**Kashi, India – Later That Night**
Ujjwal's dorm room reeked of sweat and stale incense. He sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, staring at the twisted rune seared into his chest—a smoldering brand of jagged lines that pulsed faintly, like embers in a dying fire. The *Jyoti Mukta* lay dormant beneath his skin, a cold, dense weight near his heart. His fingers trembled as he traced the rune. *"A message for my brothers,"* the Asur had said.
Outside, the ghats had quieted, but the city's nocturnal hum—the clatter of late-night chai stalls, the distant wail of a devotional song—felt unnervingly loud. His grandmother's pearl necklace, now tucked under his pillow, seemed to mock him. *"One day, the gods will ask you to listen."*
A knock shattered the silence.
Ujjwal froze. The knock came again—sharp, impatient. He grabbed a cricket bat leaning by the door, its grip worn from better days. "Who's there?"
"Your *dosa* delivery, genius," came a gruff voice. "Open up before it gets cold."
Relief flooded him. *Raghav*, his neighbor and occasional nuisance. Ujjwal unlatched the door—
—and a clawed hand slammed it open, sending him sprawling.
Three figures stalked in, their forms shimmering like heatwaves before solidifying. *Asuras*. But unlike the thief, these were nightmares made flesh: one with a boar's tusks, another with serrated wings, the third's face a shifting void. The leader—the void-faced one—inhaled deeply, as if savoring the air. "**The blood-rune sings,**" it hissed. "**The pearl is here.**"
Ujjwal scrambled backward, his mind screaming. The cricket bat clattered uselessly. But as the winged Asur lunged, his chest flared with cold fire. The room *warped*. Time slowed.
*Trishula.*
The spear materialized in his grip, its tri-blade humming with golden light. He thrust blindly, and the Asur shrieked as the weapon tore through its wing. Black ichor splattered the walls, sizzling like acid.
"**Deva filth!**" the boar-tusked Asur roared, swinging a spiked mace. Ujjwal ducked, and the shield—*Kavacha*—rippled into existence on his arm, deflecting the blow with a deafening clang. The impact numbed his bones, but the shield held, lotus engravings glowing.
The void-faced Asur circled, its form blurring. "**You cannot wield what you do not understand,**" it sneered. "**The Mukta will devour you.**"
Ujjwal's breath came in ragged gasps. The spear and shield felt alive, *hungry*. But his muscles burned, and the rune on his chest pulsed hotter.
A conch shell blared.
The Asuras froze as the room flooded with blinding light. A figure stood in the doorway—an old woman in a faded sari, her spine bent, but her eyes blazing like twin suns. In her hand, a conch shell glowed with divine fury.
"**Begone,**" she commanded, her voice echoing with the weight of a thousand hymns.
The Asuras recoiled, hissing. The void-faced one spat, "**This isn't over, Deva puppet.**" Then they dissolved into shadows, slipping through cracks in the walls.
The light dimmed. Ujjwal collapsed against his bed, weapons vanishing. The old woman shuffled in, sniffing dismissively at the ichor-stained walls. "Typical Asur dramatics," she muttered, her celestial glare fading to a milky cataract. "You're lucky I craved *pani puri* tonight."
"Wh-who are you?" Ujjwal stammered.
She grinned, revealing betel-stained teeth. "Call me Maa Shanti. I sell *jalebi* by the ghat." She tapped the rune on his chest, and he flinched. "This mark? It's a beacon. The Asur clans will hunt you. The Devas? They'll debate for centuries whether to aid you." She snorted. "Luckily, I hate committees."
"Why me?" Ujjwal croaked.
Maa Shanti's gaze softened. "The *Jyoti Mukta* chooses those unbroken by doubt. You reek of it, but…" She shrugged. "Even flawed vessels can hold divinity." She tossed him a turmeric-stained pouch. "Wear this. It'll mute the rune's call. For now."
"What do I do?"
"Learn. Fight. *Survive.*" She turned to leave. "Start with the Vedas under your bed. Page 108. And Ujjwal?" She glanced back, her eyes flickering sun-bright again. "Tell your grandmother I miss her *aloo posto.*"
The door creaked shut.
Ujjwal stared at the pouch. Under his bed, gathering dust, lay his grandmother's leather-bound Vedas. He flipped to page 108. Scrawled in her handwriting was a mantra: *"Om Aim Hreem Kleem Chamundaye Viche…"*
Outside, a crow cawed. He glanced out the window—and saw them. Dozens of ember-eyed shadows, perched on rooftops, watching.
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