Legacy of the Fallen
Chapter 3
The once beautiful and peaceful city of Trigarta was now completely ruined into blood and ashes.
At the very center of the city, amidst the ruins of houses and temples ,lay the bodies of two legends—Divyajit, the Sword God, and Agnivardhana, the Emperor of Sapta Sindhu.
Even in death, their corpses radiated divine majesty. A crimson light pulsed gently from Agnivardhana's still chest, while a silver glow shimmered around the severed form of Divyajit. The ground beneath them had become sacred—untouched by rot, flame, or decay.
One by one, the survivors of Trigarta returned.
They were the broken, the scarred, the grieving. Men with bandaged limbs. Women with soot-stained faces. Children whose eyes had seen too much. Yet, as they approached the resting place of their saviors, a silent understanding passed through them—this ground was hallowed.
Every single survivor knelt.
Some sobbed. Others bowed their heads in silent reverence. And then, from their lips, came a prayer—not just for peace, but for salvation, for gratitude, for liberation:
"ॐ त्र्यंबकं यजामहे सुगन्धिं पुष्टिवर्धनम्। उर्वारुकमिव बन्धनान् मृत्योर्मुक्षीय मामृतात्॥" "We worship the three-eyed One, Lord Shiva, who permeates and nourishes all like a sweet fragrance. May He liberate us from the bondage of death, like a ripe fruit falling from the stem—but not from immortality."
"ॐ नमः शिवाय। त्वमेव पितासि त्वमेव माता, त्वमेव सर्वं जगतां गुरो मे। प्रसादं कुरु मे महादेव, मुक्तिं प्रयच्छ मृतस्यात्मने॥" "Om Namah Shivaya. You alone are my father, You alone my mother—You are everything, O divine teacher of the universe. O Great Lord, grant your blessing—and offer liberation to the soul of the departed."
"शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः" "Peace… peace… peace…"
The wind stilled. The air shimmered faintly with a golden hue. Even the clouds above paused in their drifting, as if the heavens themselves bowed in silence.
A hush fell over the land.
Trigarta was gone. But in that sacred moment, with every soul kneeling before their fallen protectors, it became a place of rebirth—where loss became legend, and grief became prayer.
As the prayer faded into the wind and silence embraced the ruins of Trigarta once more, a few brave souls stepped forward. Their duty was sacred—to collect the remains of the departed legends and ensure that their final rites were worthy of their sacrifice.
But as they approached, they stopped.
There, between the two fallen heroes… lay a stone.
Unlike anything anyone had ever seen.
It was deep black—darker than obsidian, darker than the night sky. Smooth, cold, and flawless. Yet it seemed alive, pulsing gently with breathless power. Its shape was unusual, roughly the size of a man's upper torso, and it did not seem carved by any hand—human or divine.
It simply was—as though it had fallen from beyond the stars.
A faint radiance shimmered around it—not of heat, but of divinity. The kind of light that did not illuminate the world, but instead whispered to the soul. It was… sacred. Untouchable. Otherworldly.
And on its surface… words were etched.
Glowing golden Sanskrit letters appeared—not carved, but woven into the stone's very being, as if the universe had spoken them into existence:
"यदा रात्रिर्भवति दिवसे, यदा प्रलयं पथि तिष्ठति लोके, यदा नास्ति आशा मानवजातौ— तदा उत्थास्यति दिव्यः नागः च रौद्रः सम्राट्। संहारस्य विरामाय॥"
"When day turns into eternal night, When annihilation walks upon the world, And when no hope remains within mankind— Then shall rise the Divine Dragon Vyraant and the Demon God Raunaksh, To bring an end to the Great Calamity."
5,000 Years Later An old man, wrapped in nothing but a tattered shawl that barely covered his frail body, sat beneath a broken archway. His eyes were pale and clouded, but his voice—though cracked and worn—carried the weight of centuries.
He began to speak, as he did every night:
"It has been five millennia since the fall of the legendary heroes—Agnivardhana and Divyajit—and the echo of the divine prophecy still resounds across the remnants of the world.
The war with the NIHIR army, the legion of god-slaying shadows, has not ceased. If anything, it has only grown more relentless.
Eighty percent of the world now lies beneath the iron grip of NIHIR's dominion—lands once vibrant with life now reduced to barren wastelands, haunted by silence and despair. Cities have become tombs. Forests have turned to ash. Oceans no longer roar—they whisper warnings of the end.
And yet… amidst the ruin, twenty percent of the world still stands. A final ember of hope.
That sliver of survival is not a coincidence. Five hundred years ago, the slumbering Divine Dragon—Vyraant—awakened.
With his return came storms of fire and lightning. His roar shattered the thousand-year siege upon Sapta Sindhu. His wings carved sanctuaries out of death. His presence alone ignited resistance in the hearts of men who had forgotten how to hope.
Sapta Sindhu—the land from which all things began—remains humanity's final stronghold. A beacon of light in a world drowning in shadow. A pillar of defiance. A living monument that mankind… still endures.
It is whispered that the only reason the god-slaying army has not advanced further is because they fear Vyraant. Not even the beasts of Nihir dare speak his name.
But the prophecy is only half fulfilled. The Demon God—the one destined to rise when all hope is lost—has not appeared. No signs. No omens. No whispers from the void.
The world waits. It bleeds. It breaks. And it watches.
Some say he will never come. That the darkness has already won. That the prophecy was never a promise—only a cruel myth to give false hope.
Even the Divine Dragon Vyraant, who awakened 500 years ago and turned the tides of war, has not been seen in centuries. His absence casts a growing shadow of doubt— If even he has vanished… What hope remains?"*
"This is bullshit. How many times are you gonna tell us the same boring story, you old geezer?"
The voice came from a boy no older than twelve. His clothes were torn and filthy, barely hanging onto his frail frame. His skin clung to his bones, and his hair—like his eyes—burned crimson red, wild and unkempt. He walked away with a scowl, kicking up dust as he went.
"You shouldn't talk to elders like that, brother Aksh," a soft voice called after him.
A little girl followed close behind. She had short brown hair tied into a small ponytail, bare feet scarred and dirt-caked. Her skirt was a patchwork of different fabrics, sewn and resewn too many times to count. Her brown eyes shimmered with quiet worry, and her cracked lips trembled slightly as she spoke.
Aksh didn't reply. He didn't care whether the gods ruled the world or whether the Divinity Reaper turned it all to ash. To him, it was all the same.
The little sliver of land left for humanity was already under the heel of the higher-ups—those blessed with power, bloodlines, or Tejas.
Tejas was not merely energy. It was the divine essence that flowed through all living beings—the breath of creation itself. Latent in many, awakened in few, and mastered by even fewer. To wield Tejas was to command the laws of nature: to walk through fire unburnt, to tear mountains asunder, to stand against the armies of gods.
But Tejas did not awaken through will alone. It stirred in the heart of man only in moments of extreme emotional upheaval—grief, rage, desperation, love. In that single, blinding instant, a spark could ignite within the soul.
Yet that spark was both a blessing and a curse.
If the body was not strong enough to contain the awakened power—if the vessel was too weak—the Tejas Core within would collapse. A slow, excruciating death would follow, as the body turned against itself, cell by cell, scream by scream.
Aksh didn't have to worry about Tejas.
He had no power. No bloodline. No spark.
And yet, in his world… that was freedom.
There were no grand destinies for boys like him.
He walked silently behind a broken pillar, and as he turned the corner, he saw a sight that made his blood freeze.
His mother was on her knees. Her hands covered her face. And above her stood a man with a belt in his hand, raising it high in fury.
Aksh clenched his fists.
He wasn't thinking about gods. Or dragons. Or the end of the world.
He was thinking—
How do I stop Father from beating Mother again tonight?