Aryaman floated in nothingness.
There was no ground, no sky—only an endless, swirling dusk. His body felt weightless, suspended in the hush between one heartbeat and the next. Pain pulsed somewhere far away, muffled, like a memory.
A soft ripple crossed the void.
From behind him a calm voice spoke, smooth as still water:
"A fish cannot recognize the ocean it swims in."
Aryaman turned—and stared.
A lone figure stood a few paces away, bathed in a quiet radiance. His skin was the hue of a moonlit river: deep, tranquil blue. No crown, no armor—only simple robes that shifted like mist. In his right hand he held Aryaman's sword, Vajra, its edge glowing with a faint, golden pulse.
"Who are you?" Aryaman rasped. "Where am I? Am I… dead?"
A ghost of a smile touched the stranger's lips. "You would have been," he answered, "had I not intervened. Your time has not come—though death circles you greedily."
Aryaman's gaze dropped to the blood‑slick blade now dangling from the stranger's fingers. Memory returned in a rush: the Black Hollow, the stabbing pain, falling, darkness. Shame burned hotter than the wound in his gut.
"I tried to protect my friends," he said, voice cracking. "I had no choice."
"No choice?" The stranger's eyes chilled. "You almost shattered a weapon that can summon Indra himself. Do you know what this blade is? What it was forged for? You nearly tossed away a legacy baptized in dharma because you lacked discipline."
He tossed Vajra. The sword spun once, end over end, before landing hilt‑first in Aryaman's palm. The steel thrummed, alive, as though recognizing its master anew.
"Keep it," the blue‑skinned man said. "Train. Bleed. Crawl. Rise. I've no time to babysit a boy who does not yet know who he is."
"Wait—at least tell me your name!"
"A fish cannot name the ocean," he murmured. Then he stepped backwards—into nothing—and vanished, leaving only the echo of that impossible light.
The Awakening
Air flooded Aryaman's lungs. He jolted upright, coughing, back on the blood‑soaked forest floor.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
The Black Hollow turned, disbelief flickering behind its coal‑black mask. "Still breathing, child?"
Aryaman pushed to his feet. Every limb trembled, yet Vajra's hum steadied him, a pulse syncing with his heart.
The Asura's daggers gleamed. "Even your gods have abandoned you. Why rise again?"
"Because," Aryaman whispered, settling into guard, "I'm not done."
The demon lunged—too fast to track. Instinct, not thought, guided the boy's arms. Steel met shadow in a burst of sparks. Vajra blazed brighter with each clash, the glow climbing from hilt to tip until lightning cracked across the clouded sky.
Clang.Clang.Clang.
Steel bit flesh. Aryaman staggered, blood spraying—but did not fall. Memories flashed: his father's vow, Lakshmika's fearless eyes, Varun's laughter, the stranger's quiet scorn.
I will not break.
With a roar he drove forward, Vajra cutting an arc of golden light. The Asura tried to twist away—too late. The blade sheared through mask and bone. A scream, half bestial, half human, tore the night. Black smoke erupted, spiraling upward before the wind ripped it apart.
Silence crashed down.
Aryaman dropped to his knees, breath ragged. Rain began to fall—gentle, cleansing, hissing against the heated steel. Vajra's glow faded to an ember, then to nothing, though the blade felt heavier now, as if filled with secrets.
He pressed shaky fingers to the wound in his abdomen. Pain roared back to life, but he was alive.
"Who… am I really?" he whispered to the empty forest.
No answer came—only wind and distant thunder.
But somewhere beyond the clouds, a calm, watchful presence lingered… and smiled.