Recognition was a double-edged blessing.It lifted a man onto a pedestal worthy of his merit— yet raised that pedestal high enough to surround him with cliffs.
Agastya descended the grand stone steps of the royal court, each step echoing softly beneath his boots. The judgment had already been delivered, yet his mind remained trapped within those towering walls.
The Contest of Commanders. The words lingered like a distant storm, heavy with promise and peril alike.
As he stepped outside, cold air brushed against his face, soothing skin still warm from the suffocating tension of the court. The sky above was calm—mockingly so—while turmoil coiled within him. "Commander Agastya… wait!" The voice was bright, clear—cutting through his thoughts like a bell.
Agastya turned, and the weight in his chest eased at once.
Madhava.
The young recruit jogged toward him, armor slightly loose, eyes alive with youthful energy. Agastya had known him since the boy was barely tall enough to hold a wooden spear. Somewhere along the way, he had begun seeing his own reflection in him—and that frightened him more than it comforted him. "Madhava," Agastya said, a genuine smile forming. "Done with your training already?" "Yes!"Madhava stopped a step away, grinning. "I just wanted to see you before the contest. And… well—" he scratched the back of his head, "—my brother wouldn't be nervous over something so small, right?"
They began walking together.
Agastya chuckled softly. "You speak well for someone so young. But remember—during a storm, it's wiser to bend than to stand rigid. Even mountains crack."
Madhava frowned slightly. "I never understand your words, brother. I just know… you're the best."
Agastya said nothing. He simply kept walking, burdened by lives, duties, and expectations that never truly left him.
They passed through the market streets, where voices blended into a warm hum. Merchants laughed, children ran barefoot between stalls, and life moved gently—unaware of the shifting currents beneath the kingdom.
By the time they reached the regiment dormitories, Madhava rushed ahead and pushed open Agastya's door.
The moment inside felt… quiet. Too quiet.
Madhava dropped into the resting chair with a long sigh. "Sometimes," Agastya said suddenly, his back turned, "I feel like I don't belong even in my own room."
Madhava blinked. "Brother… training was brutal today. Can I transfer to your regiment?"
Agastya began removing his armor. As the metal shifted, a wound at the back of his neck became visible—old, jagged, unmistakable.
Madhava froze. Agastya glanced over his shoulder. "And you think I would go easy on you?"
"Hehe—no, no! I understand!" Madhava laughed awkwardly, deliberately looking away.
Laughter echoed elsewhere too.
Within the palace, Commander Varuna leaned back, amusement dancing in his eyes as Commander Ashoka sipped tea beside him. "So," Ashoka said calmly, "you're accepting defeat even before the contest begins?"
Varuna smiled faintly. "It is no longer our era, Ashoka. The younger generation must step forward."
Ashoka sighed. "Not yet. I remain undefeated by those young chickens." He paused. "And Agastya… you know the Order will never accept him."
Varuna placed his cup down with deliberate care. "Why do people believe I favor Agastya?" His voice hardened slightly. "Everything he achieved—he earned."
Ashoka stared ahead. "Would that abandoned puppy have survived if you hadn't adopted him that day?"
Silence.
"You are too kind for your own good, Varuna."
Varuna turned toward the palace courtyard, eyes distant.
Evening approached as Agastya entered the War-Merchant's Guild, dressed in pale red silk rather than armor.
The branch was run by Vasu, a seasoned blacksmith, and his wife Meena, who handled reception with sharp warmth. They welcomed Agastya like family.
He browsed quietly, testing blades, weighing balance, until he selected a longsword—simple, refined, deadly.
On his way back, something followed him.
Not footsteps. Presence.
A shadow that bent space itself.
Agastya's senses screamed warning. Whoever it was—its ability far surpassed his own. Yet no matter how many times he turned, nothing revealed itself.
Only when he reached his dormitory did the sensation fade.
Inside, he placed the sword beside his armor. Then opened the cupboard.
A torn red scarf lay within—frayed, stained, riddled with holes.
His fist clenched around it.
The past shattered open.
The street was empty.
Not the kind of emptiness that came with peace, but the kind that echoed—where even sound felt afraid to linger. A child's cry trembled through the narrow stone path, thin and broken, as if the night itself had struck him silent once already.
Blood streaked across his bare skin, warm and unreal against the cold air. He did not know where it came from. Only that it would not stop. His small hands shook as they pressed against his chest, fingers slick, slipping, useless.
The stone beneath him was merciless.
Cold. Unfeeling. Ancient.
It pressed into his knees as he curled inward, trying to disappear, trying to become smaller than the world that had turned its back on him. Fear wrapped around his throat tighter than any rope. Each breath came shallow, stuttering, stolen.
Then warmth.
A cloth—red, torn, rough at the edges—was wrapped around him. It smelled of iron and smoke. Of something lost. It clung to his skin as if trying to shield him from a fate already moving toward him.
The footsteps came.
Slow. Heavy. Certain.
Each one struck the ground with purpose, echoing down the street like a countdown. The child's cries collided with the sound, splintering, dissolving into sobs too weak to matter.
A shadow stretched across the stone.
Steel whispered as it moved.
A blade caught the faint light—just for a moment—before pain exploded at the back of his neck. Sharp. Burning. Final.
The world tilted.
Darkness swallowed everything whole.
And even now—years later, beneath armor and titles, beneath calm smiles and measured breaths—the darkness never truly left.
Night fell over the palace.
At its highest point, beneath the glow of a single lamp, a figure stood gazing over Vaishali.
His presence was wrong. Sinister. Timeless.
"Master," a voice said from behind, kneeling. "I watched him. Your suspicions were correct. What should we do?"
A low, devilish laugh filled the air.
"So it is true," the figure murmured. "Everything begins at a point… and returns to it."
"Kaal flows in its own mood," he continued softly. "It devours all—and creates all."
He turned slightly.
"The cycle has been forged," he said. "Now… let it repeat."
Then, with a smile unseen by the city below—
"Send word to the Pinnacle."
"The devil is ready to smile."