The moonlight shone down like a silent observer, a faint glow casting shadows on the ground. The night was eerily calm, but Armaan could sense something disturbing in the air. A shift in the prana—a force that didn't belong to this world. It was thick, pulsating, and dripping with malice. His instincts told him that something dangerous was near.
He stood up, his senses sharpening. Farmaan had always told him that a Rakshak must never ignore his instincts, no matter how trivial they seemed. Without hesitation, he closed his eyes, calling upon the Aether within him, and felt the pulse of his surroundings with precise awareness.
There it was again—stronger now. It was definitely not human. He could feel the malevolent presence growing closer.
Time to transform.
With a swift movement, he placed his hand on his waist and pulled out the Aether blade's sheath. The moment he did, a surge of prana rushed through his body. The dark black katana in his hand flickered with an eerie, shadowy aura.
His uniform morphed around him like a second skin. The black jacket enveloped him in an instant, the edges of the fabric swirling like smoke. His pants tightened around his legs, and his shoes became firm, adding to his silhouette. The silver flame insignia on the back of his jacket glowed faintly. The deep hood of his jacket settled over his head, partially obscuring his face, adding to the mystery of the young warrior standing before the world.
His transformation was both seamless and terrifying, a reflection of his identity as a Rakshak. The confidence that came with the uniform was a reminder of all the training, all the pain, and all the battles that had brought him to this point.
As he walked into the open field, his eyes narrowed, scanning the area for the source of the prana. The wind rustled the trees, but there was an unnatural stillness in the air, like the calm before a storm.
Then, there it was.
A Shaitaan, standing tall under the dark sky, its form grotesque and twisted. Its skin was pitch-black, like the deepest abyss, and its eyes were glowing a sinister red. The creature had long, razor-sharp claws that dripped with some vile, dark liquid, its features warped in a mix of humanoid and monstrous elements. Its face was partially hidden beneath a hood, but the cruel smile it wore was unmistakable.
"You look tasty, kid," the Shaitaan's voice was raspy and mocking.
Armaan's gaze hardened. This was his first encounter with one of these creatures—an encounter that would define him. He was surprised that it could talk, that it seemed so intelligent.
This isn't just a beast… it's a threat.
Armaan's heart raced for a moment, but he forced the fear down. He had trained for moments like this, pushed himself to his absolute limits. This was no time to falter.
"You think so?" Armaan's voice was calm, almost amused. "I'm glad to hear that, but unfortunately, you are the one who is going to die."
The Shaitaan laughed—an unsettling, bone-chilling sound that echoed through the empty field. It wiped its drooling mouth with a claw, clearly amused.
"Your joke was nice, kid. Maybe your last one too," the Shaitaan grinned, showing rows of sharp, yellowed teeth.
Armaan frowned. His voice became colder. "Or maybe it's your last time hearing a joke, which is a fact."
The creature's eyes narrowed, and it growled. "You've got a big mouth for a brat… Let me shut that damn mouth of yours and have my meal."
Before Armaan could even react, the Shaitaan lunged forward, its claws aimed at his throat with lightning speed. Armaan sidestepped with ease, his body moving fluidly as if he had already anticipated the strike.
"Is this all you've got? Don't break my expectations, bastard," Armaan taunted, his tone laced with sarcasm.
The Shaitaan hissed in fury, clearly angered by Armaan's smugness. It reared back and opened its mouth wide, unleashing a stream of red flames that blazed like hell itself.
Armaan, without breaking a sweat, swung his Aether blade in a horizontal arc. The blade sliced through the air, and with a swift motion, he deflected the fire, sending the flames splintering in all directions.
Focusing. Focus. He reminded himself. The world around him seemed to slow down as he assessed his opponent.
The Shaitaan's attack had only made him more resolute. Armaan knew this fight would be unlike any he'd faced before.
He thought back to his training with Farmaan—specifically, one of the most important lessons he'd learned.
[Flashback: Farmaan's Lesson on Focusing Prana]
The scene flashed before his eyes. It was a quiet morning, just after the dawn. Armaan had been training alone in the woods, sweating under the harsh sun. His body was bruised, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but he kept pushing himself.
Farmaan had watched him from a distance, never intervening unless necessary. Finally, after one particularly intense training session, Farmaan had come to him.
"Armaan," Farmaan had said, his voice calm yet serious. "I know you're strong, but you need to learn how to control your body's internal flow—specifically, your prana."
Armaan had raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, gramps?"
Farmaan had walked over and placed a hand on Armaan's shoulder. "When you're injured, your body will naturally try to heal itself, but you can accelerate that process with prana. If you focus it properly, you can stop bleeding and even regenerate wounds slowly. But if you're not careful, it will drain you."
He had demonstrated by slashing his own hand lightly with a sword. Armaan had been horrified when the wound began to bleed, but Farmaan had remained unfazed. With a calm, deliberate motion, Farmaan had focused his prana, directing it to the cut. Slowly, the blood had stopped flowing, and the wound had started to heal.
"It's all about control," Farmaan had explained. "Your body and prana must work as one. In the midst of battle, you won't always have the luxury of time. But if you focus, you can stop yourself from dying when injured."
Armaan had watched intently, mesmerized by the display of Farmaan's mastery over his body and prana. It was a lesson that had stuck with him.
[Back to the Present]
Armaan's thoughts snapped back to the battle as the Shaitaan attacked again, its claws slashing through the air with deadly precision. This time, Armaan focused. He could feel his prana surging, flowing into his body like an unstoppable river. He recalled the lesson about control—about the power to stop injury before it happened.
With a quick movement, Armaan deflected the Shaitaan's claws, narrowly avoiding the deadly strike. The creature growled, its fury mounting. It swung again, and this time, Armaan allowed his blade to clash with the Shaitaan's claws. Sparks flew, the sound of metal against claws ringing out in the night.
Armaan gritted his teeth. This Shaitaan was no slouch. But neither was he.
[Flashback: Training in Secret]
The battle raged on, but Armaan's mind drifted once again to his secret training. Late at night, while everyone slept, he had practiced. Ryú no keisho.
Farmaan had always told him to trust his instincts, but Armaan knew that to master the technique, he would need to push himself beyond his limits. The technique was far from simple—it was a dangerous move, requiring precision, timing, and immense prana control.
He had spent countless hours perfecting it, his body aching with every failed attempt. The pain had been unbearable, and many times, he'd questioned whether he would ever master it. But each failure only pushed him to try again.
As he stood in the darkened field, practicing in secret, his frustration had boiled over. He had screamed at the moon, a primal cry that echoed through the woods. But it wasn't just anger—it was sorrow. Sorrow for the weight he carried as a Rakshak. The loneliness, the constant pressure to be perfect, to be a weapon. He wasn't just fighting for survival. He was fighting for something far greater than himself.
[Back to the Battle]
The Shaitaan's form shimmered with dark energy as it regenerated its lost limbs. Armaan could feel the fight dragging on longer than he had anticipated. It was stronger than he thought. The creature's magic was vast, but it didn't matter. Armaan had faced worse.
Then, when it seemed like the Shaitaan was about to unleash another barrage of flame, Armaan decided it was time to end this.
His blade hummed with prana, and he focused every ounce of energy into it, the weapon turning shadow black as his prana merged with its essence.
"Now… it's my turn," Armaan said, his voice ice-cold.
He ran forward, the ground cracking beneath his feet as his prana surged. He had never moved this fast in his life. The Shaitaan barely had time to react before Armaan was already upon it.
"Ryú no keisho... Moonfall Beam!"
With that, a surge of moonlight followed his blade, cascading over him as he slashed with all his might. The Shaitaan's head was cleanly severed, and in that instant, Armaan's blade glowed a brilliant white. As he withdrew the blade, a spectral dragon—white with blue eyes—appeared, its massive jaws closing over the Shaitaan's neck, consuming the dark beast in an instant.
The Shaitaan's body vanished into nothingness, leaving only the echoes of the battle behind.
Armaan stood, panting heavily, his body trembling from the effort. He exhaled a deep breath, steam rising from his body in the cool night air.
"Vanishing Dragon…" he whispered under his breath.
NEXT DAY
The sun rose like an indifferent witness to last night's events, its golden rays crawling over rooftops, chasing away the darkness of the previous battle.
But for Armaan, the night hadn't really ended.
Though his body was healed and no visible wounds remained, his soul still felt heavy. The memory of that Shaitaan—the flames, the growls, the suffocating pressure—clung to him like smoke. His eyes were tired, and for once, the weight of his duty showed clearly in the slump of his shoulders.
He walked toward school in silence, headphones in, eyes downcast. The street was lively—children chasing cycles, hawkers shouting over fresh vegetables—but everything felt muted. Distant.
His classmates were already gathered in the corridor when he reached school. Samar spotted him first.
"Look who finally decided to show up," Samar smirked. "You look like you've been through a horror movie marathon."
Roumit leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Or like someone dumped you in your dreams. Don't tell me Alya broke your heart, bro?"
Armaan rolled his eyes and gave a tired chuckle, but it was weak—lacking the usual spark.
"Oh man, he's not even denying it," Samar said dramatically. "Confirmed. Alya rejected his love confession. I need to alert the nation."
"You two are clowns," Armaan muttered, pulling his bag higher on his shoulder. "It's not about Alya. I... had a long night."
Samar raised an eyebrow. "Homework dreams again?"
Roumit chimed in. "Or maybe he's out there saving kittens with laser eyes."
Armaan finally sighed, stopping near the stairwell where they usually chilled before assembly. His eyes flicked left and right to make sure no one was around.
"Okay, listen. This is serious. Last night, I encountered a Shaitaan."
Both Samar and Roumit immediately straightened. Their grins vanished.
"You what?" Samar's voice dropped. "A real one?"
Armaan nodded. "It was near the school field… I sensed its prana. I transformed and fought it alone."
"Wait—wait—" Roumit looked shocked. "You're saying you went into Rakshak mode... alone? What if it had backup?"
"It didn't," Armaan said quietly. "But it was stronger than I expected. It spoke. Intelligent, fast, regenerative. My usual strikes weren't working."
"Holy crap..." Samar whispered. "What happened?"
"I used Ryú no keisho." Armaan's voice was flat. "Moonfall Beam. I finished it."
Roumit let out a low whistle. "That technique you kept training for... You actually used it?"
Armaan nodded. "Didn't have a choice."
There was a moment of silence between the three. Samar and Roumit exchanged glances, realizing the gravity of what Armaan had gone through. Then—without warning—Roumit burst out laughing.
"Damn, you dramatic fool! You went full anime protagonist on a school night?!"
Samar grinned. "You serious, man? No wonder you look like a ghost. You could've just skipped school. No one would blame you."
Armaan sighed but couldn't help a small smile forming on his lips.
"And here I was thinking you were sulking about a heartbreak," Roumit teased again. "Turns out you were out there vaporizing demons."
"You seriously gotta tell us when you do stuff like this," Samar said, though his tone was playful now. "We could've been backup."
"Yeah," Roumit nodded. "I mean, we would've died in 0.2 seconds, but we'd die together, damn it."
Armaan laughed finally, the tension on his face beginning to melt.
"Idiots," he muttered fondly. "Thanks."
"Anytime, Mr. Dragon Man," Samar said with a bow.
They walked into class together, and as the bell rang, their class teacher, Ms. Sen, entered the room. As always, she radiated grace and quiet discipline. Even the rowdiest students sat up straighter when she was around.
Today, however, something felt different.
Just after attendance, Armaan and Alya were called up to the teacher's desk. They both blinked, confused.
"Yes, Ma'am?" Alya asked.
Ms. Sen smiled lightly. "No, not me. The class has something for both of you."
The two turned back to see Samar standing proudly in front of the class, holding a crumpled paper like it was an ancient scroll.
"Hear ye, hear ye," Samar announced dramatically. "We, the brave fools of Class 11-B, do hereby assign our noble class monitors—Armaan and Alya—with the sacred mission of Operation Teacher's Day."
Roumit clapped like a madman in the background while the rest of the class giggled.
"What is this now?" Armaan asked, raising an eyebrow.
Alya crossed her arms, though the corners of her lips were twitching with amusement. "Samar, explain."
Samar cleared his throat. "In simple terms: you two are in charge of getting a beautiful gift for Ms. Sen. Something that reflects our collective love and occasional academic suffering."
Roumit added, "Budget: 5200 rupees, 100 rupees from each student of the class. Deadline: this Friday. Mission codename: Operation Sen-sational."
Groans erupted around the room at that pun, but Alya laughed, shaking her head.
"You guys could've just told us instead of making a scene," she said.
"Where's the fun in that?" Samar grinned. "Besides, we trust you two. You're the best duo we've got."
Armaan and Alya exchanged a glance. She raised an eyebrow as if to say, You in?
Armaan gave a small smirk. "I'm in."
"Same," Alya nodded. "Let's make this Teacher's Day memorable."
And just like that, with a little teasing and camaraderie, the heaviness of Armaan's night began to fade. His burdens remained—but now, they were shared. Not as weight, but as moments of warmth.
The city buzzed under the late afternoon sun as Armaan and Alya walked side by side down the crowded streets of New Market. The last few hours had been spent exploring gift shops, stationary boutiques, and even a quaint little art corner hidden behind a flower stall. A stack of suggestions scribbled by their classmates rustled in Alya's hand like a scroll of ancient importance.
"So," Alya glanced sideways at Armaan, "Ms. Sen likes soft colors, floral prints, and things that smell nice."
"I hope you're talking about gift items and not designing a new air freshener," Armaan smirked.
She chuckled. "You're impossible."
After hours of debate, scanning price tags, and awkward bargaining from Armaan's side (which Alya had to eventually take over), they finally settled on their purchases:
1. A pastel-themed handcrafted diary set – ₹900
2. An elegant pen set with engravings – ₹700
3. A glass-encased floral desk ornament with a gold-plated "Best Teacher" tag – ₹1,200
4. A custom-framed class photo – ₹1,000 (including express printing & frame)
5. A handwoven pashmina stole in soft pink and beige – ₹1,200
6. Gift wrapping, decorations, and a premium card signed by all students – ₹200
Total: ₹5,200
"Mission accomplished," Armaan said, dropping onto the nearest bench outside a bookstore as Alya carefully held the bag of gifts like it was sacred treasure.
"You actually survived the shopping," she teased, sitting beside him.
Armaan stretched his arms, then looked at her with a grin. "Barely. I deserve a medal. Or at least a cold drink."
Alya raised an eyebrow. "Coffee?"
"Only if you let me pay," he replied.
"Deal."
Café Cosmo was a quaint little place tucked into a corner just a street away from the market. Fairy lights hung from the ceiling, the scent of roasted beans filled the air, and soft music played in the background. Armaan ordered an iced Americano for himself and a cappuccino for Alya.
As they sat across each other, sipping and chatting, Alya unconsciously took a sip and looked up.
Armaan suddenly burst out laughing.
"What?!" Alya blinked.
"You—" he chuckled harder, pulling out his phone and flipping it to selfie mode— "look like a Victorian villain."
She looked in the phone screen. The milk foam of the cappuccino had left a perfect creamy moustache across her upper lip.
"Ack!" she squeaked and wiped it with a napkin, cheeks flaming red. "You weren't supposed to see that!"
"Oh no, no, I've already stored that in my permanent memory," Armaan grinned.
"You're impossible," she muttered, embarrassed but smiling.
As the sun dipped behind the tall buildings and painted the sky with strokes of fading gold, Armaan and Alya made their way down the escalator to the metro platform. The day had been long, lighthearted, and oddly comforting. Alya still carried the gentle aroma of the café on her sleeves, and Armaan felt his own tension ease more than it had in weeks.
The platform was calm, humming with occasional station announcements. The crowd was thin, mostly students and a few office-goers leaning against the pillars, waiting for the next train.
And then—
The lights snapped off.
Total darkness swallowed the entire metro platform like a beast closing its jaws.
Alya gasped. "W-What the—?!"
A second later, she was clinging to Armaan's arm, fingers cold and trembling.
"Stay close," Armaan whispered, his instincts flaring like sparks from flint.
For a few heartbeats, there was only silence—oppressive, unnatural silence, as if even sound had been evacuated from the place.
Then—click.
The lights blinked back on with a faint whine.
But now...
The platform was empty. Completely.
Every single person who had been there—vanished. Not a single trace remained. No footsteps. No shadows. No noise.
Just Armaan and Alya, standing alone under the flickering yellow lights.
"Wh... Where did everyone go?" Alya asked, her voice small and cracking.
And then—
A low, reverberating growl echoed from the far end of the platform.
They turned slowly.
Far in the shadows, near the tunnel's mouth... a figure stood watching them.
Seven feet tall.
Its silhouette monstrous.
Two red eyes glowed in the dark like burning coals.
Alya let out a soft, shaky breath. Her grip on Armaan's elbow tightened.
"Armaan," she whispered, terror making her voice tremble, "what... is that?"
Armaan's eyes narrowed, his pulse steady but cold.
"…This isn't a coincidence."