Pralaya, still trembling from the aftershocks, forced himself to steady his breathing. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at Arun.
"…Arun." He tested the name on his tongue, as if trying to ground himself in reality.
Arun met his gaze briefly before scanning the ruins around them. He exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable.
"Before we leave," he said, his voice steady but carrying a weight behind it. "Is there anything you would like to Scavenge for".
Pralaya turned to face the wreckage of the slums—the place he had called home his entire life.
The narrow alleys, once teeming with desperate souls, were now nothing more than silent graves. The makeshift houses, cobbled together from wood and rusted metal, had been reduced to charred husks. Ash blanketed the ground like a burial shroud, erasing every trace of what once was. He could still picture it—the children playing barefoot in the dirt, the merchants haggling over scraps of food, the distant sound of someone singing despite the misery of their existence.
Now, there was only silence. The air smelled of burnt flesh and smoldering wood, suffocating in its finality.
Pralaya clenched his fists.
He turned back to Arun, his face composed, but his voice carried a weight beyond sorrow.
"My mother died in this disaster." His words were slow, deliberate, like he was forcing them out one at a time. "My father… he ran. Left me to die while he saved himself."
His hands trembled at his sides. He exhaled, trying to push the emotions down, but his voice still wavered.
"The slums—this place—were all I ever knew. And now it's all gone."
He met Arun's gaze. There was no sadness left in his eyes. Only quiet resignation.
"I have nothing left here."
A cold wind howled through the ruins, sweeping away the last dying embers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Arun stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Pralaya's head. His touch was solid, grounding, yet not forceful.
"You'll learn to live with the losses," Arun said, his voice quiet but certain. "They don't get easier, but you get stronger."
Pralaya looked up at him.
For the first time, he saw something deeper behind Arun's gaze. Not pity. Not sympathy. But understanding.
Arun had been through this before.
He knew what it meant to lose everything. To have nowhere left to return to.
"…You've been through this, haven't you?" Pralaya asked.
Arun didn't answer immediately. He just let out a slow breath and, after a brief moment, withdrew his hand.
"Come on," he said, turning away from the ruins. "We need to move. With this much destruction, the temple will send people to investigate soon."
Pralaya lingered for a moment longer, staring at the ashes of his past.
Then he turned and walked.
They had been walking for nearly an hour when Pralaya finally spoke again.
"All right," he said. "Where exactly are we going?"
Arun didn't look back. "District 2."also known as The commercial District".
Pralaya's steps faltered. "The commercial district?"
He had never left the slums before. All his life, he had only heard stories of District 2—the heart of trade and wealth. A place where people didn't go hungry, where the streets weren't filled with the stench of rot and decay.
He had always dreamed of seeing it.
Holding back his excitement, he asked, "Why are we going there?"
Arun gave him a sidelong glance. "I told you, didn't I? I'm going to teach you how to use your ability."
Pralaya perked up. But before he could ask anything, Arun continued.
"However, I can't train you yet."
Pralaya frowned. "Why not?"
Arun stopped walking and turned to face him. His crimson eyes locked onto Pralaya's with an intensity that made him feel as if he was being measured.
"Before I answer that, tell me… What do you know about Śūnyavāda?"
Pralaya hesitated. "They're people who awaken their karmic energy… They fight against the Sunyayoma, like you and me. And they work for the temples."
Arun nodded. "Good. At least you know the basics. But what you might not know… is that not all Śūnyavāda serve the temples."
Pralaya blinked. "What?"
"There are Śūnyavāda like me who refuse to be controlled by the temples. We form our own groups, our own organizations. The temples don't like that." Arun's voice grew colder. "To them, any Śūnyavāda who isn't under their command is a heretic. And heretics are hunted."
Pralaya stared at him. "So that's why we're leaving the slums…"
Arun nodded. "If we stay, they'll find us. And when they do, they won't hesitate."
Pralaya stopped walking. A thought struck him.
"So you're saying… if I go with you, and the temples find out, they'll label me a heretic too?"
"Yes."
Pralaya took a deep breath. Then, unexpectedly, he exhaled in relief.
Arun raised an eyebrow. "You're relieved?"
Pralaya resumed walking. "Honestly… yeah."
Arun fell into step beside him. "Care to explain?"
Pralaya's expression darkened slightly. "Ever since I was a child, I've felt nothing but disdain for the temples and the gods they worship. I don't know why—it's just this feeling I've always had." He turned to Arun, eyes resolute. "So you don't have to worry. I'll gladly become a heretic."
Arun studied him for a moment before smirking.
"You've got some nerve, kid."
Pralaya ignored the comment. "So, what organization are you a part of?"
Arun stopped walking and turned to face him fully. His smirk widened.
"The Seven Scriptures."
Pralaya narrowed his eyes. "I've never heard of them."
"You will soon enough." Arun didn't elaborate further.
They walked in silence for the next two hours until they finally arrived at an underground train station, the gateway to District 2.
Meanwhile, back in the slums, two figures arrived at the scene of destruction.
They were clad in pristine white robes, golden symbols running along the fabric like sacred inscriptions. Their hoods, lined with gold, cast shadows over their faces.
One of them surveyed the ruins and let out a low whistle. "This is worse than the report described. It's like a dying world." He kicked at a pile of ash, watching it scatter. "I'd be surprised if anything survived this level of devastation."
The second figure, more serious, knelt and ran his fingers through the dirt. His brow furrowed. "A battle took place here."
The first one scoffed. "How can you tell? There's no trace of a Sunyayoma. No lingering karmic energy. Nothing."
The second figure didn't answer. Instead, he pointed into the distance.
"Look over there."
The first figure followed his gaze and immediately stiffened.
A massive slash was carved deep into the ground, as if something impossibly sharp had cut through the earth itself.
"That's… a sword strike." His voice was hushed in awe.
"And not just any strike," the second figure said grimly. "A powerful one."
The first figure frowned. "Even so, that doesn't explain why there's no karmic residue. Even if a body was destroyed, some trace should remain."
The second figure stood, dusting off his robes. His voice was quiet, but heavy with certainty.
"I know of only one man who wields three swords. One man who commands flames capable of reducing everything to nothing. One man whose power can erase something completely, without leaving behind a single karmic trace."
The first figure's breath caught. "…Who?"
The second figure looked toward the horizon.
"One of the Seven Kings."
He closed his eyes.
" Flame King, Arun."