Aarav stood in the center of the ruined chamber, his body battered, his spirit barely holding together. His breath was ragged, every inhale like swallowing fire, but still—he stood.
The War God's form, immense and eternal, loomed before him, no longer with the wrath of battle—but with the silence of judgment.
"You lasted longer than any mortal before you," the god rumbled, its voice layered with thunder and time. "You bled, but you didn't break. You listened, even when your bones screamed. And most of all… you stepped forward when others would have fled."
Aarav didn't respond. He couldn't. His throat was dry, his legs shaking.
The god raised a hand.
And then—flames erupted from its palm.
But they were not fire of heat or destruction. These flames were golden, almost alive, swirling with symbols from an ancient tongue, flickering like memories from a forgotten age.
"This is your reward," said the god. "And your burden."
The fire coiled toward Aarav like a serpent, and before he could even flinch, it pierced his chest—
Right into his heart.
---
Aarav screamed.
His vision turned white.
It wasn't pain.
It was overwriting.
He saw flashes—visions not his own:
—Warriors clad in gold, shouting hymns as they charged across blood-drenched battlefields.
—A storm that whispered names of gods long erased from history.
—A blade, burning in the hands of a man with eyes like his.
And then—a tree.
The Ashvattha.
Its roots wrapping around the bones of fallen gods. Its leaves glowing like dying stars. Its branches touching every realm—past, present, future.
And a whisper:
"You are chosen, Aarav Sen."
---
He collapsed again, gasping.
When he looked up, the god was fading.
"You are now marked by me," it said. "You bear my flame. You carry my wrath."
Golden patterns shimmered on Aarav's forearms—like tattoos, but shifting with every heartbeat.
"You've inherited the first Divine Mark. The Mark of Shastra—the Eternal Warrior."
The War God's voice echoed as its form vanished into the air:
"When the time comes, burn. Let the world remember why gods feared mortals."
---
Silence returned to the temple.
Aarav stayed on his knees, the glow of the mark fading to a faint pulse.
He didn't know what the tournament had in store next.
But now, he wasn't just a fighter.
He was marked.
And that changed everything.
---
Quote :
"Power isn't what you hold in your hand. It's what you survive with your soul." — The War God
Aarav sat in the middle of the now-silent chamber, the golden mark on his skin pulsating faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat. The pain was gone, but something deeper had replaced it—an echo, like a storm that hadn't passed, merely fallen silent.
The god was gone.
But the power wasn't.
He could still feel it.
Like heat coiled under his skin. Like a sleeping beast curled around his spine.
Aarav clenched his fists. The marks glowed briefly—symbols that didn't belong to this era, shifting like living code etched into his very soul.
A thought cut through him:
"What have I become?"
---
He didn't have time to ponder.
The doors behind him creaked open—vast stone slabs scraping against the earth, letting in shafts of orange light.
A figure stood at the threshold.
Clad in a long black coat embroidered with red and gold, eyes hidden behind obsidian-rimmed glasses, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Congratulations, kid," the man said, stepping in. "You just survived your first god."
Aarav staggered to his feet, confused and wary.
"Who are you?"
The man extended a hand, nonchalantly. "Name's Varun. I'm your sponsor."
Aarav didn't take the hand. "What do you mean, 'sponsor'?"
Varun laughed. "You really don't know how deep this rabbit hole goes, do you?"
He gestured to the fading symbols on Aarav's arms. "That mark? You think it's just a badge? Nah. That's a contract. You're bonded to Shastra now. A War God."
Aarav's eyes narrowed. "I didn't agree to anything."
"Doesn't matter," Varun said, stepping closer. "Gods don't need permission. They need purpose. And you… apparently have one."
---
Outside the temple, the world had changed.
Not literally—but Aarav's perception of it had.
The skies still burned amber with the setting sun. The breeze still carried dust and the scent of incense. But now he could hear things—whispers beneath sound, feel pressure in the air that didn't belong.
Varun walked beside him, hands in his pockets. "You're not the only one, by the way. There are others. Each chosen by something different. Gods. Beasts. Spirits. Some of them aren't even from this reality."
Aarav frowned. "And the Ashvattha Tournament?"
Varun's smile widened. "Ah, the grand question. The tournament is the world's most sacred lie. A battlefield built on ancient bones. The winner gets a wish. But not just any wish—a divine command capable of rewriting the laws of existence."
Aarav stopped walking.
His voice was low. "Can it bring someone back?"
Varun's eyes flashed. For a moment, the smile faded. "Everyone in this game has something they'd kill for. What's yours?"
Aarav didn't answer.
But his silence said enough.
---
As they neared the edge of the temple ruins, Varun gestured toward a black transport vehicle waiting under a banyan tree. A woman in a white suit leaned against the door, arms crossed.
"That's Mira," Varun said. "Co-sponsor. Cold as frostbite and twice as sharp. She doesn't like new blood. Try not to die before she warms up to you."
Aarav stepped forward, but Varun stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.
"One last thing, kid. From here on out, nothing is fair. Nothing is safe. And nothing is what it seems."
His tone sharpened, his grin gone.
"You're part of the Divine Game now."
---
Quote :
"Some doors open with keys. Others with blood." — Varun
Aarav stepped toward the vehicle, his mind buzzing with questions. The weight of the mark on his skin was like a phantom pulse—reminding him that the world had just shifted beneath him. What was Varun talking about? The Divine Game?
The woman—Mira—stood like a sentinel beside the black transport. Her gaze was cold, calculating, as if every moment she spent looking at him was a cost she wasn't sure was worth it. She was tall, imposing, her presence commanding the air around her. And there was something almost unnatural about her—like she was more than just a person. Something... otherworldly.
"You're late," she said, her voice icy, her lips barely moving. "I was starting to think I'd have to collect your corpse."
Aarav didn't flinch, despite the tension that rippled through him. "I'm still alive."
Mira nodded, her expression never changing. "That's about to change. Get in. We're going to the arena."
---
The inside of the transport was sterile, quiet. The walls hummed with an energy that was familiar and alien at the same time, like the pulse of an engine—but much, much older.
Aarav sat across from Mira, the weight of her gaze on him the entire time. He could feel it now, a constant pressure—as though his very thoughts were being scrutinized.
"I know what you're thinking," Mira said suddenly, her voice laced with amusement. "You're wondering what this tournament is really about. What you're really getting into."
Aarav didn't respond.
"You'll find out soon enough," she continued, her eyes narrowing as she met his. "You've chosen the path of a warrior, but make no mistake, kid. This isn't about honor. This isn't about glory. This is about survival. This is about ascension."
Her words struck Aarav like a fist to the chest. Ascension. The very idea of it made his blood run cold.
"You're here because the gods chose you," Mira continued, her tone colder than before. "But that doesn't mean they care about you. Not really. You're a tool to them. A pawn in their grand designs. If you win... you become something more. But if you lose, you're nothing more than dust to be blown away."
Aarav's jaw clenched. His fists tightened around the fabric of his shirt.
"You've already seen how the gods fight," Mira added. "And now, you'll see the others—the ones who are just as hungry for power as you."
Varun, still leaning against the door, spoke up. "You're going to face people who will kill without hesitation. People who would burn the world down for their own desires. And then… there's you."
---
The transport jolted to a stop. The door hissed open, revealing a dark landscape stretching out before them.
The arena.
It loomed like a beast from a nightmare, its towering walls carved from ancient stone, slick with the patina of centuries of bloodshed. The very air here seemed different—thick, suffused with energy, with danger.
Aarav's heart pounded in his chest as he took it in.
"This is where it happens," Varun said, pushing himself off the vehicle. "Where you'll fight. Where you'll bleed. If you survive, you'll earn the right to stand at the peak. If not…"
Mira didn't need to finish the sentence. She led them into the heart of the arena, where fights were already underway.
---
In the distance, Aarav could hear the clash of steel, the roar of the crowd, and the screams of agony that carried across the sands. His stomach twisted, but his resolve hardened. The mark on his chest burned hotter, almost alive in its intensity.
He stepped forward.
The first challenge was waiting.
---
And just then, a shout rang out from the far side of the arena.
"Welcome to the bloodshed, new meat!"
A hulking figure stepped into the ring—a massive man, easily seven feet tall, wearing nothing but a loincloth and the remnants of armor, jagged and broken. His chest was a mass of scars, each one telling a story of battle and brutality.
Aarav narrowed his eyes.
This was just the beginning.
---
Quote :
"The only thing you can trust in this game is the blood on your hands." — Mira
---