The black van hummed with a low, vibrating frequency as it tore through the outskirts of Mumbai. Outside, the neon lights of the city began to fade, replaced by the jagged silhouettes of industrial warehouses and salt pans. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the copper tang of fear.
Aryan sat on the floor of the van, leaning his back against the vibrating metal wall. He kept his right hand—the mahogany hand—tucked deep into his jacket pocket, but he could feel it pulsing. It wasn't the rhythmic pulse of a heart; it was a slow, deep thrum, like the sound of a forest breathing.
He looked at Sarah, the girl he had just saved. She lay on the cot, her face pale under the dim interior light. Mira was driving with a fierce, silent focus, her eyes constantly darting to the rearview mirror.
"You're thinking about the smell, aren't you?" Mira's voice broke the silence, surprisingly soft despite the tension.
Aryan looked up. "What?"
"The sandalwood. The sap," she said, not turning her head. "Most people think becoming a puppet is just about turning into an object. But it's sensory. You start smelling like a forest, you start hearing the wind in your joints, and you start remembering things that haven't happened to you yet. It's the wood trying to overwrite your brain."
Aryan closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about the wood. He wanted to think about home. He let his mind drift back to a time before the splinters and the shadows.
He was ten years old. The monsoon had just hit the Shimla hills, and the world was a blur of emerald green and grey mist. His father, Vikram, was sitting on the porch of their cottage, his apron covered in cedar dust. He was working on a music box for Rhea.
"Look closely, Aryan," Vikram had said, his voice as steady as the mountains. "You see this grain? It's twisted. Most carpenters would throw this piece away. They want straight lines. They want easy wood."
Little Aryan had leaned in, watching his father's steady thumb trace the knot in the timber. "Why don't you throw it away, Papa?"
"Because, son, the twists are where the story is. This tree survived a lightning strike when it was young. That knot is the scar. It makes the wood stronger, denser. In life, the things that try to break you are the very things that give you your character. Never be afraid of your scars. They are the only parts of you that are truly yours."
A tear escaped Aryan's closed eye and rolled down his cheek, landing on his mahogany wrist. As the salt water touched the wood, the green leaves sprouting from his skin shivered.
"My father was a carpenter," Aryan whispered to the empty air of the van. "He loved wood. He treated it like it was sacred. If he saw me now... if he knew that I was becoming the very thing he spent his life shaping..."
"He would be proud," Mira interrupted. She pulled the van onto a dirt track, the tires crunching over gravel. "He taught you how to understand the soul of the timber. That's why you're still 'you,' Aryan. Anyone else would have lost their mind the moment their skin turned to bark. You're surviving because you're not fighting the wood—you're grieving with it."
Suddenly, the van jolted. A loud thump echoed from the roof, as if a heavy stone had dropped from the sky. The metal ceiling groaned under a sudden weight.
"He's here," Mira hissed, her hands tightening on the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.
"The Collector?" Aryan asked, his heart leaping into his throat.
"Worse. His 'Hound'."
From the roof of the van, a long, slender finger—made of polished chrome and tipped with a scalpel-sharp blade—began to peel back the heavy steel of the roof as if it were a tin of sardines.
The screech of metal on metal was deafening. Aryan stood up, shielding Sarah with his body. Through the widening gap in the roof, he saw a pair of glowing red optical sensors staring down at them. The Hound didn't have a face; it had a sensory array mounted on a skull of white porcelain. It was a masterpiece of horror—a fusion of Victorian elegance and futuristic nightmare.
"Hand over the Masterpiece," the Hound spoke. The voice wasn't human; it was a distorted playback of a thousand different voices, stitched together into a chilling monotone. "The Collector requires the Mahogany King. The girl is secondary. Surrender, and the transition will be painless."
"Not today, you rusted heap of scrap!" Mira yelled. She slammed on the brakes.
The van skidded, spinning 180 degrees on the wet dirt. The Hound was thrown forward by the momentum, but it didn't fall. It dug its chrome claws into the hood of the van, staring at Aryan through the windshield.
"Aryan, listen to me!" Mira shouted over the screaming engine. "I can't fight that thing and drive. You have to go out there."
"Out there? To do what?"
"Use the gift!" she cried. "Stop thinking like a man who is dying and start acting like a tree that refuses to fall! Use the sap! Focus the energy into your arm!"
Aryan looked at his mahogany hand. The golden sap was flowing faster now, glowing with a faint, amber light. He felt a surge of heat traveling up his arm, settling in his shoulder. It felt like a mountain was growing inside his muscles.
He didn't think. He acted.
He punched through the side door of the van, tearing the hinges off with a strength that felt terrifyingly natural. He stepped out into the rain. The wind whipped his hair, and the smell of the wet earth filled his senses, heightening them to a supernatural degree.
The Hound leaped from the hood, landing gracefully in the mud. It stood seven feet tall, its limbs impossibly thin, its chrome body reflecting the distant lightning.
"Aryan Khanna," the Hound droned. "Your grain is exquisite. You will make a fine addition to the Collector's gallery. Your heart will be displayed in a jar of golden resin."
"My heart belongs to me," Aryan said, his voice deepening, echoing with the sound of many rustling leaves.
He lunged.
The fight was a blur of silver and red. The Hound was fast, its blades whistling through the air, slicing through Aryan's jacket and grazing his wooden skin. But Aryan was dense. Every time the Hound's blades hit his arm, they didn't draw blood—they drew sparks.
Aryan caught the Hound's chrome arm in his mahogany grip. He felt the machine's power, but he felt his own growing faster. He squeezed. The sound of chrome snapping was like a gunshot.
The Hound let out a burst of static, a mechanical scream. It lashed out with its legs, kicking Aryan back into the side of the van. Aryan felt the impact, but the pain was distant, muffled by the "wood-mind" that was taking over.
He saw a pile of rusted iron pipes nearby, left behind by some forgotten construction crew. He reached out with his left hand—the human hand—and found it wasn't strong enough. But then, he felt the mahogany warmth spread from his right side to his left. The wood was "sharing" its strength.
He picked up a six-foot iron pipe as if it were a toothpick.
"You want a masterpiece?" Aryan roared, swinging the pipe with the force of a falling redwood.
The pipe connected with the Hound's porcelain head. The skull shattered into a thousand white shards. The glowing red sensors flickered and died. The chrome body collapsed into the mud, twitching as its internal fluids leaked into the earth.
Aryan stood over the fallen hunter, the iron pipe still in his hand, his chest heaving. The rain washed the golden sap from his hand, mixing it with the mud.
Mira stepped out of the van, her crossbow lowered. She looked at the wreckage of the Hound, then at Aryan. There was a new look in her eyes—not just pity or duty, but a genuine, terrifying respect.
"You did it," she whispered. "But that was just a scout. The Collector will know now. He'll know that you aren't just a puppet... you're a Warrior."
Aryan dropped the pipe. The strength began to recede, leaving him cold and exhausted. He looked at his hand. The green leaves had grown larger. One of them was shaped like a small, perfect heart.
"We can't stay here," Aryan said, his voice returning to its human tone. "We need to find the Forest of Iron. And I need to know the truth... about my father. He knew about this, didn't he? He knew I was different."
"The truth is a heavy burden, Aryan," Mira said, walking back to the van. "But yes. Your father wasn't just a carpenter. He was the one who hid the 'Seeds' from the Master. And you... you are the last Seed."
As they drove away into the night, leaving the broken machine in the mud, Aryan looked back at the city. He realized that the world he knew was gone. He was no longer a writer of stories; he was the story. And the next thousand chapters would be written in sap, silver, and blood.