The air in Varanasi was thick with the scent of incense and sweat, a mixture of devotion and desperation. Beneath the towering temples and neon-lit signboards, the city's underbelly thrived—where rules were suggestions, and the strong dictated the fate of the weak.
Aarav Sen cracked his knuckles as he stepped into the dimly lit alley. His opponent lay sprawled against the wall, unconscious. The gathered crowd of gamblers, lowlifes, and fighters murmured in hushed tones. They had seen him fight before, but tonight, there was something different in his eyes—something darker.
He grabbed his hoodie from the dusty ground and wiped the blood from his knuckles. "Who's next?" he asked, voice steady, daring.
No one stepped forward. Even the bravest fighters of the underground circuit knew better than to challenge The Stray Dog of Varanasi.
With a scoff, Aarav turned to leave. He had no interest in their fear. Only one thing mattered—finding his sister.
As he walked through the narrow lanes, past sadhus chanting hymns and the ever-present smell of the Ganges, a voice stopped him.
"You fight like a man with a death wish."
Aarav didn't turn immediately. He had been in too many fights, too many ambushes. He slowly shifted his stance, readying himself for trouble.
A man stood in the shadows, leaning casually against a wall. Dressed in a black sherwani with golden embroidery, he looked out of place, like someone who belonged in a royal court rather than the filth of the backstreets. His face was sharp, eyes glowing with something unnatural—something ancient.
Aarav exhaled sharply. "Not interested."
The man chuckled. "You don't even know what I'm offering."
"Doesn't matter." Aarav turned to leave.
"The Ashvattha Tournament."
Aarav stopped.
The name sent a chill down his spine. It was an urban legend among fighters. A secret tournament where warriors with impossible strength fought in battles that defied logic. Some said the fighters wielded powers of gods, others whispered that none who entered ever returned the same.
Aarav turned slowly. "You're lying."
The man stepped forward, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light. "Am I?" He flicked his wrist, and for a brief moment, Aarav swore he saw something—a symbol burning in the air behind him. Something ancient. Something real.
"If you want to find your sister," the man said, smiling, "this is the only way."
---
Aarav sat in a small tea stall near the ghats, the man sitting across from him. His name was Virendra, and according to him, he was one of The Keepers—those who controlled the Ashvattha Tournament.
"I don't trust you," Aarav said, taking a sip of chai.
Virendra smirked. "Smart. But that doesn't change the truth. Your sister was taken because she was meant to fight. She had potential."
Aarav's hands clenched. "Then why wasn't she in the last tournament?"
"Because she refused. And The Keepers don't take no for an answer."
Aarav's heartbeat pounded. His sister, missing for two years, was alive. And she had been meant for this?
"What do you want from me?"
"Your participation."
Aarav leaned back. "What's the catch?"
Virendra's grin widened. "You'll need a contract."
Aarav frowned. "A contract with who?"
Virendra snapped his fingers, and suddenly, the world around them shifted. The street noise faded. The light from the tea stall flickered. A presence filled the air—something watching them from beyond the mortal world.
"The gods," Virendra said simply. "Or whatever else will answer."
Aarav felt it then. A pulse in the air. A presence so overwhelming it pressed against his soul. Something was calling to him.
And in that moment, he realized the truth.
This wasn't just a tournament.
It was a battle for something far greater.
The silence stretched between them. Aarav clenched his fists, his skin still tingling with the lingering touch of unseen forces. The air had returned to normal, but something inside him felt different—off.
Virendra was watching him closely. "Strange," he murmured. "Not a single god spoke to you."
Aarav exhaled sharply, trying to suppress the unease creeping up his spine. "Good. I don't need them."
Virendra chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't understand. When a fighter is ignored, it usually means they are insignificant." He paused, his golden eyes narrowing. "But when all the gods refuse someone, it means something worse."
Aarav stiffened.
"It means something else already has its claim on you."
Aarav's breath hitched for a fraction of a second. He didn't believe in gods, but he had felt them just now—watching, judging. And yet, none had answered. Instead, something had lurked at the edge of his mind, just out of sight, waiting.
"You're lying," he said, but his voice lacked certainty.
Virendra simply smiled. "I don't lie about these things."
Aarav's fingers twitched. He should walk away. He should forget about this damn tournament and keep searching for his sister the way he always had—alone. But a voice in the back of his mind whispered that this was no coincidence.
"Fine," he said, straightening. "If the gods don't want me, then I'll fight without them."
Virendra tilted his head, amused. "Brave. But foolish." He leaned back, tapping his fingers against the wooden table. "Without a contract, you won't even survive the first round."
Aarav's jaw tightened. "Then tell me how to fix it."
Virendra's smirk widened. "You don't fix it." He pushed back his chair and stood, his long coat swaying as he turned to leave. "But if something already has a claim on you…" He glanced over his shoulder. "Then it's only a matter of time before it reveals itself."
Aarav felt a chill crawl down his spine.
Somewhere deep inside him, something stirred.
And for the first time in his life, he wondered if he had ever truly been alone.
The weight of Virendra's words lingered in the air like the final note of an unfinished song.
"It's only a matter of time before it reveals itself."
Aarav's fists clenched. He had spent years fighting alone, surviving in a world that never gave second chances. If something was inside him—if something had claimed him—he needed to know what.
"Enough riddles," he snapped. "If I already belong to something, then tell me what it is."
Virendra gave him a long, appraising look before sighing. "I could tell you, but would you believe me?"
Aarav didn't respond.
Virendra's smirk returned. "Thought so." He reached into his coat and pulled out something small, tossing it onto the table. It landed with a soft clink. A circular pendant, old and worn, with an intricate carving on its surface—a tree with upside-down roots, its branches twisting toward the earth instead of the sky.
Aarav frowned. "What is this?"
"The Ashvattha," Virendra said. "The Tree that connects worlds. The reason this tournament exists."
Aarav's fingers hesitated before touching it. The metal was cold against his skin—too cold, as if it had never known warmth. The moment his fingertips grazed the surface, his vision blurred.
The world melted away.
For a heartbeat, he was elsewhere.
A vast, endless expanse stretched before him, neither land nor sky, only a swirling abyss of gold and black. And in the center—a colossal tree, its roots hanging from above like the limbs of a dead god, dripping something dark into the nothingness below.
Aarav gasped and stumbled back, the tea stall crashing back into existence around him. His chest heaved, sweat trickling down his forehead.
Virendra watched him with quiet amusement. "Looks like you saw something."
Aarav wiped his palm against his jeans, as if trying to rid himself of the cold sensation. "What the hell was that?"
"The answer to your question," Virendra said simply. "Something already has you, Aarav Sen. And if the gods fear to claim you, then perhaps you should be asking…"
He leaned forward, his golden eyes gleaming.
"What are you?"
Aarav's pulse thundered in his ears. He had spent his life searching for his sister. But now, for the first time—
—he realized he needed to start searching for himself.