They landed like phantoms—one knee down, blades drawn, the cracked pavement beneath them hissing from the kinetic pressure. Their cloaks billowed briefly in the smoke-choked air.
Kijin.
Not just enhanced soldiers.
Living Wills given flesh.
One, cloaked in hues of obsidian and silver, carried a thin crescent blade etched with river patterns. Water. Calm and flowing… until it drowns you.
The other wore feathers and bone beads that clattered with every step, his body seemingly light enough to vanish between breaths. Air. Unseen, relentless, and everywhere.
They said the Kijin were monsters birthed from battlefields. But these two… they looked like gods of it.
Xaben didn't smile.
But for the first time in the fight… he had hope.
The Yakuza lord turned, his face still calm—but his left hand twitched. A subtle crack in his mask.
The Air Kijin struck first.
One breath—
—then he wasn't there.
The wind screamed.
A dozen Yakuza were sliced before they knew he'd moved. Their bodies fell apart cleanly, no blood yet spilled until after the wind settled.
The Water Kijin followed, stepping forward with slow, precise movements. His blade sang once—then again. Fluid arcs. Every swing cut deep, but clean. One man charged with a bat and was drowned in a sphere of water pulled from thin air, choking before he hit the ground.
Red smoke still curled around them, but it didn't touch these two. The smoke twisted and recoiled as if afraid.
Behind them, Xaben's Bloodbloom magic flared again. He slammed his cross to the earth a second time.
"Chapter Two: Root of Carnage."
Veins of red light surged through the concrete, snaking out like creeping ivy. Wherever they touched, Yakuza soldiers slowed… weakened… until their bodies cracked with the pressure of their own blood rebelling against them.
Still, they came.
Some screamed in rage and kept charging. Some laughed. One man with two axes cleaved through the Bloodbloom roots like they were paper, grinning with broken teeth and a bullet hole through his chest.
And yet—
They were being pushed back.
The Yakuza lord frowned. His soldiers were enhanced by Dhatura, yes. But they weren't meant to face this.
He turned to Rahul.
"Boy," he said, strangely quiet amid the chaos. "You have two choices now. Stay behind me, and watch history happen…"
His eyes glowed faintly.
"…or step forward and help create it."
Rahul didn't respond. His eyes stayed wide, heart pounding, body trembling.
He didn't know which part scared him more—the chaos…
…or how much of it felt like home.
A bullet clipped the wall inches from his head. Instinct took over.
He ducked low, rolled behind a broken trash bin, and peeked over the edge. He could see the full battlefield now.
Blood painted the alley in red arcs. Shell casings rained like metal snow. The Kijin carved the fight into poetry, while Xaben anchored the frontline with sheer resolve and ancient blood magic.
The Yakuza soldiers—drugged, dying, ecstatic—kept pressing.
Rahul's breath came in short bursts. His mind spun.
What am I doing here?
What even am I?
Then—
A whisper.
From inside his mind.
"You belong here."
His hand tightened into a fist.
And yet—
He didn't move.
He just watched.
Watched the Yakuza lord clap once—and from the shadows, a second wave emerged. This time, they weren't foot soldiers.
They were monsters.
Men with armor stitched into their skin. Women whose limbs were too long, faces too serene. Experimental users—Stage 2 Dhatura. They glowed, not just red… but violet and black.
One woman shrieked and sent out a pulse of sound that shattered a concrete wall.
Another jumped from rooftop to rooftop like a spider, her eyes tracking the Air Kijin's every move.
The war wasn't over.
It had just leveled up.
"Xaben!" shouted the Water Kijin, parrying three strikes at once. "We're losing control!"
"Hold them!" Xaben shouted, his third sigil burning in the air. "Just hold—"
BOOM!
A rooftop exploded behind them. Debris rained down. Blood hit Rahul's cheek—someone else's. He didn't flinch.
He couldn't feel it anymore.
The Yakuza lord smiled again.
"This is evolution."
---
Scene Cut: The White Room
Somewhere else, far from the blood and bullets…
A white room hummed with low fluorescent light. The walls were bare. Shelves upon shelves lined with small red cigarette boxes, each sealed, numbered.
A single man sat at a desk in the middle of it all. Calm. Untouched.
He reached out, picked one of the boxes.
Marked:
"Experiment #777: RAHUL"
He tapped it gently.
Smiled.
And lit a match.
The white room had no corners. No shadows. Only walls filled with rows of red-labeled cigarette boxes, humming under harsh white lights. At the center stood Rahul—barefoot, trembling, shirt soaked in blood and grime from the alley chaos.
A click.
The man at the desk pushed the red box marked "Experiment #777: RAHUL" across the marble floor.
"Open it," he said, calm as an executioner.
Rahul's fingers hovered above the box. He didn't want to touch it. Something in him screamed not to. But a deeper voice, far older, pulled his hand forward.
He cracked the box open.
Smoke bled out.
The air bent. The walls rippled like disturbed water. The world groaned.
Inside: a single red pill the size of a thumbnail.
Before he could think—
He swallowed it.
Regret hit instantly.
Rahul's body seized. His knees buckled. His arms jerked. Veins turned black as ink and pulsed violently under his skin.
"Ghhhhh—!"
He collapsed onto the cold marble floor, convulsing. Blood erupted from his nose, ears, even the pores on his back.
Bones cracked—not broke—shifted. His body screamed as if trying to break itself from within.
"Make it stop!"
But no one answered.
The man simply watched, arms folded, eyes emotionless.
Rahul clawed the ground, leaving crimson trails. His teeth shattered as he bit down on nothing, trying to endure the mind-splitting agony tearing through his nerves.
Visions assaulted him:
A forest of burning bodies.
An ocean made of black fire.
His mother, reaching for him—then melting into ash.
Himself, laughing, then screaming as his skin peeled off layer by layer.
Then—
Light.
From deep within the marble beneath him, an ancient hum stirred.
ॐ
The primordial sound.
It echoed through the room like a heartbeat of the universe.
The marble cracked.
A glowing golden sigil erupted beneath his broken body. The smoke was blown away instantly. The man behind the desk finally stepped back—shocked.
"Impossible," he whispered. "The marble is rejecting the experiment… No… it's summoning—"
The Gods.
The ground shattered.
Rahul's body was swallowed into the marble.
---
Temple of the Gods
Silence.
Then, a single chime.
Rahul blinked awake. His body floated, naked and weightless, in a sky of swirling galaxies. The pain… gone.
Instead, warmth.
He was resting atop a stone slab floating in nothingness, surrounded by translucent statues—nineteen divine silhouettes—each towering, otherworldly, yet somehow watching him like family.
Their eyes were made of stars.
And in the center of them all hovered the Bracelet of Om.
It spun slowly, ancient Sanskrit mantras circling it in endless orbit, glowing in threads of light and gold and pure sound.
One of the gods spoke. It was a chorus, not a voice.
"The mortal is fractured… but not broken."
"He has seen blood. He has swallowed madness. Yet the marble chose him."
"Shall we bestow the Om?"
One silhouette stepped forward—Shiva's avatar—hair of starlight, eyes of thunder.
"He will suffer more. But from that pain, power. Let him carry us."
The bracelet floated down. Rahul's right arm lifted involuntarily.
When the bracelet touched his skin—
Everything changed.
ॐ
Light erupted from the symbols on the band as it latched around his wrist. Each mantra lit up, one by one.
Hanuman's Speed: His heart skipped forward, then recalibrated to a new rhythm.
Mahakal's Strength: His bones calcified into titanium-like density before softening again.
Bali's Flight: His feet pulsed with anti-gravity energy, floating slightly above the slab.
Vamana's Size: His form expanded for a split second—then compacted again.
Krishna's Clones: He saw himself, standing beside himself for just a blink.
Indra's Endurance: His muscles stopped trembling. He could run for years.
Saraswati's Wisdom: A rush of voices, knowledge, histories—not his—flooded in.
Durga's Courage: The fear in his heart was eviscerated.
Rudra's Divine Authority: A pressure spread from his spine to his voice, like a king in hiding.
Yama's Soul Manipulation: He saw the spirits floating behind him—his mother, smiling faintly.
And on… until all nineteen powers whispered through his bloodstream.
But only one activated fully:
🧿 Regeneration – Blessing of Dhanvantari.
His wounds vanished. His broken teeth grew back. His blood turned gold for a split second.
But along with healing came rage. Bloodlust.
The voice warned:
> "If you heal too much… your soul will hunger."
His skin glowed faintly red. The slab beneath him began to melt.
Then—he was flung back.
---
Back in the Real World
The alley.
Smoke. Gunfire. Blood.
Rahul dropped from the sky, right in the middle of the chaos, a sonic boom cracking the earth as he landed.
Everyone froze.
Even Xaben turned.
Rahul rose from the crater—shirtless, glowing faintly. His eyes were not human anymore. The Bracelet of Om pulsed on his right wrist.
And he spoke.
Not to anyone in the alley.
But to the gods themselves.
"One at a time… huh?" he muttered, flexing his fingers.
He turned to the nearest Yakuza who rushed him—blade drawn.
Wrong move.
Rahul extended his hand.
The Regeneration Blessing surged.
He touched the man's arm—and as his wound closed…
The attacker began to scream.
His soul was being siphoned. His body spasmed, then turned to ash.
Rahul staggered back.
He'd healed too much.
His bloodlust flickered like fire in his pupils.
Xaben stared, both furious and terrified.
"What… are you?"
Rahul didn't answer.
The gods were watching.
The war had shifted.
The boy was no longer just a pawn.
He was now a divine experiment in motion.
And the Bracelet of Om had only begun to unlock.