What none outside the inner circle knew was simple and absurd: the so-called Reaper of Nalanda was a child.
Aditya Raj—six years old, no higher than a soldier's chest—stood alone in the eye of thunder. Each crack of lightning, each curling gust of smoke was not fury born of power but the wild luck stitched into his bones. Chance bent itself into theatre, and the world mistook coincidence for command.
To the masses: a god of destruction.
To those few who knew: a boy wrapped in accident and mystery, standing too still beneath a storm that seemed to love him.
The roar before the storm had come. The reckoning was here.
The March of the Instructors
Principal Devendra lifted one finger. The arena answered.
From the eastern gate came ten figures in obsidian robes—Upper-Rank Instructors. Each step struck like a drumbeat; dust rippled from their heels. They fanned out around the tiny figure at the centre, palms bright with runes that swirled in mirrored rhythm. The ground trembled.
From those ten points rose an immense black dome, smooth as glass, shot through with violet veins of light. Gasps rolled through the stands; even thunder paused to listen. The instructors stepped back, forming ten fixed pillars, the hours of some divine clock that guarded midnight.
Behind them marched the twenty-five Lower-Rank Instructors, silver and gold auras interlacing. They built smaller domes that locked into the first, a blooming ring of light and shadow.
Then came thirty Listener-Ranks, their domes pale-blue and humming softly. When the last rune sealed, Nalanda looked from above like a galaxy carved into stone—thousands of points revolving around a single black sun.
Wind carried incense and static through the colosseum. Ten lakh souls—or nearly that—held their breath.
The Announcement
The announcer wiped his palms on his tunic, voice trembling through the crystal that magnified it a hundredfold.
"Contenders! Hear the decree of Nalanda!
You will battle your way inward. Each circle of instructors is a wall; defeat one to reach the next!"
He raised his list, eyes flicking down the ranks.
"Listener-Rank opponents—Chakra 1 Stage 7—graduates of Nalanda, tested and trained.
Lower-Rank—Chakra 2 Stage 3—veterans of field and temple.
Upper-Rank—Chakra3 Stage 1, masters of formation themselves."
A murmur spread. He looked once toward the black dome and lowered his tone.
"And at the heart… the Crown Rank Instructor.
His level is… unrecorded.
Survive three moves, and you pass."
Silence, then uproar.
"Three moves?!"
"That's not an exam—that's execution!"
The announcer's voice cracked into a whisper that still carried.
"He is said to be death itself. Let courage decide who dares."
Above him, lightning laughed.
Inside the Black Dome
Aryan blinked—and the world stretched.
Ground folded outward, sky peeled open; horizon fled until it curved beyond sight.
A faint digital chime tickled his ear.
[System: Spatial Expansion Detected. Internal Diameter: 50 km — Time Flow 1:20. Congratulations, you now own a small world. Try not to break it.]
Aryan grinned beneath the mask.
"Fifty kilometres, huh? Not bad for an exam hall."
Mist thickened into trees, birds called softly. He frowned.
"A forest? Seriously?"
[System: Default Preset: Serene Nature. Ideal for mental balance. You know, for normal people.]
"Boring."
[System: Would you prefer Apocalypse Mode? Warning: May cause nightmares, existential dread, and spontaneous crying.]
"In my previous-to-previous world," he said, stretching his arms, "I played a game that made every gamer rage-quit. Two hits and you died. I'm going to fix that atmosphere."
[System: …You're recreating that? Fine. Do whatever you want. I'll start drafting apology letters to the parents.]
Light vanished. The forest withered in a single sigh; leaves curled into sparks. Bark turned to charcoal; soil bled crimson. The air thickened, metallic and hot, tasting of forgotten wars.
Above, a red moon unfurled—huge, cracked, bleeding light through drifting ash. The ground split; broken swords jutted like teeth. Every root twisted into shapes that might once have been hands. Whispers rode the wind, low and human, as if the trees remembered dying.
[System: Environmental Stress Index: 99 percent. Congratulations, you've created a trauma simulator.]
At the farthest edge of this world—fifty kilometres from the single gate that now shimmered into being—he pressed his finger into the soil. A rune burned outward, birthing a throne of blackened wood and shadow. He sat, one leg over the other, cloak pooling like smoke.
"Let them walk through hell before they see me."
[System: Entrance Locked — Straight Line Path Confirmed. You know, most instructors just use a chalk circle.]
He leaned back, perfectly still. From a distance, he would look unreal: a point of darkness seated beneath a red moon that never moved.
Outside, the sky above the arena filled with floating mirrors—thin sheets of crystal showing the interior of every smaller dome. Crowds gasped as images flickered to life: students clashing with instructors, flashes of chakra fire, bursts of water and light.
Only the central mirror stayed black.
The announcer explained, voice reverent now.
"The Crown Rank dome will reveal itself only when a contender steps within. Until then… it remains unseen."
Murmurs rose like a tide.
"So we can't even look at him?"
"Maybe the gods forbid it."
Even Ganpat stopped laughing, eyes narrowing. The tiny Taarask blinked, reflecting the blank mirror's sheen.
On the balcony, the seven elders and principal watched as the mirrors flickered. Suddenly, a single crystal—larger than the rest—hovered before them, shimmering with forbidden light.
For a moment, they saw a drone's-eye view:
A vast, ruined landscape, crimson soil and twisted trees, a blood-red moon hanging over a throne of shadow.
At the center, the child sat, mask aglow, eyes hidden, but the aura unmistakable—death incarnate.
The elders recoiled.
Firecloud's veteran muttered, "What kind of monster has Nalanda put in the center?"
Lotus Pavilion's elder gripped her seat, knuckles white.
Dragon-Blooded Beastmaster's scales bristled.
Obsidian Phoenix's lady whispered, "That is not a child. That is a calamity."
Principal Devendra's gaze was unreadable, but his hand trembled ever so slightly.
Three hundred contenders stood at the gates, tokens clutched tight.
All were ten years old or younger, facing instructors who had refined their skills over decades.
Some prayed, some cursed, some simply stared at the black dome, hearts pounding.
Zhang Xuan: "If I fall, let it be facing the impossible."
Roshni: "I will not run. I will not break."
Sita looks towards him, her figure like Lotus petals swirling, eyes burning with challenge.
Rudra Pratap: "Let the flames meet the storm."
Bhaskar Draksha: "If death roars, I roar louder."
Veerendra Suryakant: "Let the wind carry me through."
Meera Chandrapuri: "Let fire dance with shadow."
Others whispered, "Three moves… that's all?"
"Survive, and you're legend. Fail, and you're forgotten."
As the battles began, the crowd watched the mirrors.
Each time a contender was defeated by an instructor—Upper, Lower, or Listener—they were ejected from the dome in a flash of light, tumbling onto the arena floor.
If defeated by an Upper or Lower Rank instructor, their rank dropped one level.
If defeated by a Listener-Rank instructor, they were immediately disqualified—no rank lower than Listener, no second chances.
The announcer's voice echoed:
"Defeat means demotion. Only the strongest will reach the heart. Listener-Rank defeat means immediate disqualification."
Wind shifted. Thunder rolled far beyond the clouds.
The domes hummed like tuning forks awaiting a note.
Inside the black one, a single child sat motionless at the world's edge, the red moon carving his silhouette into eternity. Fifty kilometres of ruin stretched before him—a corridor of shattered trees, molten soil, and silence.
He waited, small hands resting on the armrests carved by his own will.
While waiting, he eats sweet buns that he brought before coming here.
Somewhere, beyond the entrance, footsteps would soon fall.
[System: Cue dramatic music. Or just let the silence do the work.]
Outside, the crowd held its breath.
Inside, even the air dared not move.
While Nalanda prepared to test its students, the child at its centre prepared to test their souls.
Thunder broke.
The trials had truly begun.
[System: Let the games begin. ]
[Note from system for Aryan: Try not to break anyone permanently.]