The skies wept crimson as the battlefield drowned in the screams of dying warriors. Banners torn, swords shattered, and the earth cracked beneath the force of divine power. At the heart of it all stood Maharaj Rudraveer, the last true wielder of the sacred weapon—Rakhtastra, the Bloody Mace.

His armor was cracked, soaked in blood—some of his enemies, much of his own. But his grip on the mace never faltered. Lightning danced across the sky, not from nature, but from his fury.

> “This is not the end,” he whispered as enemy forces closed in. “This is the beginning of a legend.”

Behind him, his kingdom burned.

The prophecy had warned him: a traitor would rise from within. And rise he did. Rudraveer's own blood brother turned on him, wielding cursed power stolen from forbidden scrolls. It was not war. It was betrayal.

Rakhtastra pulsed in his hand, whispering in a voice only the true wielder could hear.

> “They seek to erase your bloodline, my king. But your spirit shall not die.”

Rudraveer raised the mace, its glow shifting from gold to an eerie, blood-red hue. With the last of his strength, he summoned an ancient rite—one no warrior had dared before.

> “Bind my soul to Rakhtastra,” he said. “Let me protect my lineage… even in death.”

The ground trembled. The sky split open.

His enemies fell back as the crimson light engulfed his body. The mace drank in his blood, his soul, his fire. His physical form crumbled into ash, but the mace pulsed—alive, aware, watching.

Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose and fell. The world forgot the name Rudraveer.

But the mace did not.

For twenty-one generations, it slept… waiting for the blood that matched the king’s. Waiting for the lost child of the bloodline, unaware of the power that slept within him. A child born into silence, left in shadows. A boy named—

Rishi.

And now, on the eve of his fifteenth birthday, the world shifts once more.

The king’s roar, once silenced, will echo again.

The rain fell in relentless sheets over Shivdham Orphanage, its rhythmic pounding against the rusted tin roof filling the dimly lit dormitory. The scent of damp wood and old cloth clung to the air, mixing with the faint aroma of burnt oil from the flickering lanterns.

Inside, a group of boys huddled around a small fire, their thin blankets wrapped tightly around their shoulders. Their clothes, donated from the wealthy, were oversized and worn, barely protecting them from the monsoon's chill. Despite their conditions, they laughed—sharing stories, making plans for the future, some dreaming of escaping poverty, others accepting their fates.

But Rishi sat alone in the corner, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. His fingers traced the smooth surface of a golden locket—small yet strangely heavy.

It wasn’t his.

He had found it inside a donation box, buried beneath the worn-out shirts and shoes left behind by the rich. Something about it felt… different. It wasn’t rusted or dull like the other trinkets that occasionally found their way into the orphanage. Instead, it gleamed softly, untouched by time, as if it had been waiting for him.

The patterns engraved on the surface were unlike anything he had seen before—intricate swirls and symbols that seemed to pulse under his touch.

"Why does it feel… warm?"

Rishi frowned. The metal wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It almost felt… alive.

A sharp gust of wind rattled the loose window shutters, sending a chill through the room. He instinctively clenched the locket, pulling it closer to his chest.

He hadn’t told anyone about it.

Orphans like him weren’t allowed to keep anything from the donation boxes. Everything was supposed to be shared, distributed fairly. But something deep inside told him not to let go of it.

It felt like it belonged to him.

A loud crack of thunder shook the building, making some of the younger boys flinch. The fire flickered, casting shadows on the walls. The air suddenly felt heavier, charged with something invisible yet powerful.

Then—a whisper.

"Keep it close."

Rishi’s breath caught in his throat. His head snapped up, eyes darting across the room.

The other boys were still talking, oblivious to what he had just heard.

"Who said that?"

His fingers tightened around the locket. The voice had been distant yet strangely familiar, like a memory from a dream he couldn't recall.

For a moment, the orphanage felt eerily silent. The laughter and chatter of the boys blurred into the background.

Then—

"Rishi!"

The sudden call jolted him back to reality. He turned to see the warden, an old man with weary eyes, standing at the dormitory entrance.

“It’s time,” the warden said, his voice neutral but firm.

Rishi swallowed hard and stood up, tucking the mysterious locket into his pocket.

Tomorrow was his fifteenth birthday.

In Shivdham Orphanage, that meant only one thing—he had to leave.

No celebrations. No farewells. Once a child turned fifteen, they were no longer the orphanage’s responsibility.

Rishi had always known this day would come. Every orphan did. But knowing and experiencing were two different things.

He stepped forward, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. As he reached the doorway, the warden placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Good luck, boy,” the old man murmured.

Rishi gave a small nod, then stepped outside.

The night air was cold and unforgiving, the rain now nothing more than a faint drizzle. The world beyond the orphanage gates stretched endlessly before him—unknown, uncertain, and merciless.

As he walked away, disappearing into the darkened streets, the locket pulsed faintly in his pocket—waiting.

The streets of Shivdham were nothing like the orphanage.

For years, Rishi had known the city only through the orphanage’s small, barred windows. From the outside, it had always seemed distant—a world that existed beyond his reach. But now, as he stepped onto the wet pavement, reality crashed into him like a raging storm.

The city was alive—loud, chaotic, and indifferent. The rain had washed the streets, leaving behind puddles that reflected the dim glow of flickering streetlights. People moved around him, some hurried, some lost in their own worlds, but none sparing him a second glance.

"I don’t belong here."

The thought crept into his mind, unwelcome and bitter. But there was no turning back.

He clutched the golden locket inside his pocket, feeling its unusual warmth. It had been pulsing ever since he left the orphanage, as if it knew something he didn’t.

But what?

Surviving the City

For hours, Rishi wandered the streets, searching for shelter, food, anything that could help him survive. But life outside was harsh—harsher than he had ever imagined.

The shopkeepers eyed him suspiciously, unwilling to help an orphan with nothing to offer. The vendors ignored his presence as if he were invisible. His stomach growled, the hunger growing unbearable.

By nightfall, he found himself near a deserted alleyway, his back pressed against a damp wall. His clothes were soaked again, clinging to his skin, the cold seeping into his bones.

"Is this how it begins?"

The thought sent a wave of fear through him. Being abandoned by the orphanage was one thing, but the world had truly discarded him now.

For a fleeting moment, he wanted to return. To knock on the orphanage doors and beg for another chance.

But he knew that wasn’t possible.

He was on his own.

And then—

A soft glow pulsed from his pocket.

Rishi’s breath hitched. He pulled out the golden locket, watching as the carvings flickered faintly, as if responding to his despair.

Then, a voice.

"You are not alone."

Rishi gasped, nearly dropping the locket.

It was the same voice from before.

Not a hallucination. Not his imagination.

“Who… Who are you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

No answer.

The glow faded, leaving him in the cold darkness once more.

But the feeling remained.

Something was watching over him.

The First Fight

His moment of confusion was cut short by the sound of footsteps—fast and deliberate.

Before he could react, a rough hand grabbed his collar and yanked him up.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” a voice sneered.

Rishi struggled but was shoved hard against the wall. He blinked up, eyes adjusting to see a group of three older boys, their ragged clothes and unkempt hair marking them as street kids.

“You look new,” the leader said, his scarred face twisted into a grin. “Got anything valuable?”

Rishi’s heart pounded. He had nothing—except…

His hand instinctively clenched around the locket.

“Nothing?” the boy mocked. “Then we’ll just have to take whatever we can.”

One of them reached for his pocket.

Rishi reacted without thinking.

He swung his fist, catching the boy across the face. A rush of energy surged through him, unfamiliar yet powerful.

The thug stumbled back, clutching his cheek. The others, momentarily stunned, lunged at him.

For the first time in his life, Rishi fought.

He dodged, using his smaller size to slip through their attacks. His movements felt faster than normal, his senses sharper. He twisted, landing a solid kick into the stomach of one of them, sending him to the ground.

Something inside him had awakened.

Something old. Something forgotten.

The leader, furious, pulled out a rusted knife.

Rishi’s breath caught. He had never faced a blade before. The locket burned in his palm.

Just as the knife came down—

A blinding golden light erupted from the locket.

The entire alley flashed for a split second.

The boys screamed, shielding their eyes. The leader staggered back, dropping the knife with a loud clatter.

And just like that—they ran.

Rishi stood there, chest rising and falling rapidly, his fingers trembling as he stared at the now dimmed locket.

"What… What just happened?"

He had no answer.

But one thing was certain—this locket was no ordinary object.

And he was no ordinary boy.

The Awakening Has Begun.