The sands of the arena were stained red.
Aarav stepped into the ring, his breath slow, eyes fixed on the mountain of muscle before him. The crowd's roar thundered around him like a living beast, chanting the name of his opponent.
"Bheem! Bheem! Bheem!"
The giant grinned, his teeth chipped, his eyes glowing faintly with crimson light. A mark—no, a brand—scorched his chest, shaped like a mace surrounded by flames.
"Fresh blood?" Bheem growled, his voice like boulders grinding. "Good. I was getting bored."
He stepped forward. The earth shook beneath his feet.
---
Aarav's heartbeat quickened. Not with fear—but with anticipation.
The moment he'd been preparing for had arrived. No more shadows. No more whispers.
The Divine Mark on his chest pulsed to life—golden tendrils of energy crawling along his veins like fire made flesh.
Then came the voice again. The same one that had spoken when he first touched the gateway.
> "You stand at the mouth of annihilation. Speak your name, warrior, and rise."
Aarav clenched his fists.
"I am Aarav Sen."
His aura exploded.
The sand beneath his feet whipped up into a storm. His eyes glowed, golden and burning with purpose. Bheem flinched for a half-second.
And in that breath of hesitation, Aarav struck.
---
He dashed forward with speed no human should possess, fists wreathed in divine energy. His knuckles slammed into Bheem's ribs with a sound like thunder cracking stone. The giant stumbled.
But didn't fall.
Bheem roared, backhanding Aarav with a blow that could shatter bone. Aarav flew across the ring, hitting the wall with a sickening crunch. Dust plumed.
"You've got fire. But fire dies easy." Bheem laughed, stomping toward him.
Aarav wiped blood from his lip, rising.
> "Fire doesn't die," he spat. "It learns to burn hotter."
---
Mira and Varun watched from the shadows above.
"He's adapting already," Varun muttered. "The mark is syncing faster than expected."
Mira didn't blink. "He has no choice. Bheem's Divine Contract is with Hanuman—the embodiment of strength and will. If Aarav doesn't awaken his full potential... he dies."
---
Bheem charged like a war elephant, arms wide to crush Aarav in a bear hug of death.
Aarav waited.
Waited.
And at the last moment—
He vanished.
A burst of golden light and dust. Bheem swung into nothing.
Aarav reappeared behind him, mid-air, descending like a meteor. His foot slammed into Bheem's neck, followed by a spinning elbow that crashed into the temple.
Bheem roared in pain.
Blood.
The crowd went silent.
---
"That mark on your chest," Bheem growled, dropping to one knee, "What god gave it to you?"
Aarav didn't answer.
Because the truth was—he didn't know.
All he knew was that something ancient had chosen him.
Something that wasn't done yet.
---
Quote :
"In a world ruled by gods, the only freedom is earned through power." — Aarav Sen
---
The silence that followed Aarav's blow didn't last long.
Bheem rose again.
Bleeding. Grinning.
The mace he carried—the one no one had seen him use—was suddenly in his hands. A divine weapon, forged in the likeness of Hanuman's own.
It wasn't metal. It was stone fused with wrath, humming with ancient Sanskrit runes. Its weight bent the light around it.
> "Let's see if your god can keep you breathing," Bheem said—and swung.
---
Aarav barely dodged.
The mace slammed into the arena floor. The earth split, the shockwave launching slabs of stone into the air like shrapnel. One shard grazed Aarav's side, opening a red gash.
He didn't flinch.
He dove forward, under the second swing, fists blazing. A punch to the solar plexus. A knee to the chin. A whip-like roundhouse that cracked across Bheem's ear.
But the giant wouldn't fall.
"You fight like a storm," Bheem muttered. "But I was born in the eye of it."
Then he caught Aarav's fist.
With a crunch, Bheem twisted, shattering two of Aarav's fingers. Aarav screamed.
The mace came down again.
This time, it struck.
---
The blow hurled Aarav across the arena like a ragdoll. His body skidded and rolled, limbs flailing, blood flying in an arc behind him.
He hit the wall.
And didn't move.
For a moment, the world fell still.
---
From the stands, whispers began.
"Is he dead?"
"Did he even stand a chance?"
"Another fool with power and no will."
---
Then, a sound.
A low growl.
Aarav rose.
Slow. Staggered. Shaking.
His chest bled. His left arm hung limp. But his eyes—
His eyes burned with something new.
Not pain.
Not rage.
But clarity.
---
"I understand now," he said quietly, dragging himself upright.
"I wasn't chosen because I was strong. I was chosen because I had nothing left to lose."
---
The mark on his chest flared, but this time it shifted—evolving.
Spinning mandalas of light spiraled around him, forming a golden halo. His aura turned crimson-gold, the color of a dying sun.
Above the arena, the sky crackled.
Thunder rolled where there were no clouds.
A shadow passed behind his eyes.
And for the first time—
Bheem stepped back.
---
Quote :
"Power doesn't come from the gods. It comes from the scars they leave behind." — Unknown Voice
---
Aarav's feet touched the ground as if gravity itself hesitated to weigh him down.
Bheem's voice had lost its arrogance. "What… are you?"
Aarav didn't answer. He walked forward.
Each step cracked the arena's floor, not from pressure—but from presence. It was like the world no longer knew how to contain him.
The mark on his chest pulsed with golden fury. The runes across it shifted again, forming a symbol unfamiliar even to the sages.
> "You are not divine," Bheem said. "You are not worthy."
Aarav's reply was a whisper, but it silenced the air:
> "I'm not divine. I'm what comes after divinity fails."
---
Bheem charged.
The mace spun with impossible speed, cleaving wind and light. Its divine weight could crumble mountains.
Aarav didn't move.
Until the last second.
Then—he vanished.
---
In an instant, he reappeared behind Bheem.
A punch landed. Not to the face. Not to the chest. But straight into the spine.
The sound was like a tree splitting in half.
Bheem roared in agony, staggering forward.
Aarav didn't stop.
He grabbed Bheem by the back of the neck and dragged him across the arena—through stone, sand, and blood—before slamming him face-first into the wall.
The arena cracked.
And Aarav spoke into Bheem's ear, low and merciless:
> "You broke my bones. Let me break your belief."
---
He raised his hand.
His fist began to glow, drawing in something unseen—threads of ancestral power, raw and feral.
He wasn't calling on a god.
He was channeling a curse.
A memory buried so deep in India's soil that even the gods feared to awaken it.
---
Aarav struck.
Bheem's body convulsed as the punch connected—not just with flesh, but with soul.
A scream tore through the arena.
It wasn't just Bheem's.
It echoed with thousands—as if every soul crushed by war, empire, betrayal, and forgotten history cried out through Aarav's fist.
---
When the dust cleared, Bheem lay crumpled.
His mace shattered.
His mark—dimmed.
And Aarav?
He stood, barely breathing, skin torn, eyes glowing. The symbol on his chest slowly faded back to silence.
But something was awakened now.
Something old.
Something watching.
---
Quote :
"Divinity is borrowed. But wrath… wrath is earned." — Aarav Sen
---
The silence in the arena was total.
Even the gods, watching from their high thrones—be it mythic skies or hidden chambers—had paused.
Bheem lay broken at the feet of a mortal who had no name among the heavens. Aarav Sen, son of no legend, bearer of no temple's prayers.
But every eye now knew him.
Not for what he was.
For what he had become.
---
The announcer stood frozen, mouth agape. Then, stuttering, he raised his hand.
"W-Winner… by complete incapacitation—AARAV SEN!!"
No cheers.
Not yet.
People didn't cheer when they watched a storm win. They just tried to survive it.
---
From the shadows above, hidden behind divine veils, a hooded figure whispered, "The seal... it's fractured."
Beside him, a woman cloaked in fire hissed, "He shouldn't exist. That power is… ancient."
"Worse," said the hooded one. "It's unforgiven."
---
Aarav stumbled back, blood dripping from his mouth. The crowd was still silent.
Then, a slow clap.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
From the VIP balcony.
Rudra Vana, the undefeated champion of the last Ashvattha Tournament, leaned forward.
"That," he said with a grin like a knife, "was art."
Aarav looked up at him, and their gazes locked for the first time.
The champion's eyes burned violet. A mark like a trishul shimmered on his neck.
Aarav's legs nearly gave out again—not from pain, but from a force beneath the surface of that man. Something worse than gods.
Something built for war.
---
Backstage, medics ran toward Aarav. But he waved them off.
"I'm fine," he lied.
He wasn't.
Something was boiling inside him now.
The mark hadn't gone dormant. It pulsed—hungrier than before.
And it whispered again.
> "Three more keys. Then we remember."
Remember what?
What was he unlocking?
He didn't know.
But he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.
---
Later, as he sat alone beneath the torch-lit arches of the underground barracks, the whisper returned—clearer this time.
> "Ashvattha bleeds roots across the ages. You are its severed limb."
Aarav frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
From behind him, a voice replied:
"It means you're not chosen. You're the mistake that survived."
Aarav turned.
A girl stood in the dark, barefoot, eyes glowing silver. Her skin bore ancient script. A ghost of an empire long gone.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She smiled, cruel and soft.
> "I'm here to show you what you've already broken. And what you'll have to break next."
---
Quote :
"To earn power is to carry its grave. But to steal it? That's how legends are cursed." — Unknown
---