The hum of the hospital monitor flatlined, a shrill, final note in the otherwise quiet room. Tomba, a boy of seventeen, drew his last breath, his body ravaged by a relentless cancer. His room was a shrine to his true loves: shelves overflowing with vibrant manga volumes, posters of epic shonen heroes adorning the walls, and a worn-out laptop flickering with the latest anime episode. His last waking thoughts had been of another world, a fantastical realm where heroes rose, monsters roamed, and destiny called. He yearned for an isekai, a second chance.
Tomba-" So sad I won't be able to see Luffy become king of the pirates 🥲".
Wait what is this it's blinding me ah!....
Then, there was light. Not the harsh glare of a hospital lamp, but a soft, golden luminescence. Before him stood a being of immense, gentle power, swirling with the colors of the universe yet somehow distinctly Manipuri in its aura. Pakhangba(God), the primordial serpent god, smiled, his voice resonating not in Tomba’s ears, but in his very soul.
"Tomba, child of dreams. Your spirit is pure, your yearning great. You wished for another world, and another world you shall have. Not of distant lands, but of your own land, reborn. Go. Live. Learn."
A jolt, like lightning infused with ancient earth, coursed through him. He felt his body solidifying, strengthening, a vibrancy he’d never known. And with it, a peculiar gift: the ability to instantly comprehend and perfectly replicate any skill, any art, any knowledge he witnessed or intensely desired. He could simply learn.
Tomba awoke amidst the verdant embrace of a primeval Manipuri forest. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and unfamiliar blossoms, the cacophony of unseen creatures filling his ears. He was no longer a sickly boy, but a sturdy young man, draped in simple, hand-woven garments. This was Manipur, but not the one he knew. This was ancient Kangleipak, a land steeped in legend and raw, untamed beauty.
His first days were spent observing, learning. He watched a weaver effortlessly braid intricate patterns from wild fibers, and moments later, his own hands moved with the same practiced grace. He saw a hunter track a deer, his movements fluid and silent, and found himself replicating the technique, his steps falling noiselessly on the forest floor. The forest, once a mere backdrop, became his classroom.
But whispers followed him, tales carried on the wind by passing traders and wary villagers. The name "Keibui Keiroiba" sent shivers down his spine. Half-man, half-tiger, a monstrous terror of the wild. He remembered the old cautionary tales from his grandmother, of their ferocity and insatiable hunger. He instinctively sought to avoid any encounters, navigating the dense jungle with renewed caution.
One day, observing from a hidden vantage point, he witnessed a breathtaking display. Two warriors, their bodies lean and muscled, moved with a lethal grace he’d never imagined. One wielded a Thang (sword) and Ta (spear) in a terrifying dance, deflecting, thrusting, and parrying with impossible speed. The other navigated attacks with empty hands, a flurry of precise strikes and evasions known as Sarit Sarak. These were the martial arts of Manipur, rich with history and deadly precision. Tomba’s eyes widened, a familiar spark igniting within him. This was it. This was his manga come to life.
He spent weeks in seclusion, watching, mimicking, practicing. His gift allowed him to absorb the complex footwork, the precise angles, the visceral power. He mastered Thang-Ta, Sarit Sarak, and other lesser-known forms, his body becoming a living weapon, each movement infused with the collective wisdom of generations.
As he trained, he heard more tales – not just of beasts, but of legendary weapons, weapons of immense power, said to be imbued with the spirits of ancient heroes. A spear that could pierce mountains, a bow that never missed, a sword that cleaved through illusion. But there was a catch, a vital piece of lore passed down through generations: no one could wield these weapons unless their "yek" – their specific bloodline or clan – was compatible. It was a divine lock, ensuring only the rightful heir could awaken its power. His quest became clear: find his own yek, and with it, his legendary weapon.
His search led him deeper into the wild, far from human settlements. He traversed ancient paths, climbed mist-shrouded hills, and navigated treacherous rivers. One evening, drawn by the scent of woodsmoke and the murmur of voices, he stumbled upon a clearing. What he saw defied every tale, every warning.
It was a village, built of sturdy wood and thatch, nestled beside a gurgling stream. Children laughed as they chased each other, women tended cooking fires, and men crafted tools. But these weren't humans. Some had the unmistakable stripes of tigers on their skin, though their faces were undeniably human. Others bore the feline glow in their eyes, or the subtle twitch of powerful tails. This was the Keibui Keiroiba tribe. They weren't solitary monsters; they were a community.
He watched for days, hidden. They lived simply, honorably. They hunted, but never excessively. They cultivated, but never exploited. And they were wary, always wary, of the outside world. He learned their unspoken rule: they sought no harm, but if provoked, if one of theirs was harmed, they would retaliate tenfold, with a terrifying, primal fury.
Stepping into their midst was terrifying, but his curiosity, fueled by his new understanding, pushed him forward. He emerged from the trees, hands open, voice calm. "Greetings, Keibui Keiroiba," he said, using the name he’d always associated with dread.
Silence fell. All activity ceased. Eyes, some human, some distinctly predatory, turned to him. A growl rumbled through the clearing. A few young warriors, lean and powerful, stepped forward, their forms subtly shifting, muscles bunching.
"Speak, human," one snarled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Why trespass?"
Tomba explained his journey, his gift, his respect for their way of life. He spoke of his own understanding of strength, learned from their own lands. Some were skeptical, hostile. One particularly fierce warrior lunged, claws extended. Tomba, without thinking, flowed into a defensive Sarit Sarak sequence, deflecting the attack, twisting the warrior's arm just enough to incapacitate him without injury. He moved with a speed and precision that startled even the onlookers. Another warrior attacked, then another, but Tomba, utilizing his diverse martial arts knowledge, countered each one, never striking to kill, only to subdue, to show his capability.
Finally, an elder, his stripes faded with age, stepped forward. "Enough!" His voice commanded respect. He looked at Tomba, a strange glint in his eyes. "You are different, human. You fight not with malice, but with purpose. You seek understanding, not conquest."
The chief, a formidable but wise Keibui, eventually befriended Tomba. He saw in him a spirit unburdened by the fear and prejudice that plagued humans. Tomba spent weeks with them, learning their ways, their lore, their deep connection to the forest. He became an honorary member, a bridge between worlds.
His journey continued, guided by whispers and ancient maps found in long-forgotten caves. He met others, just as in his beloved mangas, but uniquely Manipuri. Instead of the stocky, bearded dwarves, he found the Arf – small, nimble beings with an innate mastery of earth and metal, their hands shaping weapons and adornments of unparalleled beauty and strength. He learned their secrets of forging, of enhancing materials with spiritual properties. And instead of ethereal elves, he encountered the Lais and Lairembis, the spirits of the land and water, figures of grace and power, who danced under the moonlight in sacred groves, their wisdom imparted through riddles and visions. Tomba learned to communicate with them, to understand the subtle energies that permeated the world, to seek guidance from the unseen.
With each encounter, his worldview expanded. He realized that the "monsters" and "beasts" of human tales were often just misunderstood peoples, living by their own complex codes, their own fears, their own hopes. He sought his yek, his legendary weapon, not as a means to conquer, but as a way to understand his own place in this vibrant, diverse world.
One agonizing day, the balance shattered. A small Keibui Keiroiba child, adventurous and curious, wandered too far from their village and became lost. Humans, fearing the creature of legend, found it. They killed the cub, then others they encountered, bringing their lifeless bodies back to their village as trophies, a testament to their "bravery" against the perceived threat.
The news reached Tomba, tearing through his adopted family like a poisoned arrow. Fury, cold and blinding, consumed him. He raced towards the human village, a blur of righteous rage. He found the warriors celebrating, hoisting the tiny, striped bodies.
"What have you done?!" Tomba roared, his voice shaking the forest around them.
The warriors, startled, turned on him. "Get out, boy! This is our victory! We purged the beasts!"
"Beasts?!" Tomba cried, his eyes blazing. He moved, a whirlwind of Thang-Ta and Sarit Sarak, faster than they could comprehend. He disarmed them, threw them aside, never killing, but incapacitating with brutal efficiency. He was no longer just learning; he was fighting with the accumulated martial wisdom of centuries, driven by a primal need for justice. He retrieved the small, lifeless bodies, cradling them gently.
He carried them back to the Keibui Keiroiba village, his heart heavy. The silence there was heavier than any roar. The tribal chief, his face a mask of profound grief, ordered a solemn burial.
Tomba, still seething, demanded, "Why? Why do you not retaliate? They murdered your children!"
The chief looked at him, his ancient eyes filled with a sorrow that transcended anger. "Tomba, child of fierce heart. They act from fear. They have forgotten the words of the Great Lai, the ancient truths. They have forgotten that all beings, whether furred or scaled or bare-skinned, are children of this land, meant to survive together. Humans have lost their way, chasing shadows of fear. But not us. Our belief is our strength, our restraint our wisdom. We will mourn, we will remember, but we will not become what we despise."
In that moment, Tomba truly understood. He had sought monsters and found family. He had feared difference and discovered unity. The lines between human and "beast," between fear and understanding, blurred and dissolved. They were all just beings, living and striving, some lost in their fear, others holding steadfast to ancient wisdom. His journey for a weapon transformed into a journey for truth, and he knew, with chilling clarity, that the greatest power was not in the blade he sought, but in the understanding he had found.
To be continue.......
Thanks for reading,it's my first time writing and posting like this I hope you enjoyed it.
