Patliputra, India

1542,

The lands of Patliputra lay in ruins, a stark contrast to its once vibrant and bustling streets. Everywhere one looked, the grim specter of bloodshed and terror loomed large, with monstrous creatures tearing into the flesh of hapless humans amidst the smoldering wreckage of the city. Patliputra had become a charnel house, a testament to the unchecked savagery that had consumed it.

Amidst this harrowing tableau, a pair of men stood at the heart of the chaos, their very survival hanging in the balance. One bore eyes ablaze with a fiery crimson hue, while the other possessed a gaze as cool and calculating as the depths of the ocean. Clad in tattered garments—red for Aman, blue for Raman—they fought side by side, their every move a desperate bid to stave off the encroaching horde of demons.

"Aman, I don't know how much longer I can hold on," Raman gasped, his voice strained with exhaustion.

"Same here, Raman," Aman replied grimly. "But we can't afford to back down now. Not when so many lives are at stake."

With a fierce determination, Aman unleashed a flurry of blows, his fists aflame with righteous fury. But the relentless tide of demons proved overwhelming, each strike met with fierce resistance. Every kick aimed at a demon was swiftly countered by another, trapping him in a vicious cycle of combat.

Raman threw several magic spells at the demons, which slowed them down to an extent, but that was it. The demon's hard shell blocked any attacking spell.

Raman switched to Plan B. Which was escaping the terror of the demonic creatures. But for that, he needed time, and time he not had.

"Aman, cover for me," Raman said, focusing to summon the powers of space and time.

Blue runic alphabets surrounded Raman as he concentrated to teleport them away from the gruesome monsters. The spell was about to complete when an arrow shot towards Raman at full speed. It stuck in his hands, restricting him to use any magic he could use.

When Aman thought things couldn't get worse, they did. Raman was being beaten up by the demons and dropped to the ground. Raman's breath was slow, but steady. He tried to stand up and fight, but got punched in the back.

Blood trickled from Aman's lips as he fought on, his strength waning with each passing moment. His powers were rendered useless by the demons' dark magic, leaving him with nothing but his sheer determination to carry on. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he cast a worried glance at Raman, who lay slumped on the ground, his breathing shallow and labored.

Aman knew that time was running out. Raman needed him, and he alone held the power to save his friend. But as the demons closed in, their malevolent grins belying their intent, Aman found himself faced with a daunting question: How could he possibly save Raman when his own strength was waning by the second?

Distracted by the sight of Raman's plight, Aman failed to anticipate the onslaught of demonic claws hurtling towards him with deadly precision. With a sickening thud, they pierced through his chest, tearing into his very heart and scattering it into a million shattered fragments. Aman gasped, a wave of searing pain coursing through his being as the grim reality of his situation dawned upon him. He was mortally wounded, his strength ebbing away with each passing moment.

Desperation welled within him as he attempted to summon the flames of his power, but all that emerged was a feeble spark, barely illuminating the darkness that threatened to consume him. He was too weak—too weak to fight, too weak to save his friend, too weak to fulfill the destiny that had been thrust upon him.

His gaze locked with Raman's, the anguish and fear reflected in his friend's eyes mirroring his own inner turmoil. Raman's condition grew dire with each passing second, his lifeblood staining the ground beneath him. Aman could not bear to see his friend suffer, could not bear the thought of losing him to the merciless onslaught of the demons.

With a surge of determination that defied the very limits of his weakened body, Aman summoned forth the last vestiges of his power. His entire being ignited with an ethereal glow, the crimson flames of his resolve burning bright against the encroaching darkness. In that moment, he cast aside his fear, his doubt, and his pain. He was no longer afraid of the demons that surrounded him, for he had found a strength within himself that transcended the mortal realm.

As Aman unleashed the full extent of his power, his movements became a blur, his speed transcending the limits of mortal perception. With each strike, he severed the heads of the demonic horde that dared to oppose him, leaving behind naught but a trail of crackling lightning in his wake.

Aman's hands cut through the neck of the monsters. Flames emerged in his hands, boosting him further. With precision, he burned any demons he could burn, and cut hrough some of whom he couldn't burn.

The once-proud demons, confronted with the unstoppable force of this genocidal hunter, quivered in fear, realizing that their doom was at hand. No one was safe from the wrath of Aman Chaurasia, the avenging angel of Patliputra.

Transforming his hands into unyielding metal, Aman unleashed a relentless onslaught upon his foes, the bones of the creatures shattering beneath the crushing force of his blows. His gaze, now a piercing beacon of determination, shifted towards Raman, his friend and ally lying prone amidst the chaos.

With a desperate urgency, Aman raced towards Raman, his heart pounding with dread as he sought to save his fallen comrade. Everytime he tried to heal back his old friend, the wound would emerge again. And then he was met with a grim realization—his friend's body was beyond the reach of his restorative powers. Raman was dead.

A primal scream tore from Aman's lips, reverberating through the very fabric of the earth as his anguish echoed across the desolate landscape. The ground beneath him shook with the intensity of his grief, a testament to the depths of his sorrow and rage. In that moment, Aman Chaurasia stood as a solitary figure amidst the carnage, his soul consumed by the weight of his loss and the unquenchable thirst for vengeance that burned within him.

Stepping away from Raman's lifeless form, a tempest of anger and grief raging within him, Aman's eyes blazed with an infernal fury. With a swift gesture, he conjured forth a sword of fire, its flames dancing ominously in his grasp. "You've taken from me the only family I had in this world," he spat, his voice dripping with venomous rage. "Prepare to face the consequences, and may they be far worse than anything you could imagine."

His words struck fear into the hearts of the demons, their collective terror palpable as they scrambled to flee from the wrath of the avenging warrior before them. Some demons remained where they were, thinking what could a mere human could do to the people of the underworld. They were dread wrong.

A deafening explosion rent the air, Aman unleashed the full force of his fury upon his adversaries. The shockwave sent the demons hurtling in all directions, their shrieks of agony drowned out by the roar of the inferno that consumed them.

With unparalleled speed, Aman darted through the chaos, his movements a blur of fiery death as he cleaved through the ranks of his foes with ruthless efficiency. Each swing of his blade left a trail of devastation in its wake, the very air crackling with the intensity of his wrath.

Burning and cutting through monster flesh as though it were mere butter, Aman roared the cry of war—a primal, guttural sound that echoed across the battlefield, a harbinger of the doom that awaited those who dared to stand against him.

As Aman surged forward with fiery determination, his blade of flame slicing through the ranks of demon soldiers with unparalleled precision, he soon found himself confronted by a formidable new challenge. From the depths of the swirling chaos emerged a legion of gigantic demons, towering over their lesser kin with an aura of malevolent power that sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest warriors.

Undeterred by the daunting sight before him, Aman steeled himself for battle, his resolve burning as fiercely as the flames that adorned his weapon. With a defiant roar, he charged headlong at the nearest behemoth, his every movement a testament to his unyielding determination to protect his homeland and avenge the fallen.

Yet, even as his blade of fire clashed against the demon's impenetrable hide, Aman soon discovered that this adversary was unlike any he had faced before. With a single, devastating blow, the demon unleashed a torrent of unmatched power, sending Aman hurtling through the air like a mere plaything, his body crashing to the ground with a bone-rattling thud.

Agony coursed through Aman's veins as he lay sprawled upon the blood-soaked earth, every fiber of his being screaming out in protest against the relentless onslaught of pain. Blinking away tears of anguish, he struggled to rise to his feet, his muscles trembling with the effort as he surveyed the battlefield with a heavy heart.

Beside him, the lifeless form of Raman lay still, a stark reminder of the cost of their valiant struggle. Tears welled in Aman's eyes as he gazed upon his fallen comrade, his heart heavy with the weight of his failure to protect the one person who had stood by his side through thick and thin.

"I'm sorry, Raman," Aman whispered, his voice choked with emotion as he reached out a trembling hand to touch his friend's cold cheek. "I couldn't save you, couldn't keep my promise to protect you at all costs."

Beneath the crushing weight of his own guilt and despair, Aman's body seemed to betray him, refusing to respond to the commands of his shattered spirit. In that moment of profound sorrow and loss, he felt utterly powerless, consumed by the overwhelming sense of helplessness that threatened to engulf him.