Vikram didn't fight for glory. He fought because it was the only time his head went quiet.
In the underground fight circuit of East Delhi, they called him "The Tank." No showboating, no flash—just power. Fists like sledgehammers. Arms like steel beams. His opponents rarely lasted past the second round.
To the world, he was just another angry young man with a chip on his shoulder and too much testosterone in his blood. But Vikram knew it was more than that.
There was a fire in his chest. Always burning. Always demanding release.
Sometimes it whispered.
Sometimes it roared.
"Vikram, bro, you hear that?" his trainer, Anwar, called out, snapping him out of his trance. "That guy's calling you out."
Vikram rolled his shoulders. Across the gym, a cocky new fighter stood with his chin up, mouthing off for the crowd.
Vikram didn't care.
He never cared.
Trash talk meant nothing in the ring.
What mattered was the moment they touched gloves—and the moment the world disappeared.
But lately, the fire didn't go out even after the fights.
He'd walk home with blood on his knuckles and still feel it churning inside him.
Sometimes he saw things when he closed his eyes.
A giant mace in his hands. Wolves howling in the distance. A man in golden armor beside him, speaking in riddles. A woman standing in the middle of a palace court, her eyes locked on him—pleading, accusing.
He didn't know who she was, but the guilt she made him feel clung to him like sweat.
And then there was the voice—low, commanding, half-forgotten:
"Brother, don't hold back. Not this time."
Vikram rubbed his temples as he walked into the locker room. His hands trembled—not from fatigue, but something deeper. Something ancient.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
Dark eyes. Thick jawline. Scars across his knuckles. He looked like every other street-bred fighter. But inside… he felt like a soldier.
No. Not just a soldier.
A protector.
He didn't understand it yet. Couldn't explain why the sight of injustice made his blood boil, why he always stood between strangers and trouble like it was instinct.
But he knew one thing: the rage was growing.
Something was waking up inside him.
And when it did—someone was going to pay.