In a world ruled by prodigies, where talent and greatness are not forged but inherited by fate, everything rests upon a singular, cosmic decree: The Martial Soul.
A Martial Soul, the essence of one's destiny, is bestowed by fortune itself. It may manifest in myriad —
- Type:Battle Souls for warriors, Harmony Souls for nurturers, Machiavellian Souls for schemers, Seeker Souls for visionaries, and Ancestral Souls tied to the ancient and the forgotten.
-Forms:Beast, Human, Plant, Weapon, Element—each shaped by the will of the unseen forces.
-Tiers: From Earth to Sky, Heaven, Primordial, divine
Those who awaken the rarest, the strongest, are immortalized in the annals of history, their names sung through generations. But for those with the weakest souls—derided as wastes—their fate is sealed in obscurity, a shadow among the luminous.
A child was borned— 17/01/10 - Tianvidya period .
The mountain winds howled through the narrow valleys of Bhairava, a forgotten village nestled at the foot of the Shivanath range. The air carried whispers of ancient gods and spirits, mingled with the scent of woodsmoke and snow. It was a night drenched in silver, the full moon reigning over a sky littered with stars. Beneath its luminous gaze, a life entered the world.
In a dimly lit hut, a woman labored in silence. No cries escaped her lips, though the pain etched on her face told of her agony. The midwives whispered among themselves, their prayers quick and fevered. Something was wrong.
And then, the silence deepened.
The child was born, but the woman—her spirit seemed to have fled before her child drew breath. The midwives muttered, their voices heavy with grief. A stillborn, they assumed. The lifeless child lay cradled in their arms, pale and unmoving.
Until it giggled.
A soft, ethereal sound that cut through the mournful air. The midwives froze, their eyes wide, as the infant's pale lips parted into a smile.
Outside, the village stirred. Lanterns flickered to life, and the villagers gathered, drawn by the strange energy that now pulsed through the air.
"A miraculous child," they exclaimed as they gazed upon the boy. His skin was ghostly pale, yet his lips were stained crimson, as though kissed by blood. His eyes—blue as the deepest oceans—seemed to hold secrets older than the mountains themselves. And his hair, silver as moonlight, shimmered in the firelight.
The elder stepped forward, his weathered face lit with reverence. "We shall call him *Chandrakesh.* 'Chandra,' for the moon that blesses us tonight. And 'Kesh,' for his hair that glows like the heavens."
The villagers nodded, murmuring prayers to the gods.
Then it happened.
A radiant light erupted from the infant's body, blinding and pure. It filled the air as the villagers stepped back, shielding their eyes. The light coalesced above Chandrakesh, forming shifting shapes—first a blade, sharp and sleek, then a scythe with a wicked curve, a dagger glinting like a fang, and more. Each form lingered for but a moment before transforming into another.
Finally, the shifting ceased. Before them floated a weapon unlike any they had seen—a long-handled spear fused with a blade, its edges gleaming like molten silver. At the center of the weapon, an eye opened, unblinking and alive, radiating an aura that sent shivers through those who dared to look.
The villagers fell to their knees. "*A Martial Soul!"
Chandrakesh's hair, once silver, now gleamed with streaks of crimson and gold, as though the flames of a celestial forge had touched him. A faint scar etched itself onto the center of his chest—a mark, they believed, of divine favor.
The elder's voice trembled with emotion. "The gods have blessed this child. He is our village's hope, the first to awaken a Martial Soul in generations!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, their joy carrying through the night. Yet, as they celebrated, none among them realized the truth of what they had witnessed.
The Martial Soul that Chandrakesh had awakened was unlike any other. Though it bore the appearance of divine power, its rank was a cruel jest—**1st Tier Earth Rank**, the lowest of its kind.
But this soul was not ordinary. It defied the natural laws of the Martial Souls, shifting and alive, its form ever-changing. The eye at its center was no mere decoration—it watched, it judged, and it whispered promises of power and ruin.
For Chandrakesh, the journey ahead would be far from the divine blessing his village imagined. It would be a path of trials .
11 years from his birth —
A forest stretched endlessly around Chandrakesh, an emerald expanse drenched in sunlight that filtered through the dense canopy above. The air was alive with the symphony of rustling leaves, chirping birds, and the occasional distant growl of a predator. Yet amidst it all, Chandrakesh moved like a shadow, silent and untamed, his body weaving through the towering trees with a grace that defied human nature.
His movements were fluid, almost like a monkey . He leaped from branch to branch, his body parallel to the ground as if gravity had no claim on him. He balanced on the thinnest of branches, twisting and spinning as though the forest were his playground. There was no hesitation in his steps, no falter in his leaps. His confidence was born not of arrogance but of sheer mastery.
For 5 years, the forest had been his sanctuary, his training ground. The villagers, though wary of his strange power, cared for him deeply. They spoke of his prodigious talent in hushed tones, revering him as both a gift and a mystery. Chandrakesh, aware of their cautious admiration, never abused their trust. He danced along the line between freedom and restraint, he never tried something that would wary them.
Today, as always, he wore a simple white linen dhoti (looked like a suit) ,its fabric loose and flowing with his every move. His torso remained bare, revealing a lean, muscled frame that spoke of years of relentless training. His crimson-and-gold streaked hair clung to his face, dampened by the sweat of exertion, but his ocean-blue eyes burned with a focused intensity.
This part of the forest was steep and treacherous, with uneven terrain and jagged rocks hidden beneath layers of moss. For most, it was a dangerous place to venture, but for Chandrakesh, it was his haven.
At the age of 1, he had taken his first steps; at 2, he spoke with the clarity of a adult ; by 3, he had mastered the art of writing. At five, he began to delve into philosophies, absorbing concepts at a certain extent .
By 6 he scaled ten-meter-tall trees with ease, and by 7, his speed outmatched the swiftest beasts in the region, at 8, his Martial Soul began to awaken with his thoughts and he practiced relentlessly, mastering swords, daggers, and countless other forms. At 9, his talent for artistry blossomed when he sketched a woman standing before an ocean—a creation so hauntingly beautiful it seemed otherworldly. By 10, he had composed his own philosophical treatises, ideas that confounded even the wisest in the village.
Now, at 11 Chandrakesh was preparing for a challenge unlike any he had faced before.
The white lion.
It was no ordinary beast. A predator that roamed the upper regions of the forest, its size and strength were said to rival those of mythical creatures. The villagers spoke of it with both awe and fear, warning Chandrakesh to stay away. Yet, he knew that to get out of this forgotten place he once had to fought it .
His stature 4'5 , he stood at a large rock overlooking a sunlit clearing, Chandrakesh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, yet beneath it lay a faint musk—the unmistakable presence of the lion. His heart quickened, not with fear, but with exhilaration.
Dump Dump
The scar on his chest pulsed faintly, as though his Martial Soul sensed the challenge ahead. He extended his hand, and the air around him shimmered. In an instant, the familiar light erupted from his body, coalescing into his weapon.
It was a spear with a eye filled with fangs in between the handle and the blade, its edges gleaming like starlight. The eye at its center opened, its crimson gaze unblinking, alive with an energy that seemed to hum in resonance with Chandrakesh's heartbeat.
Gripping the weapon firmly, Chandrakesh leaped down into the clearing. The forest fell silent, the distant chirping of birds and rustling leaves fading into an eerie stillness. From the shadows, the white lion emerged.
Its coat was pristine, almost luminous in the sunlight, and its amber eyes burned with primal intelligence. Muscles rippled beneath its fur as it stepped forward, its massive paws crushing the underbrush. The beast's gaze locked onto Chandrakesh, a low growl rumbling in its throat.
Chandrakesh smiled faintly, his expression calm yet determined. He shifted into a low stance, his weapon poised. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension.