The night after the fight, Aryan couldn't sleep. Not because of guilt, not because of fear—but because of confusion. His mind kept replaying the moment over and over: his brother crying, the boys laughing, the world shifting under his feet, and then... total domination.
Fifteen boys. Armed. Aggressive. And yet, not one of them had landed a single blow.
Aryan stared at his hands in the dark.
"How... how did I do that?"
He hadn't trained in any martial art. He hadn't even been in a real fight before. And yet his body had moved with precision, with technique—like a seasoned warrior. Every strike had been efficient, every movement intentional.
"That wasn't me," he whispered. "That was something else."
The next evening, the air was heavy. The sky above felt darker than it should have. Aryan was walking his dog along the dusty stretch behind the colony, his little brother tagging along quietly. The silence was almost peaceful… until it was broken.
Voices echoed from the alleyway ahead. Laughter—but the cold kind. The kind that hides rage.
A group of adult boys stepped into the open. unfamiliar faces. Broken yesterday. Bandaged today.
"Hey!" one of them barked. "Aren't you the kid who broke all those guys like puppets yesterday?"
Aryan stopped. His brother froze beside him.
"No," his brother said quickly, fear leaking into his voice. "We don't know anything about that."
But Aryan… Aryan stood tall.
"I did it," he said. "And what are you going to do about it?"
The boys came forward, weapons gleaming in their fists. hockey stick, cricket bat, cycle chain, and metal rod.
Aryan calmly removed the metal chain leash from his dog and handed the dog's leash to his little brother.
"Take him," Aryan said softly. "Go home. Now."
His brother didn't argue. He ran straight to the main gate, straight to the security guard.
The guard saw the weapons.
And turned away.
Aryan was alone.
Or at least, that's what they thought.
The chain slid through his fingers like it belonged there. Heavy, balanced, familiar.
One of them lunged with a cricket bat. Aryan ducked low, pivoted on his back foot, and swept the chain upward, cracking across the attacker's wrist. The bat dropped. Aryan kicked it away.
Another came with the cycle chain. Aryan stepped into the attack, catching the chain with his forearm and spinning his hip with full force—like punching through a sandbag, his fist smashed into the boy's ribs with a crunch. The attacker crumpled.
"Take the stance. Ground your feet. Rotate the hip. Hit like you want to strike through their body—not just at it."
He didn't know where the voice in his mind came from.
But it was there.
Guiding him.
Directing him.
The third swung the hockey stick high. Aryan stepped in—not back—parrying the stick with the metal chain and driving his shoulder into the attacker's gut. The boy flew backward like he'd been hit by a car.
The metal rod guy was the last. Aryan whipped the chain in a wide arc, wrapping it around the boy's weapon mid-swing and yanking it from his grip.
Then silence.
Five boys lay broken.
Aryan didn't have a scratch.
His breath was calm. His eyes... focused. But his heart?
It beat like a war drum.
And his mind screamed one thought:
"Who am I becoming?"
That night, he didn't hear the whisper.
He felt it.
In his spine.
In his bones.
In his soul.
"You're waking up, Aryan." "But the world isn't ready for you."