Chapter 6: The Rescue
The night air was cool against Krishak's skin as he moved through the darkness. His small frame darted between shadows, his footsteps silent against the packed earth of the village paths. At ten years old, he looked like nothing more than a child playing games in the moonlight.
But his eyes burned with ancient purpose.
He had spent years building his foundation, carefully concealing his cultivation from everyone around him. Now, at the second level of Martial Warrior, he possessed strength far beyond any ordinary human. In the cultivation system of his previous life, he had once stood at the pinnacle of existence—a celestial being beyond mortal comprehension. But here, on this barren world, even his meager power was enough to make him a monster among men.
The soldiers' camp was easy to find. They had made no effort to hide their presence, setting up tents in a clearing three miles from Sundarpur. Krishak could hear their laughter from a distance, coarse and cruel, punctuated by the clinking of bottles.
He crouched behind a thicket of bushes, observing. There were twelve soldiers in total, including the scarred commander. Three of them stood guard, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. The rest sat around a fire, drinking and gambling.
And there, bound and gagged near the commander's tent, were Raj and the other two boys. They looked terrified, their faces streaked with tears.
They'll be taken away at dawn, Krishak thought. Trained to be soldiers. To kill and die for men who don't care about them.
He felt the cold anger stir again, ancient and familiar. In the Heavenly Universe, he had seen this same cruelty a thousand times over. The strong preying on the weak, building empires on the bones of the innocent.
Not here. Not on my world.
He rose from his crouch and stepped into the clearing.
The soldiers noticed him immediately. One of them laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the night.
"Look at this! A little boy, lost in the woods!" He took a swig from his bottle, swaying slightly. "Run along, child. This is no place for you."
Krishak did not run. He walked forward, his pace unhurried, his expression blank.
The commander rose from his seat, his eyes narrowing. Something about this child felt wrong. The way he moved, the stillness in his gaze—it was unnatural.
"Stop where you are," the commander ordered, reaching for his sidearm. "Identify yourself."
Krishak stopped. He looked up at the commander, and for a moment, the man felt a chill run down his spine. The boy's eyes were not the eyes of a child. They were ancient, cold, and filled with an abyss of patience.
"I am Krishak," he said, his voice calm and clear. "You took my friend. I've come to take him back."
The soldiers erupted in laughter. The commander's tension eased, replaced by amusement. This was just a foolish child, after all—brave, perhaps, but foolish.
"Your friend?" the commander chuckled, gesturing toward the bound boys. "You mean one of those? They're not your friends anymore, boy. They belong to the People's Liberation Front now. They're soldiers."
Krishak shook his head slowly. "No. They belong to themselves. And I'm taking them home."
The commander sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "Get rid of him. Don't kill him—just scare him off."
One of the soldiers stepped forward, grabbing Krishak by the shoulder. He was a big man, easily three times the boy's size.
"You heard the commander, kid. Time to go—"
The soldier's words died in his throat. Krishak had moved. One moment, he was standing still. The next, his small hand had gripped the soldier's wrist, and the man was on his knees, crying out in pain. The bones in his arm had shattered like glass.
The camp fell silent.
Krishak released the soldier, who collapsed to the ground, whimpering. He turned to face the rest of them, his expression unchanged.
"I said I'm taking them home," he repeated. "I don't want to hurt anyone else. But I will."
The commander's face twisted into a mask of rage. "Kill him! Kill the little monster!"
The soldiers raised their rifles. Krishak moved.
The next few seconds were a blur of motion. Krishak's small body weaved between the soldiers with impossible speed. He struck out with his palms, his fingers, his knees. Each blow was precise, surgical. He targeted joints, nerve clusters, pressure points. Not a single blow was lethal, but every strike incapacitated.
Within ten heartbeats, all twelve soldiers lay groaning on the ground. Broken arms. Dislocated shoulders. Fractured ribs. None of them would be walking anytime soon.
The commander was the last to fall. Krishak had saved him for special treatment. He stood over the man, looking down at him with those cold, ancient eyes.
"Listen to me carefully," Krishak said softly. "You will leave this village. You will forget you ever came here. And if I ever see you or your men near Sundarpur again, I will not be so merciful."
The commander stared up at him, his face pale with terror. "You... you're just a child... how...?"
Krishak smiled—a cold, predatory smile that seemed utterly alien on his young face.
"I'm not just a child," he said. "I'm the one who will change this world. Consider this your only warning."
He turned away from the commander and walked toward the tent where Raj and the other boys were bound. His steps were steady, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the universe.
And in a way, he did.
---
Raj stared at Krishak with wide, disbelieving eyes as the ropes fell away from his wrists. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
"Are you alright?" Krishak asked, his voice gentle now. "Did they hurt you?"
Raj shook his head slowly. "Krishak... how... what did you do? You... you're just a kid..."
Krishak placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'll explain later. For now, we need to get you home. The others too. Can you walk?"
Raj nodded, still in shock. The other two boys, however, were crying openly, their faces buried in their hands. Krishak helped them to their feet, guiding them out of the camp and back toward the village.
As they walked through the darkness, Raj kept glancing at Krishak. He was seeing his friend for the first time—truly seeing him. The boy who had always been quiet, always watching, always slightly apart. Now Raj understood why.
"How did you do that?" Raj whispered. "How did you beat them all? They had guns, Krishak. Guns!"
Krishak was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the leaves.
"I've been training, Raj. Secretly. I've been training for years."
"Training? But where? Who taught you?"
Krishak smiled sadly. "No one taught me. I learned from... from old books. Old stories. I've been practicing since I was a baby, ever since I could move my arms."
It was a lie, of course. But it was a lie that Raj could accept. The alternative—that his friend was a reincarnated celestial god from another universe—was too absurd to even contemplate.
"When I'm older," Krishak continued, "I'm going to fix this world. All of it. The wars, the suffering, the greed. I'm going to tear down the old order and build something better."
Raj looked at him, his expression a mixture of awe and fear. "That's... that's crazy, Krishak. How could one person do all that?"
Krishak turned to face his friend, and for just a moment, Raj saw something flicker in his eyes. Something ancient. Something eternal.
"Because I have to," Krishak said simply. "Because if I don't, who will?"
---
They reached Sundarpur just as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon. The village was still asleep, unaware of the miracle that had happened in the night.
Krishak led the boys to their homes, watching as they were reunited with their weeping families. Raj's mother, in particular, was inconsolable, holding her son as if he might disappear at any moment.
When the last boy was safely home, Krishak turned and walked back to his own house. He slipped through the door, careful not to wake his parents, and lay down on his cot.
He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.
Twelve soldiers. Defeated without breaking a sweat. But they were just ordinary men. The real challenges are yet to come.
He thought about what lay ahead. Earth was a planet of seven billion souls, divided by nations, religions, and ideologies. Wars raged on every continent, driven by greed and fear. The rulers of this world—the presidents, prime ministers, and generals—would not give up their power easily.
To change everything, he would need to become stronger. Far stronger. He would need to climb the cultivation ladder, from Martial Warrior all the way to King, the maximum limit of this barren world.
It would take years. Perhaps decades. But Krishak was patient.
He closed his eyes, and the memory of Anil's two million years of cultivation washed over him. The forging of the Primordial Origin Art. The Universe Origin Body Art. The search for a dying universe. The extraction of the Origin. The rebirth.
I will build my new universe on this world, he thought. One step at a time. One person at a time. I will tear down the old order and build something better.
I will create a world without war. Without greed. Without suffering.
This is my promise. This is my purpose.
He smiled in the darkness, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something he had not felt in eons.
Hope.