender.
His soul.
From the union of hunter and curse, something impossible was born.
I turned the page.
The book spoke of a family older than the surname they now carried. Valentino wasn't mentioned even once. Instead, it described how names were changed every few centuries—to blend, to rule, to survive.
The blood remains. The masks evolve.
My fingers tightened around the edges.
The first record began with a name written larger than the rest.
KALLSEN RAKTAVETALYA`
First Heir of Pisāca and Vetāla
Born in the tenth century, when the world still believed monsters lived outside the walls and not inside palaces.
The moment of his birth was described without mercy.
He did not arrive whole.
According to the text, when his mother went into labor, what emerged was not a child—but a mass of raw flesh, red and unformed, as if life itself had been rushed and made careless. No limbs. No features. Just blood, warmth, and movement.
I felt sick.
The book continued calmly.
The womb could not contain what he was meant to become.
Within hours—hours—the flesh reshaped itself. Bones knit. Skin sealed. A face emerged where there had been none. By nightfall, the thing that had been born unfinished slept like a human infant.
I stared at the page.
"So you just… finished building yourself outside the womb," I muttered. "Great."
The text didn't romanticize it. It didn't praise it either.
It stated facts.
Kallsen was the first true union—neither fully Pisāca nor fully Vetāla, but something that stood between. That was why the lineage was later called Pisāca–Vetāla.
Because of him.
Because of what followed.
His powers were described as unpredictable, but not wild.
He was not the type to lose control.
He calculated.
Measured.
Waited.
Where others destroyed out of hunger or rage, he destroyed out of decision. The book noted that he could observe a man for years before ending him—not out of mercy, but efficiency.
Ruthless, yes.
But never impulsive.
It also explained the potions.
The reason some of them could walk in sunlight for limited hours. The reason their bodies resisted decay, illness, and—sickeningly—the reason their hearts could stop and still resume.
Kallsen's blood adapted where others burned.
I flipped the page, faster now.
The final line under his name made my chest tighten.
He was not the strongest among them.
He was the one who survived longest.
I closed the book slowly.
My hands were shaking.
"What the fuck did I just read," I whispered.
The library felt colder.
And for the first time since I entered this house, I had the unbearable sense that I wasn't learning a secret—
I was being introduced.
Alokasen Raktavetalya.
Heir of the of kallsen and his mother who was a true Vetāla
Unlike his predecessor, Alokasen was born complete.
The womb that carried him was capable of birth, and thus his body required no correction by time. Bone, flesh, breath—everything arrived as it should. No unfinished form. No after-formation.
He was whole.
For the first century of his existence, Alokasen exhibited no deviation. He aged slowly, beautifully, untouched by defect or decay. When he reached his peak, his form exceeded mortal proportion—height surpassing six feet, features sharp enough to silence rooms.
No record, painting, or human medium succeeded in capturing his likeness.
But it was not his appearance that set him apart.
It was his power.
Alokasen possessed a faculty that had never manifested before and has never manifested since.
He could command arboreal life.
Not influence.
Not persuade.
Command.
Trees bent toward him. Roots shifted beneath his feet. Foliage obeyed without resistance. When sunlight threatened him, the forest responded—branches interlocked, leaves layered, shadows thickened.
It was not magic that could be taught.
Not blood that could be inherited.
It was his alone.
Because of this power, Alokasen could exist where no Vetala should. He traversed forests under daylight, protected by living shields shaped at his will.
For a time, the tribe believed evolution had favored them.
They were wrong.
When his peak passed, the forest fell silent.
The command vanished without warning.
No ritual restored it.
No blood awakened it.
What was unique could not be replicated.
What was lost could not be reclaimed.
It was during this decline that the truth of Vetala survival was uncovered.
The body weakens not from age—but from absence.
Vetalas required a stabilizing agent to exist within the sunlit world.
A potion.
The potion demanded flesh.
Not animal.
Not mortal.
A. female Vetala body.
Through decomposition, distillation, and binding, the essence preserved male bodies against collapse. The process was irreversible. The body could not be restored.
At first, the knowledge fractured the tribe.
No one agreed.
No one acted.
They lived without the potion.
They weakened.
And with weakness came exposure.
Eventually, the decision was no longer philosophical.
It was mathematical.
The extinction of one half to preserve the other.
Thus, A female Vetala body was sacrificed.