The jungle had fallen quiet again. But not with peace—no, it was the stillness that follows a storm. A silence so deep it echoed through the trees, as though the very forest was holding its breath. The cries of distant birds had ceased, the rustle of leaves gone still. It was as if nature itself had witnessed something sacred—and now stood in reverence.
Shivansh stepped down from the ancient stone platform where moments ago divine energies had coursed through his veins. His body felt lighter, but not weakened—rather, as if something dormant within had finally stirred from a deep slumber. Something eternal.
The faint glow in his eyes hadn't faded. They shimmered with a golden hue, reflecting something older than time itself. His breath came slow, deliberate—not just drawing air, but drinking in the essence of the world around him. Every heartbeat echoed with a purpose he hadn't yet understood, but somehow, always known.
Lucky and Yogi stood silently, unsure whether to speak or kneel. Shivansh's presence was no longer just human—it pulsed with something divine. Lucky started, his lips parted slightly. For the first time, he didn't see Shivansh as his elder brother, his partner in struggle, or even a friend.
He saw something more.
Something eternal.
"You felt it, didn't you?" Yogi finally broke the silence, his voice low with awe.
Shivansh didn't speak right away. His gaze remained fixed ahead, but when he finally turned to Yogi, his eyes no longer held questions—only memory. "I didn't just feel it," he said, voice steady. "I remembered it. Like a flame that had always been there… waiting for me to awaken it."
Yogi nodded slowly, reverently. "Then we're not done here. The temple is still calling."
As if responding to his words, the earth beneath their feet gave a low, resonant rumble. Not threatening—but ancient. Like a heartbeat stirring beneath stone. From behind one of the colossal murals etched into the chamber's wall, a narrow passage began to unveil itself. Glowing glyphs shimmered to life along its edges, framing a doorway that had remained hidden for centuries.
"This way," Yogi said, his voice now a reverent whisper.
The corridor ahead was narrow, carved from stone that seemed older than the stars. The air grew colder as they descended, and the torches lining the path flickered to life one by one, igniting in golden fire that held no smoke. Each step felt like a descent through time—a walk through the memory of gods.
The walls whispered. Faint voices, long forgotten, carried tales of trials faced, wars endured, and oaths made in blood and flame.
And then, they arrived.
The chamber they entered was circular and smaller than the one above—but heavier. Denser. Every breath here was thick with divine power. In the center of the room stood a pedestal, its surface alive with soft pulses of light. And upon it rested a blade unlike any other.
The Flame of Lakshman.
Its edge was not metallic—it danced. Living flame, suspended in a shape, wrapped in a sheath of divine alloy. It didn't burn—it breathed.
Lucky gasped. "What is that…?"
Yogi's eyes widened, filled with memory and reverence. "The Flame of Lakshman. One of the lost astras… wielded only by those born of virtue… and rage."
Drawn by something deeper than curiosity, Lucky stepped forward. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up. The blade wasn't calling with a voice—but a heartbeat. A rhythm that matched his own.
Shivansh felt a jolt of concern. "Wait—" he began. But it was too late.
Lucky's fingers touched the hilt.
And the room exploded with light.
Flames spiraled around him, not to destroy, but to embrace. Ancient glyphs on the walls erupted with brilliance. The temperature surged, yet nothing burned. Lucky floated inches above the ground, his body suspended in a storm of fire and fate. A sigil—crimson and gold—blazed into existence on his chest, glowing with divine recognition.
Yogi dropped to his knees. "It's him…"
The sword settled in Lucky's hand, its fire pulsing gently. Lucky stood still, eyes wide, trembling. The power now within him was not borrowed—it was inherited.
"You are now the bearer of Lakshman's fury," Yogi said, voice shaking. "Protector of dharma… his flame lives in you."
Lucky looked down at his hands, glowing with embers that didn't harm. "I… I don't know what just happened."
"You were chosen," Shivansh said quietly. Not a trace of envy in his voice—only pride. "You heard the same call I did."
Before any more could be said, the rear wall of the chamber shuddered.
Stone parted once more, revealing another sanctum—not a hallway, but a shrine. Within it, floating above a golden basin, was something far different.
Not a weapon of fire.
But of judgment.
A disc—perfectly round, forged of obsidian and gold, inscribed with runes that twisted and glowed in constant motion. It radiated harmony and chaos alike—like the calm before a cosmic storm.
Shivansh stepped forward.
The disc moved—not falling, not flying, but gliding toward him as if recognizing its owner. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, time bent.
Visions.
A torrent of them.
A warrior standing alone in a storm of darkness. A world breaking beneath the weight of corruption. Light retreating. A tide of monsters pouring from every shadow.
And in the center—him.
Holding the disc aloft, defiant, unyielding.
Yogi gasped aloud. "That's no ordinary weapon… That is the Ashtra of Vishnu. The Disc of Balance. A weapon of judgment—it awakens only when the scales tip toward ruin."
Shivansh's fingers tightened around it. The chakra pulsed in response, like a heart finding its rhythm. It had returned to him—not as a weapon, but as a forgotten piece of who he was.
And then—
Their eyes shut.
Lucky and Shivansh—both, at once. Not by will.
By divine force.
And within the darkness, a vision.
Mountains scorched black. Rivers turned to ash. An army of creatures, shadow-born, marching through realms long buried in myth. Their eyes blazed red with ancient hatred.
At their center… a throne.
Forged of bones, wrapped in curses, surrounded by cries of the fallen. And upon it, a figure. Cloaked in living darkness. Eyes that saw not just time—but truth.
And then—voices.
"They are coming," one whispered. The voice from before, from the meditation chamber.
But now—another joined it.
"But now… so are you."
A wave of energy surged through them, and in a single breath, they awakened.
Both gasped.
Drenched in sweat. Lucky's hands blazed with flame. Shivansh clutched the disc, its runes alive with purpose. Yogi stood before them—no longer just a guide, but a witness to prophecy fulfilled.
"The temple has spoken," he said solemnly. "The heir of flame and the bearer of balance have risen. The war… has begun."
Lucky looked at Shivansh. "What now?"
Shivansh gazed at the disc in his hand. "Now… we prepare."
Yogi stepped closer. "You both carry more than power now. You carry legacy. The darkness will not wait."
And far from the temple, across the ruined remnants of forgotten realms… something stirred.
Eyes opened within the void. Cold winds whispered across crumbling worlds. Ancient voices spoke in tongues no longer known.
"They've awakened…"
And the hunt had begun.