It was a rainy afternoon—soft drizzles tapped gently against the windows of the school building, blurring the outside world into a dreamy watercolor of grey and green. The faint sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, but inside Class 11-B, the atmosphere was anything but peaceful.
Students bustled through the hallways and classrooms, the dull hum of chatter filling every corner. Boys exchanged memes and videos while girls shared snacks and gossip. Amidst it all, Samar and Roumit sat together on a desk near the window, excitedly discussing a new anime episode that had just dropped a couple of nights ago.
"Bro, I swear if they kill the main character off again, I'm dropping the show," Roumit muttered, munching on a packet of chips.
"I know, right? And the way they introduced that masked villain? Clean! He gives off serious final boss vibes!" Samar replied, eyes gleaming with fanboy excitement.
Outside the classroom, in the corridor just beyond the glass panels, Alya stood chatting with a few of her friends. Her laughter occasionally echoed through the classroom, light and carefree.
But in the middle of all this noise, Armaan sat at his desk, silent.
He leaned back on his chair for a moment, looking at the grey clouds through the foggy glass pane. The weight in his chest had returned—the same one he had been feeling on and off ever since the football championship ended.
Why do I feel like… something's calling me?
He exhaled softly and lowered his head onto his folded arms on the desk. The sounds around him began to muffle. The echo of rain against glass faded. Even Samar's loud laughing voice dulled into a distant hum.
And then…
Darkness.
No ceiling. No walls. No floor.
Just void.
Everything vanished, and Armaan found himself floating in a realm of pitch-black emptiness—utter silence, not even the sound of his own breath. He was weightless, suspended in the unknown, his vision fogged at the edges.
A pressure built around him—crushing, suffocating—and suddenly, in the distance, a ripple moved through the void like a wave breaking through still water.
Then it came.
A colossal shape emerged from the nothingness.
Blood red.
Crimson.
The form of a dragon—towering, ancient, terrifying.
Its body was unlike anything Armaan had ever seen, not made of scales or flesh, but of flowing, churning dark blood, coursing like waterfalls in every direction. Rivers of crimson spiraled over its monstrous frame, constantly shifting and merging like a sea of molten veins. It breathed, and with every breath, the void shivered.
Its eyes—two orbs of absolute blackness—were pits so deep they seemed to absorb all light, all color, all thought. They didn't glow. They consumed.
Then, it opened its mouth. No fire came. No roar. Just a voice.
"When… are you coming?"
The voice wasn't heard—it was felt. Like thunder vibrating inside Armaan's bones. It echoed through the vast emptiness of his soul, carrying a demand that felt ancient and absolute.
Armaan's throat tightened. He tried to speak.
He couldn't.
His mouth opened, but no voice came. Not even a breath. He raised a trembling hand toward the dragon, trying to ask what does this mean?
But the creature's eyes darkened even further, like two black holes collapsing in on themselves.
It repeated, louder this time.
"WHEN… ARE YOU COMING?"
A deafening boom followed. His vision blurred. His head pounded. The weight of that voice—of that question—was enough to crack his consciousness.
Suddenly—
"AARGHH!"
Armaan shot upright, gasping.
Back in the classroom. His heart raced. Sweat clung to his forehead, sticking his hair to his skin. His breath came in sharp bursts, his chest heaving. His hands were trembling.
Armaan's scream had pierced through the usual buzz of lunch break like a lightning bolt cracking the sky.
Every head turned. The entire class paused. Even the rain outside seemed to hush for a moment.
Samar and Roumit jerked their heads toward him in unison, shocked wide-eyed. Roumit dropped the half-eaten chip in his hand. Samar, mouth agape, shot up from his chair.
"What happened?!" Samar asked, alarmed. "Bro, you just screamed like your life force was being dragged out of you."
Roumit added quickly, "Are you okay?! You look pale, man."
Armaan didn't respond. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His heart thudded like a war drum. Every cell in his body still vibrated with the echo of that voice. The dragon's words still thundered in his ears: "WHEN… ARE YOU COMING?"
He slowly rose from his seat. His chair scraped harshly against the floor, grabbing everyone's attention. Students turned in their seats. Samar reached out to grab his arm, but Armaan stepped back.
Without another word, he turned and ran.
"Wait—Armaan!" Roumit called after him.
But Armaan was already out of the classroom door.
He tore through the hallway, shoving aside startled students and brushing past clusters of people as if possessed. His shoes splashed across muddy footprints left on the floor by drenched students who had come in late from the rain.
"Aye! Watch it!" someone shouted.
But Armaan didn't hear them.
Everything blurred around him. His mind was spinning. His heart raced—not from exhaustion, but from instinct. Something was pulling at him from the inside. Something ancient. Something urgent.
In the corridor, Alya spotted him bolting through the chaos.
"Armaan?" she called, confused. "Where are you going?!"
He paused for a second—just long enough for their eyes to meet. Rainlight poured in from the corridor window, catching in his still-wet eyelashes. He looked at her, breathless. Lost.
Then he turned again, ran.
"Armaan!" her voice rang out, but he didn't stop.
He pushed open the back door to the school courtyard with his shoulder. The thick smell of wet earth and chalk hit him. Rain poured from the sky, soaking him instantly as he sprinted across the field. His school uniform clung to his body, water dripping from his hair to his eyes. The grass was slick, but he didn't slow.
Without hesitation, he vaulted over the back boundary wall of the school campus. His foot slipped on the wet cement, but he twisted mid-air and landed, hard, on the other side.
He stumbled for a moment—but kept running.
The city blurred around him—rickshaws honking, people sheltering under umbrellas, water gushing beside the footpaths—but he didn't notice any of it.
His breaths came in gasps, clouding in the chilly air as he dashed down streets and alleys, his soaked shoes splashing through puddles. His mind was in shambles. He didn't even have time to question why.
Gramps.
Only one name rang clearly in his mind.
He ran down the familiar shortcut path, crossed under the narrow railway footbridge, and reached the station. The yellow signage was faded from time and monsoon wear, but to him, it was salvation. He checked the electronic board: the next local was in five minutes.
His soaked shirt clung to his skin like glue. His glasses were fogged up, so he shoved them into his pocket. The mask that had been hanging around his chin was now waterlogged and useless.
His breathing was ragged. His hands were shaking.
Still, he waited.
As the train screeched into the station, wind and rain lashed across the platform. He climbed into the coach and stood near the door, staring out blankly as the train began moving.
He didn't notice the staring passengers.
He didn't notice the conductor's confused look.
He didn't notice the wet footprints he left behind on the steel floor.
Because his mind was locked in that void.
In those eyes.
That voice.
"WHEN… ARE YOU COMING?"
His fists clenched unconsciously.
He had to find Farmaan.
Now.
The station was buzzing with people. Rain-soaked commuters stood huddled under dripping roofs. Some were arguing with the ticket master. Others were just waiting, dull-eyed, for their trains.
Armaan slowed down as he reached the main entrance—but his heart sank.
The ticket queue was long. Unbelievably long. It curved around the station like a sleeping python.
He stopped in his tracks, panting heavily. His hair was dripping into his eyes. He wiped it away and muttered under his breath, "I don't have time for this."
He looked left—nothing. A broken metal gate. Right—just more people.
No way forward… unless—
Armaan exhaled sharply and clenched his fists.
No time to think.
No time to hesitate.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the noise of the station, the smell of wet cement, the dull chatter of the world. He drew in a deep breath and focused.
Prana—liquid energy—flowed through his veins like lightning in a storm cloud. He gathered just 30% of the reserves in his legs. Just enough.
And then—
BOOM.
To the others, he became a blur. A flash of motion. A wind that knocked over umbrellas and flapped coats. People gasped, blinking, unsure what they'd just seen.
"Was that a kid?"
"No… it was like a line—like someone just drew light across the air…"
But Armaan was already gone.
He dashed across muddy fields, through the forest edges, over broken stone bridges that had long since collapsed for ordinary men. He passed trees, lakes, open stretches of land—all of it blurring like watercolor streaks as he raced through the countryside. Drops of rain hit his face like bullets but he didn't stop.
Every second burned with urgency.
The village soon came into view.
Memories flashed—of training under waterfalls, of collapsing from exhaustion on the hill, of Farmaan's laughter echoing under the ancient trees. The same village. The same path. It hadn't changed.
But this time, he wasn't coming as a student.
He was coming with a question that wouldn't let him sleep. Wouldn't let him breathe.
And so, finally, with one final burst of speed, he skidded to a stop in front of a familiar wooden gate. His legs wobbled. His breaths were loud, desperate. His eyes burned from the rain and wind.
Farmaan's house stood still and quiet, smoke lightly curling from the chimney, as though unaware of the storm both inside and out.
Armaan didn't even pause.
He banged on the door with both fists.
"Gramps! Gramps!! GRAMPS!!" he shouted, voice cracking.
The wood rattled.
"Gramps, open up!"
A few seconds passed. Then, the door creaked open.
Farmaan stood at the threshold, wearing his simple robes, a book in one hand. His face was calm—until he saw Armaan.
The old man's eyes widened. He took a step back in surprise.
Armaan stood there, soaked to the bone, water dripping from every inch of him. His chest rose and fell like a wave crashing to shore. His eyes were wild—lost between fear and confusion. Prana still faintly buzzed around him like static.
Farmaan's voice came out softer than expected, yet filled with sudden weight.
"…Why are you here, Armaan?"