Corpses were strewn like discarded memories, limbs twisted, eyes frozen in terror. The air pulsed with heat and grief as flames clawed the temple walls. Smoke blotted out the sun. It wasn't just a village burning—it was a history unraveling.
Then—
A sound.
Dull. Measured. Heavy.
Footsteps, echoing against stone and soot.
From the ridge above, two figures emerged—cutting through the chaos like ghosts from an older war.
The first was draped in a cloak the color of dried blood. His sword, massive and dark, rested across his shoulder with casual defiance.
The second walked bare-chested, serpent tattoos coiling around his body like living ink. His eyes glowed with a faint green shimmer—Daksha, the cursed son of Naagvanshya. The man who did not die.
They said nothing.
They didn't need to.
Every Kara soldier froze.
Even their general turned—jaw clenched, grip tightening on his war hammer.
And then—
Asura moved.
He vanished from sight, then reappeared within the enemy ranks like a storm unchained. His blade sang once—and twelve Kara warriors collapsed, their bodies split through flesh, bone, and soul.
Daksha followed, fists ablaze with black fire. A monstrous beast charged him, jaws wide.
Daksha didn't flinch.
He let it bite.
The creature tore through his arm, ripping it clean off—then hesitated.
Confused.
Horrified.
Because from the bleeding stump, flesh began to knit itself anew, bone hissing, veins coiling like serpents as a new arm grew in its place.
"Naagvanshya," he snarled, voice dripping venom. "We don't die. We return."
The earth trembled.
Parashu watched from his knees.
His hands clawed the dirt. Blood leaked from his lips. Every breath was a war. The Air Flesh technique—the one meant to make the wind obey—had turned against him. It was tearing him apart.
His skin cracked. His muscles writhed beneath it.
He was unraveling.
"N-No…" he gasped. "Not now… not like this…"
The wind screamed.
And Parashu did too.
A sound full of pain. Of defiance. Of something far older than either.
His chest erupted in steam. The sigil branded into his skin flared—not with light, but with memory. With bloodline.
And then—he rose.
Not healed.
Transformed.
The wind had not saved him. It had rebuilt him.
His skin was darker now, threaded with crimson veins. His eyes—once brown—now glowed gold, slit like a predator's.
"You want a war of bloodlines…" he said, standing tall, voice coiled with something ancient.
"You've got one."
The axe lifted to his hand.
And this time, when he stepped forward—the battlefield yielded.
From across the field, the Kara general clenched his jaw.
One of his captains stumbled beside him, pale.
"He wasn't supposed to awaken yet…"
"That's not a Sigil," another whispered. "That's… that's Vetala flesh."
The general's eyes burned with fury.
"Kill him. Before the curse takes root."
But it was too late.
Parashu leapt.
And the sky came undone.
He dropped like thunder, axe-first, the earth splitting beneath him. Kara soldiers were flung into the air like leaves in a storm. His father's weapon pulsed with fury—Jamadigini's blood still alive inside the steel.
"Forged in blood," Master Vishma had once whispered. "It doesn't just kill. It remembers."
And now, the axe remembered everything.
Parashu became motion—air, rage, steel. Each swing shattered armor, split shields, and tore through lines. He didn't fight as a man. He fought as a legacy awakened.
But across the ruins, another storm was building.
Asura stood before the Kara General.
The man's armor was obsidian black, his swords jagged and stained with the dried blood of villages long buried.
"You led the massacre," Asura said quietly. "You burned our homes. Slaughtered our kin."
The general tilted his head, smirking.
"One of many. You'll be ash by dawn."
Asura said nothing.
He struck.
And for the first time—the general flinched.
Steel bent against fist. Armor shattered beneath raw strength. Asura lifted him, slammed him through stone. The temple wall crumbled. Dust exploded. The general coughed blood, face twisted in disbelief.
"You fight like a beast—"
"I fight like what your war made me," Asura growled.
The general tried to respond.
But he was losing.
Fast.
Broken ribs. Crushed shoulder. Leg shattered. Asura fought with precision and fury—each blow a judgment.
Then—
A whisper.
Soft. Familiar.
"Baba…?"
Asura froze.
Time stopped.
His gaze turned.
Through smoke and ruin, she stood.
Young—seventeen at most. Bloodstained armor. Kara braid tight against her head.
But the eyes...
He knew them.
"Durga…?"
The name fell from his mouth like a prayer.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
"You… You were dead…" he whispered.
Her voice trembled.
"They said you left us. That you walked away while we burned."
Behind her, the broken general laughed.
"You didn't think we'd keep a trophy?"
Asura's rage flared—but it cracked now. It shook. He stared at Durga, saw the Kara insignia stitched into her armor.
"What have they done to you…" he breathed.
She didn't answer.
Her silence said enough.
Elsewhere, Parashu howled again—his body glowing, his bloodline erupting into something not meant for this world.
He didn't yet know what had just shattered inside Asura.
But he would.
Soon.
They all would.