The darkness did not end him.
It held him.
As Kaal floated in the silent void, his body slowly began to grow, aging bit by bit while blurred, unfamiliar memories drifted into his mind like shadows he could neither grasp nor understand.
There was no wind there. No sound. No cold.
No snow. No pain.
Only memories.
Neel's smile.
Lava's trembling hands.
And Myra's voice, soft and distant, as if it had already begun to fade from the world.
"I'll see you later… Kaal."
Then came the white snow.
The blood.
The terrible silence that followed after her hand fell from his.
The memories replayed one after another—not violently, not quickly, but with a cruel, unbearable certainty. As if the void itself wanted him to witness every second again. Kaal tried to scream, but no sound came out. His mouth opened, his body strained, yet the silence swallowed everything.
Then something warm touched him.
Soft. Gentle.
And suddenly, he was crying.
Loud. Sharp. Alive.
Light flooded his vision so fiercely that he could barely endure it. His body felt wrong—small, fragile, weak. His chest rose and fell too fast, unfamiliar with breath, unfamiliar with air, as if even living had become something he had to relearn.
Two figures leaned over him.
They were not Neel or Lava.
Not their faces. Not their voices.
And yet… something about them felt painfully familiar.
Not in appearance, but in warmth.
In the way they looked at him.
Kaal cried harder, because for one impossible moment, that warmth almost felt like home.
A man's voice trembled as he spoke, thick with emotion. "Oh… no… he's crying again…"
A woman, exhausted yet smiling through tears, whispered softly, "He's beautiful…"
Their hands were careful when they held him, as if he were something precious enough to break beneath too much love. Protective. Tender. Loving.
Reyansh.
Saanvi.
Though Kaal did not know their names yet, he could feel what they carried inside them. The joy in their touch. The strange fullness in their hearts. It was as if his existence had returned something they had lost long ago—something they had stopped hoping to feel again.
Time passed slowly.
The room gradually calmed, but Kaal's thoughts did not.
Where am I?
Who are these people?
Did they… save me?
Before he could sink any deeper into those questions, the door suddenly burst open.
A boy around twelve rushed inside with bright eyes and an even brighter smile, his excitement so unrestrained that it filled the room in an instant.
"Can I hold him?" he asked quickly. "Please?"
Rowan.
He barely waited for permission before stepping closer, though the way he reached out showed he was at least trying to be careful. When Kaal was finally placed into his arms, Rowan held him with clumsy determination, like someone trying very hard to look dependable while barely containing his excitement.
His grip was awkward.
But it was full of pride.
And Kaal, still trapped in the body of a newborn, could only stare and think—
How is he lifting me this easily?
"Look at him!" Rowan laughed softly, his face glowing with delight. "My little brother is the cutest… bro."
Then, still smiling like he had just been handed the greatest treasure in the world, he carried Kaal toward a tall mirror standing near the wall.
"See, bro? Look how beautiful you are."
Rowan's voice was bright, almost proud, as he held Kaal up to the mirror.
Kaal's crying slowly faded. His small body trembled once before growing still, and his eyes lifted. At first, he did not understand what he was seeing. Then it settled into him — white hair, soft and unnaturally pure. Blue eyes clearer than any sky he had ever known. The reflection did not look like a survivor of snow and blood. It looked fragile. New.
And then the truth formed quietly inside him.
He was a baby.
His heart did not race. It did not shatter.
It simply went still.
There was no snow. No chains. No blood soaking into white ground. Only soft skin and small fingers curled weakly into air. A second life had wrapped around him without warning. The shock did not explode inside him; it seeped in slowly, like cold water washing over memory.
Later, when the house had fallen silent and night pressed gently against the windows, Kaal lay awake in his cradle. He remembered everything — Neel, Lava, Myra. He remembered their deaths, their voices, their warmth. But something inside him felt wrong.
He could not feel them.
The pain was gone. The grief had thinned into something distant. He remembered loving them, yet the emotion itself would not rise. It was as if something essential had been removed from him — not erased, not destroyed, but hollowed out.
His mind felt light.
Too light. Almost peaceful.
And that frightened him more than death ever had.
Outside, the wind brushed softly against the glass. Inside, a white-haired child stared at the ceiling, eyes open and quiet.
It was said that those blessed by gods were born with white hair. And those who die… and return… are born with it too.
Kaal did not cry. He did not struggle. He simply watched the darkness gather in the corners of the room.
And somewhere deep inside that newborn body—something else was watching back.
The Royal Mansion of Suryavana
The Royal Mansion of Suryavana stood like a carved monument to power.
Massive pillars held its golden balconies high above the marble courtyards, but even gold looked cold beneath the moonlight. The estate did not glow — it loomed. Power lived in its walls. Pride flowed in its blood.
Deep inside that vast residence, far from the ceremonial halls and painted corridors, a dark guestroom held a quieter kind of fire.
Two men sat facing each other.
One of them was familiar.
Mr. Oceayne.
The other wore deep saffron robes edged with silver. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet the air around him felt heavy — like heat gathering before a storm. His fingers tapped once against the wooden table as he leaned forward slightly, a tired smile resting on his lips.
"So," the man said slowly, "all of this… wasn't just rumour?"
Mr. Oceayne adjusted his collar before answering. "Who truly knows, Sir? But my most trusted source confirmed it. So, I believe it to be true."
The man's eyes narrowed, not in surprise — in calculation.
"A man who was nothing a month ago," he said, voice lowering, "suddenly becomes a noble. Not only that… but his newborn child is said to be born under a god's blessing."
His tone sharpened, though he did not raise his voice.
"You understand, Mr. Oceayne… that men who rise too quickly often do so by standing on their children's shoulders."
The temperature in the room shifted.
Oceayne felt it in his bones. Not anger. Not yet.
Expectation.
"You are correct, Sir," Oceayne replied carefully. "However… not every white-haired child is blessed."
The man's gaze lifted.
Oceayne continued, slower now, choosing each word with care. "A child born dead… and then alive again… they too bear white hair. But that is not a blessing. It is something else."
Silence settled between them.
Heavy.
The man leaned back in his chair.
His name carried weight even when unspoken.
Kabir Suryavana — head of the Suryavana royal family, one of the Seven Royal Houses of the kingdom.
"So," Kabir said calmly, "you know what I want."
There was no need to elaborate.
Mr. Oceayne did not hesitate. He clapped once.
The door opened.
A tall man stepped inside.
Broad shoulders. Disturbingly calm eyes. There was something feral in the way he moved — not wild, not reckless — but restrained. Like a beast that understood discipline.
"Allow me to introduce him," Oceayne said smoothly. "One of our finest hunters. He possesses a unique ability… he can control monsters."
Kabir's lips curved slightly.
"Control monsters," he repeated, as if tasting the words. "Interesting."
His golden eyes shifted toward the hunter, studying him without blinking.
"So… where are your pets?"
The hunter bowed his head just enough to show respect. "In the Endless Night Forest, my lord. It will take time to bring them into the kingdom."
Kabir gave a small nod. "Time is acceptable. Failure is not."
The room darkened — not in light, but in feeling. A faint purple aura began to rise from Kabir's body, subtle at first, then heavier. It did not flare violently. It did not explode.
It suffocated.
His yellow eyes glowed faintly as he leaned forward slightly.
"If you fail in this task," he said softly, almost kindly, "do not consider yourself free."
The hunter swallowed. Sweat gathered along his temple.
Kabir leaned closer.
"I will kill you with my own hands."
No shouting. No raised voice.
Just certainty.
"Yes… sir," the hunter managed, lips trembling despite his effort to remain steady.
Even Mr. Oceayne felt a thin layer of sweat forming against his back.
Kabir rose from his seat and walked toward the window, his steps measured and calm. He looked out at the distant lights of the kingdom, his reflection in the glass colder than the moon hanging above it.
"That family," he said quietly, "rose too fast."
A pause stretched through the room.
"I want to see every one of them in the graveyard."
Another pause — heavier.
"And I want to be certain they never rise again."
The purple aura slowly faded from around him.
But the room did not warm.
It remained cold.
To be continue…