The sun hadn't risen yet, but Armaan was already on the move. He had packed all his clothes and personal belongings the night before, ready for a month-long journey of transformation. To avoid questions at home, he told his mother that he would be spending the entire Puja vacation at Samar's place. Samar and Roumit, who were well aware of Armaan's secret training, played along perfectly. If Armaan's mother happened to call Samar to check in, the excuse would hold up.
By late morning, Armaan arrived at the hidden village where Farmaan awaited him. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves as Farmaan greeted the boy with a look of solemn pride. "You are now a Pratham Rakshak," he said, handing Armaan a folded set of robes.
The very first day, Farmaan outlined Armaan's new lifestyle—an unending regimen to build the foundation of a warrior's body. "Twenty kilometers of running every day, followed by 200 push-ups, 200 squats, 200 sit-ups, and 200 pull-ups. This is not temporary. This is now your life."
The brutal training began. The first two days were a nightmare. Armaan's body protested with every fiber. He often collapsed midway through exercises, his breath stolen, his muscles locking up. He fainted more than once. But Farmaan, firm as stone, never wavered. He watched, corrected, and demanded. And Armaan obeyed, gritting his teeth, swallowing his pain.
By the tenth day, the transformation was visible. Armaan's frame, once ordinary, now bore the early signs of strength. His shoulders broadened, and his posture straightened. Not bulky like a gym enthusiast, but refined—like tempered steel.
The next ten days were even more torturous. Now, he had to maintain a continuous stream of prana throughout his body, every second of every day. Armaan's first attempts lasted no longer than three minutes, before sharp stabs of pain shot through his chest. His frustration grew. He became irritable, slacking in effort until Farmaan gave him a sharp smack with his stick. "Sulking is not for Rakshaks!"
Armaan clenched his jaw and pushed forward. Minute by minute, he increased his control. The stabbing pain dulled. His focus sharpened. By the end of the second ten-day period, he had achieved what many took months to learn. Farmaan noted the accomplishment with quiet admiration. "This... this is more than determination. Your shadow-black prana plays a role in this."
The next ten days, Armaan trained with the katana. Using the same blade Farmaan had lent him earlier, he practiced morning to night. The sword became an extension of his body. To Farmaan's surprise, Armaan reached decent proficiency in just five days. He moved with instinct and clarity, as if the blade had chosen him long before he held it.
On the twenty-sixth day, Farmaan stood before him and said, "Now you have become a Veer Rakshak, Armaan. You may begin lower-ranked missions—under supervision."
"And who will supervise me?" Armaan asked.
A familiar figure stepped out from the shadows, appearing beside Farmaan. Armaan's eyes widened. It was Rahul—the man who had saved him a month ago.
Rahul, too, was surprised when Farmaan explained Armaan's meteoric progress. He nodded with a faint smile. "You're impressive, kid."
Armaan felt both pride and pressure. He was going to fight alongside his savior.
Their first mission came that very night. A Danawa had appeared. They rushed to the location. The creature was nothing like the previous one. This one was smaller, about the size of a large gorilla, but it was lean, covered in patches of bristling fur, and its glowing red eyes radiated chaos. Its claws were jagged, and its body was unusually agile.
Rahul turned to Armaan. "Use Jwala Shakti to take it down. It's vulnerable to it."
"I... I'm not good with Jwala Shakti," Armaan confessed.
"You what?! You were trained for a month and still can't do it?!" Rahul scolded.
Armaan lifted his chin. "I can kill it without Jwala Shakti. Just watch."
Before Rahul could respond, Armaan stepped forward and confronted the beast. As the Danawa pounced, Armaan dodged nimbly and circled to its back. He was just about to deliver a blow when the creature lashed out with its leg, catching Armaan in the ribs and pinning him to the ground.
Rahul jumped in, slashing the Danawa down and pulling Armaan out of harm's way. Later that night, back at the village, both Farmaan and Rahul scolded Armaan heavily.
Armaan listened in silence, until finally, he stood up, opened the door, and ran. He sprinted to a nearby field and collapsed. There, under the stars, he screamed. Screamed with every ounce of pain, frustration, and shame. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "Why can't I do it!? Why do I have to be saved again and again?!"
The next day, he was different. He barely spoke. He trained harder than ever before. At night, he worked in secret, developing a new prana attack that didn't rely on Jwala Shakti. As an anime fan, he scoured Google for a fitting name. He found it in Japanese:
"Ryú no Keisho."
The Inheritance of the Dragon.
His attack would be born from his own soul.
Despite his intense training, Armaan never let go of his responsibilities. He managed school assignments and studies alongside his training. On some evenings, he returned to Howrah to enjoy the carnival festivities of Puja with Samar and Roumit. These brief moments of normalcy kept him grounded.
When the one-month training period ended, Armaan returned home. His mother was shocked by the changes in his body. "What were you doing at Samar's? Weightlifting?"
"Yeah, we worked out together," Armaan replied, managing a casual smile.
At school, his classmates gawked at his transformation. Alya approached him, eyebrows raised. "Armaan, what happened to you?"
He shrugged with a grin. "Just some exercises."
That night, Rahul appeared at his window. "We have a mission. Come."
Armaan slipped out quietly and followed. This time, it was a Shaitaan.
Shaitaans were vastly different from Danawas. While Danawas were corrupted beings of rage and chaos, Shaitaans were strategic, sinister, and deadly. The one they encountered stood ten feet tall, clad in a dark, twisted armor-like exoskeleton. Its horns curved like scythes, and its tongue flicked like a snake's. Its eyes glowed violet, and an aura of malice surrounded it.
"Stay back and watch," Rahul instructed.
"No," Armaan replied coldly. "You stay back."
Rahul was about to argue but then paused. A dark, swirling black aura enveloped Armaan. It was dense, frightening.
Armaan took his stance, holding his katana out.
"Ryú no Keisho... Phoenix Fury!"
He vanished from view.
Even Rahul couldn't track him with his eyes. In a flash, Armaan appeared behind the Shaitaan.
SLASHHHH.
The Shaitaan's head separated from its torso. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
"The Dragon of Flame," Armaan muttered, sliding his blade into its sheath.
Rahul stood in stunned silence. Finally, he smiled faintly. "Incredible. Truly incredible."
Armaan gave him a nod. "Thank you."
He was different now. The tears of that night had forged a new soul.
Back at the village, Farmaan listened to Rahul's account. Then, without a word, he stepped toward Armaan and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Nice work, kid. Now you are ready. On Sunday, you shall attain your Aether Blade and rise as an Astra Rakshak."
Saturday dawned with a strange chill running down Armaan's spine. Though the sun shone bright, his heart felt overcast. The words Farmaan had spoken the day before kept echoing in his mind.
He was sitting in his coaching class, surrounded by familiar faces, but mentally lost in the looming shadow of Sunday. Samar and Roumit, who had always known when something was off with him, noticed his restlessness almost immediately.
"What happened, Armaan? You look like you're about to throw up," Samar teased lightly.
Roumit nudged Armaan's arm. "You okay, bro? You've been biting your nails like crazy."
Armaan looked at both of them and exhaled slowly. "Tomorrow's the day. The day gramps said I'll get my Aether blade."
Samar raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "That's good news, isn't it? What's there to worry about?"
Armaan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His eyes looked far off. "You don't understand... Gramps told me how the process works."
The scene in Armaan's memory shifted, flashing back to the moment he'd asked Farmaan about the ritual.
Farmaan had sat cross-legged under the banyan tree in their training ground, his eyes half-closed as if reliving a memory of his own.
"See Armaan," he had begun gravely, "during the process, a pranacharya will make you lie down on a bed. He'll begin chanting ancient mantras that slowly push your consciousness into a deep, magical sleep."
Armaan had listened closely, his fists clenched.
"Once you enter that dream realm," Farmaan continued, "you'll find yourself in darkness. Complete, oppressive darkness. And there, the first yielder of your Aether blade will appear. He—or she—will approach you with the blade in hand."
He paused, letting the weight of those words settle in.
"Their aura will be terrifying, enough to make you want to run. They will ask you questions, simple ones... but spoken in such a roundabout, cryptic way that even the smartest person can fail. If you can't answer even one correctly, they'll kill you. Right there in your sleep."
Armaan's throat had gone dry. "Kill me...?"
Farmaan had nodded solemnly. "Yes. And you'll never wake up. But... if you answer them all, they will kneel before you, offering the blade with respect. You'll return to the waking world. And once you close your eyes again and call their name, the Aether blade will appear in your hand... along with the Rakshak uniform, designed by your own mind."
Armaan had gulped, then asked, "Gramps, does that mean any soul could appear in that dream?"
Farmaan had smiled faintly. "No, Armaan. The soul that appears will be one whose personality matches yours. Perfectly."
The scene shifted back to the coaching class.
Samar rubbed his chin, looking thoughtfully at Armaan. "So... that's the matter, huh?"
Armaan nodded slowly. "That's why I'm scared. What if I mess up? What if I never wake up...?"
Roumit put a hand on Armaan's shoulder. "You've come so far, bro. This is just one more step. And you won't be alone."
"Yeah," Samar added, suddenly serious, "can we come with you? Just to be there... to cheer you on."
Armaan blinked. "You... want to come?"
"Of course," said Samar. "But you'll need to ask your gramps, right?"
Armaan nodded. "I'll ask him after coaching."
As soon as the class ended, Armaan dialed Farmaan. His friends stood nearby, watching quietly.
"Hey... umm, Gramps?" Armaan began.
"Yes, say it, Armaan," came Farmaan's calm voice.
"Can I bring Samar and Roumit with me tomorrow? I know I didn't tell you earlier that they knew, but they do. And... I'm afraid, Gramps. I want them there. It'll help me believe in myself."
There was a pause on the other end.
Armaan held his breath.
Then, to his relief, Farmaan said, "Alright. I'm surprised you told them... but it's good that you did. Let them come."
Armaan broke into a small smile.
"Thanks, Gramps."
He turned to look at his friends.
"We're in," he said.
Samar grinned. "Let's get you that blade, warrior."
Roumit pumped a fist. "Together till the end."
Armaan nodded, the fear in his chest easing just a little. Tomorrow was the biggest day of his life—but now, he wouldn't be facing it alone.
Sunday finally arrived. The morning air felt strangely heavy for Armaan. With each breath, he remembered Farmaan's words from the previous day. His heart pounded not from fear—but anticipation. Today was the day. The Aether blade would either choose him, or reject him forever.
Quietly, he packed his essentials. A simple backpack, a notebook, a charm from his mother—and his will. At the station, Samar and Roumit were already waiting.
"Yo," Samar waved. "You look like you're headed for war."
"Maybe I am," Armaan replied, his voice unusually flat.
The train to the village was silent. Even the wheels seemed to murmur a chant of fate. When they arrived, the air was charged. A few Astra Rakshaks were present—some Armaan recognized, some not. Rahul stood among them, arms crossed. Everyone was here to witness the ceremony.
Farmaan approached.
"Ready?" he asked.
Armaan swallowed and nodded. "As I'll ever be."
The Pranacharya led him to a platform at the heart of a vast open clearing. A pristine white bed, draped in sacred cloth, stood beneath the sky.
"Lie down," the sage whispered.
Farmaan leaned closer. "Remember, Armaan... trust your soul. Trust who you are."
Armaan exhaled slowly. He lay down, his eyes closing.
The Pranacharya began the chant—ancient, rhythmic, layered with power. The leaves froze. The wind silenced. The world held its breath.
As Armaan opened his eyes he saw an endless abyss. No light. No sound. No escape.
Then— a flicker.
A flame.
But not normal. Shadow black. Fire from the void.
From it stepped a man in a black kimono, a hood shadowing his face. His eyes—deep, demonic red—pierced through Armaan.
In his hand: a black Aether blade wreathed in faint blue fire.
"My name is Meiryuu Engetsuzaan," the man said, his voice like thunder crawling across stone. "A Japanese protecta... In your tongue, Rakshak. What is your name, kid?"
Armaan stood his ground. "My name is Armaan. Just Armaan."
Back in the waking world, murmurs stirred among the gathered Rakshaks. Not a bead of sweat on Armaan's body. His breath was steady. His face, calm.
Among the onlookers, some female Rakshaks blushed.
"Impressive..."
"He's not even trembling."
Than the scene changed back to the dream world.
Meiryuu stared deep into Armaan's soul.
"Let us begin. You must answer the following questions. Fail, and your soul will never return."
Q1: What is more important to you—power or purpose?
A: "Purpose. Power without purpose is just destruction."
Q2: What will you protect when your strength runs dry?
A: "The will to protect doesn't need strength. It needs resolve. Even if I fall, my spirit won't."
Q3: Who are you without your friends?
A: "Someone who remembers them in every breath and fights so their faith in me doesn't go in vain."
Q4: Why do you seek the Aether blade?
A: "To make sure no other kid feels helpless like I did. To never need saving again."
Meiryuu went silent. Then, he stepped forward—fast.
Armaan flinched, barely dodging the sudden strike.
A katana had appeared in his hand.
"You answered well, but I test through battle."
"Are you insane?! I passed! Just give me the damn sword!"
"Defeat me, and it's yours."
Armaan's eyes narrowed. "Then you asked for it."
The shadow-black aura flared around him like a storm.
"Ryú no keisho... Phantom Strike!"
He vanished. A barrage of slashes. Blinding speed.
Meiryuu deflected most—until Armaan feinted, then cut both of his arms in a flash.
"Vanishing Dragon!"
Meiryuu collapsed to his knees.
"H-How...?"
"Sorry, brother... I need that blade."
He took it.
Armaan's eyes snapped open.
"You're awake?" Farmaan leaned over, worry fading.
"Yeah, gramps. That was insane. Had to fight for the blade."
Everyone froze.
"You... fought him?" Farmaan said, pale.
"Yeah, is that bad?"
"Armaan... you just came back from hell. Legend says, no soul ever survived facing him."
Even the Pranacharya looked shaken.
"Show us... the blade."
Armaan rose. He stepped forward.
Hand on his left hip, he whispered:
"Meiryuu Engetsuzaan."
A surge of light.
His clothes morphed—black jacket flowing to his ankles and the hood hiding the silver Hindi letters spelling RAKSHAK across the back a little. Silver flame emblem on the chest. White V-neck showing a chiseled chest. Black joggers and sleek shoes completed the look.
Whispers echoed.
"So cool..."
"Is he an anime character?!"
He drew the blade.
A shadow-black katana, blue thunder dancing across its edge.
Rahul stepped back, speechless.
Samar and Roumit hugged him.
"You did it, bro!"
Armaan stared at the shadow black aether blade.
Farmaan watched silently.
"Your son has done it, Rehman..." he whispered to the sky.