A punch snapped his head sideways.
Before he could regain balance, a knee drove into his stomach.
An elbow struck the back of his neck.
A boot caught his ribs as he dropped to one knee.
The blows did not come one by one— they overlapped, stacked, erased any space to breathe.
Tarun Singh tried to lift his arms to block, but they felt foreign.
His legs trembled when he tried to stand.
He had been running for a whole day.
Through markets. Through alleys.
Across railway tracks.
Past shuttered shops and open highways.
He had not stopped.
Not to eat. Not to drink. Not to think.
The sun had burned him in the afternoon, and the cold had stiffened him by night.
His lungs had never properly recovered between breaths.
A fist collided with his jaw and sent him sprawling again.
“Thought you could outrun us?” one of the men of the contractor muttered.
Tarun tried to push himself up.
His palms slipped against the dirt.
His vision pulsed at the edges, darkening and clearing in uneven waves.
He didn’t feel brave.
He didn’t feel angry.
He felt finished.
The men stepped back slightly as another figure moved forward.
This one carried a crowbar.
The metal caught the weak light as he rolled it once in his palm, testing the weight.
Tarun forced himself onto his knees.
His breath rattled.
He tried to focus on the man’s face, but it kept doubling, blurring.
The crowbar swung.
The sharp edge tore across Tarun’s chest in a sharp, brutal arc.
It was enough to split skin, enough to make his body jolt from the shock of it.
Heat spread instantly across his torso.
His breath left him in a broken gasp.
He fell sideways, clutching at himself instinctively.
The man pulled the crowbar back.
This time, he aimed higher.
He stepped closer and raised it above Tarun’s head, both hands gripping the metal tight. Tarun’s vision blurred further, the world narrowing into a tunnel.
He did not try to crawl away.
He did not try to beg.
After a day of running, of hoping every turn would save him, something inside him had gone quiet.
The crowbar came down.
And stopped.
It froze inches from his skull.
A strange sound cut through the night— a sharp, slicing whistle.
The man holding the crowbar stiffened.
The crowbar slipped from his hands as he collapsed forward.
An arrow protruded cleanly through him.
Before Tarun could process it, another whistle split the air.
Then another. Then another.
Each one precise.
Distant. Controlled.
The men didn’t even have time to shout properly.
They dropped where they stood, one after the other, arrows lodged through shoulders, throats, torsos— efficient shots from far beyond the weak streetlight’s reach.
The night went silent again.
Tarun’s ears rang.
He tried to lift his head.
The world tilted violently.
Through his fading sight, he saw bodies on the ground— arrows pinning them in unnatural stillness.
Then he saw the figure walking toward him.
Tall. Steady.
A bow still in hand.
And over his right eye, a bandage.
Tarun tried to focus on the man’s face, but darkness crawled in from every corner of his vision.
His knees gave out completely, and he slumped forward.
The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was that single, covered eye staring down at him— calm, unreadable.
Then everything went black.
——————————————
The world that had gone black returned in fragments.
First, sound.
A faint rhythmic beep.
Air humming through vents.
Distant footsteps.
Then light— white and clinical— piercing through Tarun’s eyelids like a blade.
His vision swam before stabilizing into something unfamiliar.
A metal tray beside him held syringes lined in cold symmetry.
Cotton. Gauze.
Stainless steel instruments that reflected his pale face in warped shapes.
A monitor blinked beside his bed, tracing the fragile rhythm of his pulse.
A saline drip hung above him, feeding slow drops into his vein as though rationing him back to life.
He tried to move.
Pain answered.
His ribs felt splintered.
His shoulder burned.
His throat was sandpaper.
The memory of fists and boots rushed back in flashes— concrete scraping skin, laughter in the dark, the taste of iron.
The door clicked.
A nurse stepped in, gentle, unthreatening.
Tarun bolted upright.
The world tilted violently. The monitor spiked.
The nurse rushed forward, pressing him down, telling him to breathe, but he was already searching— fingers trembling as they dug into his torn pocket.
He pulled out the crumpled paper his brother had pressed into his hand the night everything changed.
He shoved it toward her.
“Open it…”
The nurse hesitated, then unfolded it.
An address. A name.
'Vikrant Chauhan.'
“I need to go here… please.”
The nurse stared at him for a moment— then smiled softly.
“You’re already here.”
She turned to retrieve fresh bandaging from the tray.
When she turned back—
The bed was empty.
The IV needle lay on the sheet.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Tarun ran.
Guards stationed along the hallway stiffened, confused, but none moved to stop him.
Their silence was unnatural, as if they had already been told.
His chest burned with every breath.
Stitches threatened to tear.
Blood seeped faintly through gauze.
But he didn’t slow.
One name pounded inside his skull.
"Vi…krant Chauhan."
He shoved through heavy double doors marked with warning signs.
They burst open—
And the hospital ended.
Concrete replaced tile.
The air grew heavier, metallic.
The lighting dimmed into something industrial and raw.
Stains marked the walls— old and dark.
The atmosphere shifted from sterile care to controlled brutality.
His eyes scanned the room.
Dozens of armed guards.
Weapons polished. Boots aligned.
And at the edge of the space stood a man with a bow resting casually in his hand.
A bandage covered one eye.
Arjun Sethi.
Calm. Silent.
The one who had pulled him from death.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Arjun didn’t nod.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
But Tarun wasn’t here for him.
At the far end of the room, elevated above everyone else, was a throne assembled from salvaged steel and animal skin.
And seated there—
Vikrant Chauhan.
The air around him felt heavier than gravity.
Tarun didn’t think.
He ran forward and collapsed.
His chest's scar was still fresh from the previous night's beatings.
He didn't even have his old shelter to live in.
His brother didn't move in two days— cold hands and no breaths.
"Please…"
Tarun, no older than seven, was on his knees.
Trembling. Bloody. Scarred.
His thin arms clutched Tarun's boot who was more of a demon than a human.
Vikrant was sitting on his makeshift throne with a lion's skin draped over him like a trophy— emitting an aura heavier than gravity.
No one talked against him unless they wanted to lose their lives.
He sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, fingers resting loosely on the armrest, as if this room had always been his court.
Dozens of guards surrounded the room, armed with the best weapons during that time.
"How did he even enter?" Every guard thought the same but didn't utter those words.
But their hands hovered over the triggers of their guns, ready to kill Tarun.
"Let's end this street rat already."
But the man on the throne raised his hand.
That alone was enough.
Silence swallowed the chamber.
Even the air seemed to pause.
"What do you want, kid?" The man's intimidating voice boomed through the throne room.
"I… want to be strong."
Tarun's fragile voice was barely audible, but he didn't leave the boots even for a moment.
"I don't want to cry… every day before I sleep."
A faint murmur rippled among the guards before dying instantly.
The man slightly tilted his head.
"So? What should I—"
"Please train me!" This voice was different.
Tarun had determination.
He was done with the sense of dread he was living with.
That night of 2016 was going to be the last when he stayed weak.
The man noticed what Tarun had.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
He leaned in and examined the boy closely.
Eyes scanning bruises.
Torn skin. Unhealed scars.
Not pity.
Assessment.
Cold and ruthless. He said—
"So here's the thing. I will…"
——————————————
A week ago, Aman Singh had taken a step to change Tarun's life forever.
He lowered his head again, pressing his forehead nearly to the polished floor.
The room waited.
And so did the empire.
“If not the money… then grant me another favour,” he whispered, voice trembling but unbroken. “Please—
The cell felt smaller than it was.
Arjun stood in his torn prison uniform, silent, watching.
Against the far wall, Aman was barely holding himself upright.
Sweat and dust stained his shirt, spreading slowly and gradually.
His breaths came shallow, uneven.
Still, he forced his eyes toward Vikrant.
“Please…” His voice was fragile, but steady in intent. “Take care of my brother… till he can live by himself.”
Silence followed.
Not awkward. Measured.
Vikrant didn’t react immediately.
He remained crouched on the pile of groaning men, studying Aman as if assessing more than just the request.
After a long moment, he leaned forward slightly and asked, calm and precise.
“What’s his name?”
Aman swallowed through the pain.
“T—Tarun.”
The name lingered.
Vikrant leaned forward in one smooth motion, removing his elbow from the man beside him.
He dusted his hands lightly, eyes thoughtful.
“Tarun,” he repeated once.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint, sideways grin.
Like something useful had just been handed into his grasp.
——————————————
“…I will train you.”
He did not raise his voice, nor did he lean forward to make the moment heavier.
The words were delivered with the same ease one might use to approve a routine request.
Yet to Tarun, standing below him with tear-bright eyes and shaking breath, they felt like the sealing of a contract he did not fully understand.
Vikrant lifted his hand and gestured toward Arjun without looking at him.
The motion was small, almost lazy.
Arjun stepped forward immediately.
There was no hesitation in him, no flicker of doubt or curiosity.
He moved with the quiet precision of someone who did not need instructions repeated.
When he reached Tarun, he extended his hand— not warmly, not coldly, but with a neutrality that felt more unsettling than either.
“You’ll learn with him,” Vikrant continued, watching them as if observing a transaction unfold.
“You both will grow together.”
Grow. Together.
The word sounded almost ironic in that place.
Tarun stared at Arjun’s hand for a moment longer than necessary.
It wasn’t pride holding him back.
It was the strange awareness that this single gesture divided his life into before and after.
The hand was steady, patient.
It would not withdraw.
Slowly, as though accepting something irreversible, Tarun lifted his own and clasped it.
Arjun pulled him up with firm control.
Tarun’s knees nearly buckled from the exhaustion still living in his body, but Arjun’s grip did not falter.
For a second, their eyes met, and Tarun saw nothing in his— no encouragement, no hostility, only discipline carved into human form.
Vikrant’s chuckle broke the silence.
“I also have a son,” he said, leaning back against the iron frame of the throne, fingers tapping lightly against metal.
“He’s in…?”
There was a flicker— brief, almost imperceptible.
“Siberia,” Arjun supplied smoothly.
“Sir. He just reached Siberia yesterday… with Kabir.”
Vikrant nodded as though recalling a misplaced file. “Yes. Siberia.” A faint, sharp smile touched his lips.
“He was weak… had a foolish dream."
The word weak struck Tarun harder than it should have.
Instinctively, he wiped the tear from his cheek before it could fall further, as though the act of crying itself might prove Vikrant right.
"I sent him to learn discipline. For three years”
Vikrant continued, but he noticed the change in Tarun— like he always saw everything.
Tarun's shoulders stiffened.
Something inside him recoiled— not from the insult, but from the possibility of resemblance.
“I hope you do better.”
Vikrant added, the humor in his voice thin and dry.
Arjun began leading Tarun away, his hand still firm around Tarun’s wrist.
They stepped out of the strongest pool of light, moving toward the dim corridors that stretched beyond the hall.
The deeper they went, the heavier the air seemed to become, as if the building itself resisted softness.
Just before they disappeared fully into shadow, Vikrant’s voice called out once more.
“Tarun.”
The name alone was enough to stop him.
He turned slowly.
His throne ruled the room with him.
Welded iron rose behind Vikrant’s shoulders in jagged arcs, bolted into a raised platform assembled from old planks and metal sheets, as though someone had tried to build power out of leftovers and somehow succeeded.
All of it covered under the lion's skin.
Vikrant leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed with deliberate intensity.
The swinging bulb steadied as if the room itself wanted clarity for what came next.
“If you really want power…” he began, his tone neither threatening nor kind.
There was no drama in the pause that followed, only certainty.
“Make your heart a heart of stone.”
It was not advice.
It was instruction.
The words lingered in the space between them, settling somewhere beneath Tarun’s ribs.
He felt the weight of them— not as inspiration, but as a quiet warning.
A heart of stone did not ache.
It did not hesitate. It did not mourn.
And it did not remain human for long.
Tarun did not answer.
He did not nod in agreement or show defiance.
Instead, he turned away from the throne and allowed Arjun to guide him forward again, into the darker stretch of corridor where the light barely followed.
With each step, the hall behind him felt less like a place he had entered and more like a threshold he had crossed.
He had asked for strength.
What he had been given felt dangerously close to something else.
And Tarun's training had begun.
——————————————
Month One.
Tarun and Arjun stood facing each other in the center of the vast training hall, concrete stretching cold and unforgiving beneath their feet.
Light filtered in through high windows, cutting sharp lines across Arjun’s figure— across the black eyepatch resting over his right eye.
Tarun’s gaze fixed on it.
Not out of mockery.
Out of confusion.
Arjun noticed.
With two calm fingers, he adjusted the eyepatch slightly, as if acknowledging the unasked question.
“You know,” he said evenly, “BLC doesn’t need weaklings. It needs the world’s strongest bodyguards.”
There was no pride in his voice. Only doctrine.
Tarun’s lips curved faintly.
“Let me show you how strong I am.”
He lunged.
Fast. Reckless.
All force and no patience.
Arjun let the bow fall from his hand.
It struck the ground with a hollow clang just as Tarun closed in.
For a fraction of a second, Tarun believed he had forced the fight into his territory.
Then pain erupted through his side.
Arjun’s fist had landed precisely where Tarun’s wound was still healing.
The breath left him instantly.
Before he could retreat, Arjun’s boot pressed down over his foot, pinning him in place.
Tarun tried to twist free.
The pressure vanished.
His balance collapsed.
But he never hit the floor.
Arjun caught his collar mid-fall and twisted sharply— the world spun.
In one fluid motion, Tarun’s body turned a full 180 degrees.
His wrists were seized in a single crushing grip.
A hand closed around his throat.
“If you move,” Arjun murmured near his ear, “I’ll break your hands.”
The grip tightened.
“And if you test me… I’ll snap your neck.”
Tarun’s jaw locked instantly.
Something darker than pain stirred inside him.
From afar, Vikrant watched quietly.
“You’re weak.”
——————————————
Month Three.
The hill rose like a verdict.
Tarun climbed it without looking up.
The ropes around his wrists had already eaten into skin that had barely finished healing.
Coarse fibers bit deeper with every pull, turning the flesh beneath raw and red.
Each hand dragged a heavy sand-filled sack tied to the rope ends, the weight grinding against rock and dust as he forced them forward step by step.
His shoulders burned.
His breathing came sharp and controlled, but it was no longer the breathing of someone breaking— it was the breathing of someone refusing to.
Behind him, stones shifted and scattered down the slope.
Ahead of him—
Arjun walked as if the mountain were flat ground.
A blindfold covered his eyes completely, black cloth wrapped tight.
His bow was steady in his hand.
As they advanced, targets hung from trees and rocks along the winding path— wooden circles painted with crude red centers.
Without slowing, Arjun drew.
Released.
The arrow split the center.
Another step.
Draw. Release.
Another bullseye.
The sound of arrows striking wood echoed cleanly in the thin mountain air.
No hesitation. No adjustment.
As though sight itself had become unnecessary.
Tarun dragged the sacks higher.
His wrists trembled but did not fail.
Sweat traced lines down his temples, mixing with dust.
He did not look at Arjun anymore.
He climbed.
When he finally reached the summit, the sacks dropped from his hands with a heavy thud.
His knees nearly buckled, but he forced himself upright.
Arjun was already there.
The blindfold was gone.
Vikrant stood beside him, a stopwatch resting in his palm.
He pressed the button.
The faint click was louder than the wind.
Vikrant’s eyes moved over Tarun once— from the rope burns to the dirt-streaked face— and then settled on his gaze.
A small pause.
“You’re late.”
——————————————
Month Five.
The hall had changed. Or maybe Tarun had.
His movements were sharper now, cleaner.
No wasted motion. No reckless lunges.
When the first guard charged, Tarun pivoted instead of meeting force with force, driving his elbow into the man’s jaw before sweeping his legs out from under him.
The second came from the side.
Tarun ducked low, fist slamming into ribs with measured precision.
The third tried to trap him against the wall.
For a moment, they succeeded.
Three bodies closed in, boots scraping concrete, fists cutting through air.
Tarun absorbed a hit to the shoulder and answered with a knee to the gut.
He twisted free, grabbed a wrist, redirected momentum, and slammed one man into another. It wasn’t wild anymore.
It was refined. Controlled. Efficient.
Across the hall, Arjun moved through a swarm alone, bow discarded, hands doing the work arrows usually did.
He dropped one, then another, his eyepatch dark against the sweat on his skin.
“Protect the dummy!” Arjun shouted.
Tarun’s eyes flicked toward the center of the hall.
The wooden rescue dummy stood surrounded.
He broke from the corner, but a guard lunged and caught his arm.
Another blocked his path.
Tarun struck faster this time— short punches, brutal kicks, decisive counters.
One by one, the three men fell.
He turned immediately—
Too late.
The dummy’s head rolled across the floor, severed from its base.
Its torso lay split open, stuffing spilling like exposed insides.
Silence descended.
Vikrant stepped forward from the shadows, and with a single raised hand, the remaining movement in the room died.
Guards froze.
Even Arjun stilled.
Vikrant’s gaze settled on Tarun.
Measured. Cold.
The words didn’t echo.
They landed.
“You couldn’t save him.”
——————————————
Month Six.
Tarun and Arjun faced each other across the empty hall, six months of relentless training etched into every line of their bodies.
The air was thick, charged with anticipation, yet silent except for the measured breathing of the two warriors.
Only one person observed from the audience, perched like a hawk on the makeshift throne— Vikrant Chauhan.
His eyes cold, unblinking, he clapped twice, the sharp sound slicing through the tension, signaling the commencement of the fight
Like predators sensing blood, they lunged at each other instantly.
Tarun closed the distance, his muscles coiled, every motion precise yet furious.
Arjun reacted with the lethal calm of a marksman.
An arrow streaked through the air and pinned Tarun’s shoulder to the wall.
The pain shot through him, but Tarun’s resolve was steel.
With a grunt, he tore the arrow from his flesh and seized it as a spear, hurling it with deadly accuracy.
Arjun, unfazed, nocked another arrow, but Tarun’s throw pierced clean through his forearm.
The air hummed with tension as the second arrow’s tip missed Tarun’s foot by millimeters.
Yet then, in a sudden, horrifying instant, the arrowhead ruptured, releasing a viscous, dark substance that clung to Tarun like living cement, hardening instantly and pinning him in place.
Arjun advanced with the serene precision of a predator closing in.
Tarun struggled, but every movement was futile. The substance hardened further, locking his limbs in place.
Arjun raised his bow and struck relentlessly, each swing pounding against Tarun’s face, driving pain deep into muscle and bone.
For five excruciating minutes, Tarun endured the assault, his vision blurred, body screaming, yet his spirit refusing to break entirely.
The hall was silent save for the sickening thuds of bow against flesh, the air thick with iron and sweat.
When the five minutes ended, the substance dissolved as if it had never existed.
Tarun collapsed, gasping, knees buckling under the strain.
Arjun stepped back, observing silently, waiting for Tarun to rise.
From the throne, Vikrant rose like a shadow stretching over the hall.
His boots echoed ominously against the concrete as he approached.
Tarun struggled to his feet, coughing, eyes wild, and murmured, “I’m so—”
Vikrant slammed his hand onto Tarun’s head with terrifying precision, forcing him down violently.
“You’re weak,” he intoned, each word a hammer against Tarun’s psyche.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, every nerve screaming.
Without pause, Vikrant struck again, “You’re late.”
Tarun gulped, panic flaring, breath ragged.
Another slam followed, “You couldn’t save him.” And then— silence.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Tarun’s body was trembling, broken, and yet somewhere deep, something inside snapped.
Slowly, deliberately, he rose.
The hall seemed to warp around him.
Arjun’s brow furrowed, confused.
Vikrant’s expression hardened, studying every nuance, every flicker of realization that danced across his pupil.
Then, without hesitation, Tarun closed the distance between himself and Arjun with terrifying speed.
Caught off guard, Arjun barely had time to react.
Tarun dismantled him with cold, mechanical efficiency— the same dismantling that had been his undoing before, now perfected and unleashed.
A punch, precise, controlled, but unrelenting.
Tarun’s foot pinned Arjun in place, keeping him down, and then he let him drop.
Knees landing squarely on Arjun’s abdomen, Tarun unleashed a storm of blows, relentless, calculated, rhythmic— five minutes of fury, mirroring exactly the torment he had endured. Each strike was a statement, each movement a declaration of his transformation, of the void where human hesitation had once lived.
When the final blow landed, Tarun rose, chest heaving, eyes burning with a mixture of triumph and unfeeling calm.
Vikrant’s face, first a mask of scrutiny, cracked into a slow, chilling smile.
He had found it— the key, the switch, the words that could bend Tarun to his will.
A thrill of dark satisfaction ran through him, cold and absolute.
Tarun, standing tall, looked up at him and smiled— not a smile of joy, but of awakening, as if a new entity had been forged in the crucible of pain and control.
The hall seemed to exhale, the silence now heavier than ever, a prelude to a world that had shifted on its axis.
Vikrant’s eyes gleamed, the faintest hint of triumph curling at the edges of his stoic mask. The game had changed.
Tarun Singh was no longer just a student.
He was a weapon, a force, a being carved out of pain, precision, and the words that haunted his soul.
And in that moment, everyone knew— nothing would ever be the same again.
“I’m st—strong,” he said, voice steady, unwavering, eyes locked on Vikrant’s with the faintest glint of unholy loyalty.
——————————————
Month Thirty Four.
Arjun’s bow was drawn, the string taut, vibrating with controlled energy.
Each arrow that left it was a silver streak cutting through the air, sharp, precise, lethal.
Tarun’s body moved in harmony with the chains that bound his hands and feet to a massive stone, the links biting into his flesh with every motion.
He twisted, lunged, and shifted with a fluidity that made the impossible seem effortless, dodging each arrow with an almost preternatural grace.
One arrow, then another, then another— none found their mark.
Each release from Arjun’s bow was met with Tarun’s uncanny timing, his movements a symphony of strength, agility, and instinct honed over nearly three years.
He began in 2016.
He evolved in 2017.
He was showing it all in 2018.
Arjun’s eye was focused, hawk-like, narrowing with concentration.
Sweat traced the sharp lines of his face, muscles tensing with each release.
“God… you’re strong now,” he gasped, breath ragged, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and frustration bleeding through his words.
The sheer evolution of Tarun was staggering— he was no longer a trainee, no longer a boy.
He had become something else entirely, a force both beautiful and terrifying, moving like lightning tethered to steel.
The full scale of the challenge was on a whole different level.
Four chains anchored Tarun to the colossal statue of Lord Hanuman, each link a weight, each movement a test of endurance.
His task was twofold— to protect himself and protect the statue from Arjun’s relentless assault.
The tension vibrated through the air, punctuated by the whistle of arrows and the clash of metal chains.
Every dodge, every swing, every pull of the statue was poetry in motion, a demonstration of absolute control over chaos.
Then came the arrow that changed everything.
It arced slightly off-course, a seeming misfire.
Tarun’s eyes flickered— he assumed it missed— but instinct screamed otherwise.
The arrowhead split midair, revealing a smaller dart inside, aimed at the far side of the statue, an angle Tarun could not have defended with mere reflex.
Time slowed.
Every detail— the sun glinting off the metal, the wind against his face, the weight of the chains, the statue beneath him— was amplified.
Without hesitation, Tarun swung the chain like a whip. It was his trump card.
The metal struck the miniature arrow mid-flight, deflecting it with a sharp clang that echoed through the ground like a cannon.
The soil, the air, the very earth seemed to pause, witnessing the impossible.
Tarun’s movements were not just skill— they were instinct, precision, and sheer will embodied.
He had mastered not just his body, but chaos itself.
A sharp buzz from the digital watch on Arjun's wrist signaled the end of the exercise.
Time was up.
Both men exhaled, the tension breaking in a wave.
Arjun, cautious and exhausted, stepped forward to inspect the statue.
Every surface, every corner, every inch of stone was examined.
Nothing.
Not a scratch, not a dent, not a flaw. Finally, he exhaled, defeated yet awed.
“You won,” he said, voice trembling.
Tarun’s chains fell away as if they had been waiting to get off his limbs, and he leapt with unrestrained joy.
His fists punched the air, a roar of triumph tearing from his chest.
Without a second thought, he sprinted toward Vikrant’s office, pure exhilaration propelling him.
Every step was power, every breath a storm, every heartbeat a drum of destiny.
But the moment the door neared, everything froze.
Through the narrow gap, Tarun heard words that cut deeper than any blade.
An unknown voice, supposedly a subordinate, informed, "Vijay sir is returning in two days,"
He gulped, "Should we get the kids the same day?"
The kids. Those words pulled Tarun's attention.
Vikrant’s voice, calm, measured, monstrous, pierced the air.
“Yes. We would ship the children from the water route. By the day after.”
The subordinate’s voice trembled, hesitant.
“But their families?”
“They’re irrelevant,” Vikrant said smoothly, almost casually.
“It’s far more important to test if our drugs are working or not.”
“If they die…?”
“No one would know,” Vikrant continued, voice cold as steel.
“We’ve been good disposers of bodies.”
The man gulped, and he opened his mouth with yet another question, "But—"
BANG!
A gunshot rang out, sharp, final.
Silence followed.
“He was doubting me. Tarun didn’t even know how I disposed of his brother’s body yet… even after being here for so long,” Vikrant’s voice continued, casual, almost conversational, and utterly monstrous.
Time shattered in Tarun’s mind like glass.
Memories hit like a freight train— his brother’s laughter, his protective hands, his warmth, his final words, “I will always love you.”
The realization that his brother had been sacrificed, and discarded by the very people who had trained him tore through him.
Rage, heartbreak, and grief collided in his chest, setting every nerve on fire.
He ran— he did it with all the energy he had.
The chains of memory, discipline, and fury propelled him forward, faster than thought, faster than sight.
The wind tore at his face, dust stung his eyes, but nothing could slow him.
His body, honed into a weapon over thirty-four months of pain, mastery, and obsession, carried him like a force of nature.
Each stride was power, each heartbeat a drum of vengeance.
The world blurred around him, but his focus was absolute.
The lessons of Vikrant, the mastery over impossible odds, the rage over betrayal, all converged into a single, unstoppable drive.
Tarun had become more than human— he was a storm, a juggernaut of wrath and precision, moving toward destiny with terrifying intent.
And as he ran, the echoes of his brother’s words intertwined with the monstrous revelation.
Love, loss, betrayal, and rage converged.
The reckoning had begun.
——————————————
Tarun kept on running.
But this time it wasn’t panic driving him— it was memory.
The ground blurred beneath his feet as the city lights streaked past in fractured lines of gold and white, and with every breath that tore through his lungs, he felt the past clawing at him.
Once before, he had run like this.
Back then, he had run from grief into brutality, from being human into becoming something sharpened and hollow.
Now the direction had reversed.
Now he was running from the monster BLC had sculpted out of him, running toward something fragile and uncertain— toward the possibility of being human again.
The night air sliced against his skin, his bag thudding against his back with each stride, but he didn’t slow.
He ran through narrow lanes, past shuttered shops and flickering streetlamps, vaulting over broken railings and skidding across gravel without hesitation.
Every turn felt reckless, but deliberate.
He wasn’t escaping fear. He was escaping control.
Far above the chaos of the streets, inside the pristine glass-and-steel headquarters of BLC, Vikrant Chauhan sat alone in his office.
The room was immaculate— floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a massive screen displaying fluctuating stock graphs, soft instrumental music humming faintly in the background. The empire was thriving.
Numbers climbed in confident green lines across his monitor as if confirming that the world still bent in his favor.
His phone lay on the desk, speaker on, the voice on the other end trembling.
“Sir… Tarun— he ran away!”
There was a silence that should have been explosive. It wasn’t.
Vikrant’s expression did not change.
He did not even look at the phone.
His eyes remained on the moving graphs, fingers loosely steepled beneath his chin as if evaluating a minor inconvenience.
“Are the kids being delivered?” he asked calmly.
The panic on the other end faltered, confusion seeping in at the sudden shift in priority.
A brief pause followed, heavy with uncertainty.
“Yes, sir. And Vijay sir—”
“Good,” Vikrant interrupted, his tone clipped, almost bored, as though his own son’s status was a footnote in a larger equation.
He ended the call before another word could be spoken.
The office returned to silence, broken only by the faint hum of electronics and the distant murmur of the city below.
Vikrant leaned back in his chair and stared at his reflection in the darkened window.
“He ran…” he murmured, almost thoughtfully, as if testing the words for flavor.
Then he began to laugh.
It started low, barely audible, a soft exhale of amusement.
It grew slowly, gathering weight, rolling deeper from his chest until it filled the room.
The laughter lost all traces of humor and sharpened into something predatory, something that seemed to vibrate against the glass walls and echo down the polished corridors outside.
It was not the laugh of a man who had lost control.
It was the laugh of someone who had anticipated this exact move and had already calculated the outcome.
The sound lingered, curling through the building like smoke.
On the streets below, Tarun ran harder, unaware of the sound but not the presence behind it.
He clutched the straps of his bag tighter as he pushed forward, muscles burning, lungs screaming, determined to outrun the invisible chains that had once bound him.
He wanted distance from the drugs, the conditioning, the blood-stained operations that had swallowed his brother and nearly swallowed him.
He wanted anonymity, sunlight, ordinary conversations, a life that did not revolve around orders whispered like curses.
But in the tower above, Vikrant’s laughter softened into a smile.
He did not rise from his chair.
He did not issue commands.
He simply watched the city lights flicker and knew, with chilling certainty, that running was never enough.
He understood Tarun better than Tarun understood himself, and that knowledge was more binding than any chain.
Tarun thought he was escaping.
Vikrant knew he was circling back.
——————————————
Time passed, and Tarun did what he never thought he could— he let the past loosen its grip.
Not because it stopped hurting, but because he found something worth staying for.
A present that felt earned.
Yug Verma was the first crack in his armor.
Tarun had once pulled him out of danger, but the boy didn’t remain someone to be saved.
Yug grew— fearless in spirit, stubborn in hope— and somewhere along the way, he began inspiring Tarun instead.
Yug believed in him without knowing the worst parts of him, and that belief kept Tarun grounded longer than he expected.
Rishabh earned Tarun’s respect the very first day they met.
Sharp-minded and observant, he saw things others missed.
Tarun sometimes felt a flicker of jealousy at his intelligence, but it only deepened his admiration.
“My lion,” he would call him, because beneath the calm logic was undeniable courage.
Kritika was the one who steadied him.
She kept him emotionally anchored, sensing when his silence meant something heavier.
For her, Tarun would take any hit without hesitation.
Vivek was different— vulnerable, but fiercely loyal.
Protecting him didn’t feel like duty. It felt natural.
And in that loyalty, Tarun finally felt human.
But that day, during a fight with Sahil, BLC entered his life again— and Arjun and Kabir did something irreparable.
Sahil's voice cracked.
“I am the smartest of the Dwitiya Yuktam (The Second Era)!”
Silence followed.
Then—
Kabir and Arjun looked at each other.
And laughed.
Not mocking laughter.
Not cruel.
The kind you laugh when something is genuinely ridiculous.
Kabir finally spoke, voice flat and final.
“You haven’t seen the world.”
They moved again.
As they passed Tarun— slumped against the wall, barely conscious— their laughter died instantly.
Kabir slowed just enough to press something into Tarun’s hand.
A pendrive.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Then they were gone.
The room felt smaller without them.
——————————————
The house was too quiet when Tarun pushed the door shut behind him.
His knuckles were bruised, his shirt torn at the abdomen the bottle was shoved in him, a thin line of dried blood tracing down his temple, but none of it hurt the way the weight in his chest did.
The pendrive felt heavier than metal in his palm as he sat before his old, worn-out laptop, the same one that had survived years of neglect and power cuts and cheap repairs.
For a long moment, he simply stared at it, as if refusing to insert it could delay whatever storm it carried.
Then he plugged it in.
The screen flickered.
Static.
And then Vikrant Chauhan appeared.
Calm. Composed.
Perfectly lit, as though he had recorded the message in a room designed to intimidate.
“You were holding the potential to be one of my best soldiers,” Vikrant said, his voice smooth, almost regretful.
“But you left.”
Tarun’s jaw tightened.
He yanked the pendrive out instantly, but the video did not stop.
The screen continued to play, unaffected, as if the device never mattered.
“You were my favourite,” Vikrant continued, leaning slightly forward.
“So I bought the school you got into. I ensured your safety.”
His eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly. “So please… come back to BLC.”
Rage flooded Tarun’s veins.
He slammed the laptop, then hurled it across the room.
But the voice did not die.
It still bled, distorted yet clear enough to crawl under his skin.
“I know you must not want to,” Vikrant said, the tone no longer patient but precise.
“But remember something.”
Tarun staggered back, shaking his head, whispering, “No… no…”
“You were weak.”
His breathing faltered.
“You couldn’t save him.”
The room felt smaller.
“You were late.”
Vikrant’s eyes, even through fractured pixels and static, seemed to stare directly at him, unblinking, merciless.
The words didn’t echo loudly— they sank deeply, dragging memory with them.
Tarun’s resistance began to crumble, not because he believed the words, but because he had never stopped fearing they were true.
His protests slowed.
“No…” became a whisper.
His hands, once clenched, loosened at his sides.
The rage drained from his face, replaced by something hollow and distant.
The door creaked open behind him.
Several suited men from BLC stepped inside, their expressions neutral, movements controlled.
They simply stood there, waiting.
Tarun did not turn in shock.
He did not argue. He did not resist.
He walked toward them quietly, as if responding to an appointment he knew he'd have to attend.
Outside, engines idled smoothly beneath the dim streetlight.
The drunk man across the road watched through blurred vision, too confused to understand.
Tarun stepped into the car without a word.
The door shut with a soft, final sound.
The vehicles pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night, leaving the broken house and shattered laptop behind.
And from that day, Tarun became a slave of BLC yet again.
——————————————
Back to the present.
Tarun’s arms trembled as he held the lifeless child, the small body impossibly still against his bloodstained shirt.
Slowly, his eyes flickered upward— from the child in his arms to Arjun standing a few feet away, laughing.
Arjun tilted his head slightly, the eyepatch casting a darker shadow across his face.
“Isn’t this how that Aman died?”
The words didn’t echo. They detonated.
Something inside Tarun tore open.
The grief, the guilt, the conditioning, the suppressed fury— all of it surged at once.
His breathing broke into a raw snarl as he gently lowered the child and rose in one fluid, violent motion.
Blood slipped from the corners of his eyes as he lunged forward, merciless and feral, like a starving, wounded lion unleashed.
He screamed— not in pain, but in awakening.
——————————————
04:00:00 PM.
