"3RD PERSON POV"
"TWO YEARS AFTER THE KASHMIR INCIDENT — THE DAY ARAVIND AWOKE HIS PAST LIFE MEMORIES"
"SOMEWHERE IN KASHMIR — A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE"
The night sky loomed heavy with silence. Clouds drifted slowly, revealing a full moon that bathed the desolate mountain village in cold silver light. Smoke curled into the air from smoldering rooftops, and the scent of blood hung thick in the wind.
Scattered across the muddy ground were lifeless bodies—men, women, even small children. The village had become a graveyard.
In the center of the carnage, an old man knelt, bruised and bloodied, surrounded by a group of armed men in camouflage. Their rifles were aimed directly at him, fingers twitching on the triggers. Yet the old man's eyes burned—not with fear, but with fury.
"Why…?" he whispered hoarsely, voice trembling with both pain and rage. "Why did you do this? We were just villagers... We were innocent."
One of the men, his face twisted with hatred, stepped forward and sneered. "Innocent? No. Your greatest sin is being born Muslim. You people are a disease. A cancer to the society."
The old man's fists clenched at his sides. He looked up with defiance, his voice growing stronger despite the weight of grief. "You call us a disease? And what are you? Saints? We have families. We live, we laugh, we pray just like you. We are human beings!"
He pointed shakily toward the bodies around him. "Look at them! What crime did they commit? That little girl you shot while she was hiding in her mother's arms—was she a threat? Was that woman you dragged from her home and violated the enemy you feared?"
The soldiers said nothing. The one who spoke earlier smirked darkly but didn't answer.
"You speak of religion," the old man continued, "but no God, in any faith, commands this. No true religion teaches us to harm the innocent. You are not warriors. You are monsters hiding behind flags and gods you don't understand. You're not fighting for a nation. You're feeding your hate."
Silence fell again, heavy and bitter. The wind howled faintly through the mountains, as if mourning the souls lost that night.
The old man didn't lower his eyes, even with death standing so close.
Hearing the old man's words, the armed men grew visibly agitated. One of them—tall, broad-shouldered, and burning with rage—stepped forward and began to kick the old man mercilessly.
"Shut the fuck up, old man!" he shouted, voice filled with hatred. "People like you don't deserve to live. You're a stain on this land! Just die already!"
Without a shred of hesitation, he raised his rifle, aimed it at the old man's chest, and pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The crack of gunfire echoed through the silent mountains, and a flash of muzzle light lit up the night for a brief second. The old man collapsed, his frail body crumpling into the blood-soaked earth. Lifeless. Still.
The shooter scoffed, spitting on the corpse with disgust. "Filthy cancer," he muttered coldly.
He turned to the rest of his men. "Let's g—"
He froze.
His sentence never finished.
A strange pressure fell over him—a weight on his shoulders, light but unmistakable. Confused, he glanced at his comrades for help... only to find their faces pale, eyes wide with terror.
Before he could react, two small arms wrapped tightly around his head. In one smooth, effortless motion, his neck was twisted sharply to the side.
Crack!
His eyes rolled back. His body dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Standing on top of the fallen man's back was a child. No older than eight or nine. His skin was dirt-streaked, his clothes torn, but his eyes—those cold, pitch-black eyes—glared at the remaining soldiers like a predator stalking prey.
Aravind.
His expression was blank. Calm. But the stillness in his body screamed danger.
The men scrambled, trying to raise their weapons—but it was already too late.
In a blink, Aravind appeared before the nearest one. Without hesitation, he plunged a small blade upward—clean through the man's jaw, piercing into his brain.
The man twitched once before collapsing.
Aravind didn't pause. The moment the knife was pulled out, he was already moving again—heading toward the next target like a shadow of death.
The battlefield was silent now—nothing but lifeless bodies scattered across the blood-soaked dirt. Aravind stood at the center, surrounded by death, his face calm and unreadable.
He looked down at the man who had shot the old man. The same man who had spat on the corpse.
Aravind leaned over, mirrored the same motion, and spat on his face.
"Cancer," he said coldly.
The word carried weight. Not rage. Not pity. Just the same venom that had been used moments ago—now turned back on the monster who'd deserved it.
He straightened his back and scanned the area. The wind was still. The moonlight painted everything in cold silver.
With a quiet sigh, he murmured to himself, "Looks like I was too late."
Shaking his head, he turned, ready to leave the village behind.
But just as he took a step, a soft noise reached his ears—a faint sniffle, barely louder than the rustling wind.
He stopped.
His eyes narrowed, and his body moved instinctively, stepping back into the shadows. His gaze swept toward the sound's source.
From the corner of a shattered house, a small face peeked out.
A child.
No older than him—maybe even younger. The boy's cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears, his lips trembling. His eyes, wide with fear, locked onto Aravind.
For a moment, Aravind said nothing. Just stared.
And then something flickered in his eyes. A memory. The distant image of his own younger self—terrified and alone, standing helpless as his world collapsed around him two years ago. Before his past-life memories returned. Before he became this.
His gaze softened.
He raised one hand and gave the boy a small wave.
"Don't worry," he said gently. "You're safe now."
The boy hesitated, his tiny body trembling. He rubbed his teary eyes with the back of his hand and slowly, cautiously, stepped out from the corner.
As he walked toward Aravind, his small feet hesitant and unsure, he stopped a short distance away—close enough to hear, but still out of reach. Nervous. Scared.
Aravind smiled gently, his voice calm and comforting. "Don't worry… everything is okay."
At those words, the child's eyes welled up again. His lips trembled before he broke into quiet sobs. "They… they killed everyone. Ami… Abu… everyone…"
Aravind's expression shifted, a flicker of sorrow flashing in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow slightly. "Who they?"
The boy turned, pointing toward the lifeless bodies of the men Aravind had just taken down. "Them… those Hind—"
But before he could finish the word, Aravind's voice cut through, firm and unwavering. "No. You're wrong."
The child looked at him, confused. His small face was a mess of tears and uncertainty.
Aravind crouched down slowly, so their eyes were level, and spoke softly—but there was steel beneath his voice. "Didn't you hear what that old man said? Don't blame an entire community for the sins of a few monsters. The ones who did this…" He gestured to the corpses without even glancing at them, "They don't belong to any religion. They're demons in human skin."
He stood up and took a step toward the boy. His tone shifted—calm, resolute, full of experience beyond his years. "I know your pain. I lost my parents too… two years ago. Back then, I wanted revenge too. But revenge… it doesn't heal anything."
He paused in front of the child, placing a reassuring hand on his small shoulder.
"That's why I made a choice. Instead of chasing hatred, I'll protect the people like us—the broken, the lost. And I'll hunt the demons hiding behind fake ideals and false faith."
A quiet moment passed between them, only the whisper of wind in the broken village.
Aravind gave a small, sincere smile.
"My name's Maheshwar. Maheshwar Chaturvedi. What's yours?"
The child wiped at his tears again, a little calmer now. His voice was soft but steady. "Rayyan… Rayyan Hussain."