The cold wind carried the scent of blood. The sky was painted in the deep hues of dusk, as if mourning the massacre that had just unfolded. The burning ruins of the village crackled, sending embers into the air, dancing like restless spirits. Screams had long faded, leaving behind only silence—a silence heavier than death itself.
A boy stood amidst the carnage. Barefoot, his feet stained with blood and ash, he stared at the lifeless body of a woman—his mother. Her once-warm hands were now cold, her eyes vacant, gazing into a void she would never return from. The metallic taste of iron lingered in the air, but to him, nothing felt real. His heart did not race, nor did his breath hitch. He was beyond fear, beyond grief.
The soldiers of the Gautam Kingdom had left, their duty fulfilled—an order executed without hesitation. The village had harbored rebels, they claimed, and for that, it had to be erased. But the boy knew the truth. This was no act of war. This was an execution—one orchestrated by King Rajendra Gautam to erase a bloodline that had no place in his kingdom.
The boy's name was Shree Yan.
The flames reflected in his crimson eyes, their glow cold and unfeeling. His white hair, once neatly tied by his mother's loving hands, now hung in disarray. He knelt beside her lifeless form, brushing away the blood from her cheek with a tenderness that contradicted the void inside him.
"I will return," he whispered. "And when I do, they will beg for mercy."
But there would be none.
A rustle in the distance snapped his gaze to the shadows. From the darkness emerged an old man, his robes tattered, his face lined with wisdom and exhaustion. Vishnu Pradhan—a man who had once been a revered spiritual master but had long abandoned the path of righteousness.
"You seek revenge," Vishnu murmured, his gaze steady. "But revenge alone is fleeting. What you desire… is beyond human reach."
Shree Yan stood, his young frame frail but his presence unwavering. "Then I will abandon my humanity."
A slow smile spread across Vishnu's face. "Good."
With a flick of his wrist, he revealed an ancient scroll, its ink pulsating with an eerie darkness. "This is the path of Prithvi Sadhana—the first step toward immortality. It is not for the weak. Once you begin, there is no turning back."
Shree Yan did not hesitate.
He reached out and grasped his destiny.
And in that moment, the boy who had once wept for his mother ceased to exist.
Only the Immortal King remained.