The city of Karachi, a sprawling, breathless beast of concrete and forgotten dreams, still slept. High above Lyari Town, on a rooftop crammed with satellite dishes and discarded furniture, the pre-dawn hush was thick, broken only by the distant, echoing call of the Azan. Below, narrow, dusty streets twisted like forgotten veins, shadowed and still. Tucked away amidst the urban clutter, a small, broken shrine sat, its paint peeling, its sanctity forgotten amidst the refuse of daily life.
Inside a tiny room, barely larger than a cupboard, Ayaan lay on a worn mattress. His sleep was a restless thing, a battle against unseen currents. At seventeen, he was an orphan, his parents swallowed by a mysterious "gas explosion" ten years prior, near a shrine much like the one outside. Now, he survived, a chai-boy and trash collector, a phantom figure in the city's margins.
He woke with a gasp, sweat slicking his brow, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to him like a shroud. The image was vivid: a colossal creature, a churning mass of smoke and countless eyes, staring down at him from an oppressive void. And a voice, a mere whisper that resonated deep within his bones:
"Child of Light. The seal cracks."
Ayaan's life was a practiced dance of survival. He moved through Lyari's labyrinthine alleyways with the ease of a shadow, a familiar face to its inhabitants. He had a quick wit, a street-smart glint in his eyes, and a surprising kindness that surfaced when he interacted with the local kids and the weary elders. He'd offer a shared laugh, a quick word of comfort. But beneath the surface, a constant threat lurked. Gang members, kings of these narrow domains, regularly accosted him, demanding bribes for their phantom "protection," often enforcing their demands with a casual brutality he'd learned to endure.
He passed the burnt-down shrine, its charred timbers a skeletal reminder of some past tragedy. He glanced at it, a flicker of something ancient in his eyes.
"They say a jinn once lived here…" he muttered to himself, a whispered piece of local lore.
The trouble began while he was on his chai rounds. He was placing steaming cups on a wobbly table at a secluded tea stall when a hushed conversation caught his ear. He froze, barely breathing, peering around a rickety partition. A local gang leader, a hulking brute named Murad, was talking to a Foreign Man dressed in an impeccably sharp black suit. The Foreign Man had his back to Ayaan, but his voice, though low, was cold, precise, and carried an undeniable authority.
"...A relic buried here…" Murad rumbled, "…the boy might have it…"
"Find it," the Foreign Man's voice cut through the air, devoid of inflection.
Ayaan's heart hammered against his ribs. He instinctively stepped back, his foot catching on a loose brick. The clatter echoed loudly in the sudden silence. Murad's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Ayaan. Panic seized him.
He bolted.
The chase was a blur of motion through Lyari's choked arteries. Ayaan, light and agile, ducked under clotheslines, vaulted over piles of trash, and weaved through startled pedestrians. But Murad and his men were relentless, their shouts echoing behind him. He pushed harder, his lungs burning.
He found himself cornered in front of the ruined shrine, the very one he'd passed just moments before. The gang members fanned out, their faces contorted in ugly grins. There was nowhere left to run.
Suddenly, with a sickening CRACK, the ground beneath Ayaan's feet gave way. He fell, a scream tearing from his throat, swallowed by the roar of collapsing earth and stone.
He landed hard, tumbling into darkness. The air was thick with ancient dust, but a faint, ethereal glow permeated the space. He had fallen into a hidden chamber, carved from ancient stone. The walls were covered in intricate, swirling Arabic calligraphy, lines of text that seemed impossibly old, predating even Islamic script. Yet, they hummed with a profound, almost divine presence that sent shivers down his spine.
His gaze was drawn to a distinct marking on one of the walls: the Seal of Solomon. It pulsed with a soft, warm light, synchronizing eerily with the frantic beat of his own heart. A strange compulsion drew him forward, an irresistible pull.
He reached out, his fingers trembling, and touched it.
A searing heat erupted. The seal burned, not just the wall, but into his very flesh, directly onto his chest. He cried out, an unformed sound. When he pulled his hand away, a distinct, glowing mark of Nur – divine light – was seared onto his skin. The light intensified, overwhelming his senses. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the floor, consciousness slipping away.
Darkness. Absolute, infinite darkness. Then, like a rift in the void, a vision coalesced. He saw a vast, desolate desert battlefield, stretching endlessly beneath a chaotic, swirling sky. Above him, beings of pure light and crackling fire clashed in a silent, cosmic war. Their forms shifted, incandescent and terrible, locked in an eternal struggle.
Then, a whisper, ancient and resonant, vibrated through his very being, seeming to emanate from the core of the light-beings themselves:
"You are the Last Flame. The Seal is yours now."
Ayaan jolted awake, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. He was back in the cold, ancient chamber. The mark of Nur on his chest was still faintly glowing, a phantom warmth beneath his shirt.
But he was not alone.
From the very walls of the chamber, a creature began to coalesce, slowly, horrifyingly. It was a swirling mass of black mist with piercing, predatory silver eyes, a corrupted Ifrit, monstrous and terrifying. Its form solidified, rippling with malevolent energy.
"Seal-Bearer." The Ifrit's voice was a deep, guttural snarl that vibrated through the stone. "Your blood is mine!"
Ayaan scrambled backward, pure terror seizing him. His heart hammered against his ribs, threatening to burst. He stumbled to his feet, turning and blindly running deeper into the shadowed network of tunnels that snaked away from the chamber.
The Ifrit surged forward, its misty form stretching, its spectral claws reaching, ready to tear him apart. Just as its freezing touch grazed his back, a brilliant beam of shimmering silver Nur erupted from an unseen source, cutting through the oppressive darkness. It struck the Ifrit, momentarily shredding its form and forcing it back with a shriek of agony.
A figure emerged from the tunnels, bathed in the soft glow of the Nur. This was Murshid Umar, a man in his mid-thirties, dressed simply in a white robe and a green scarf. In his hand, he held a string of prayer beads, his tasbih, which glowed with a faint, divine light, the source of the beam.
Murshid Umar's voice was calm, yet powerful, as he began to recite, his words echoing through the ancient chamber:
"Qul a'udhu bi Rabbil-falaq…"
(I seek refuge in the Lord of the Daybreak…)
The dhikr, the remembrance of God, emanated from him like a palpable force, waves of spiritual energy that tore at the Ifrit's shadowy form. The jinn screamed again, writhing, parts of its misty body dissipating. But only for a moment. With a sickening shudder, it began to regenerate, its silver eyes burning with renewed, terrifying malice.
Murshid Umar acted swiftly. He threw a protective, shimmering veil of light over Ayaan, a barrier of pure Nur that hummed with quiet power. "Come!" he urged, grabbing Ayaan's arm. They turned and fled deeper into the labyrinthine underground tunnels, the Ifrit's guttural snarl echoing behind them.
They burst out of a hidden exit, scrambling onto a secret rooftop behind a mosque in the heart of Karachi. The city was now fully awake, bathed in the bright morning light. Ayaan gasped, sucking in great gulps of air, his lungs burning. He collapsed, clutching his chest, the mark of Nur on his skin glowing faintly, then fading slightly, as if tired.
"What's happening to me?" he croaked, his voice raw with fear and confusion. "What is this thing on my body?"
Murshid Umar looked down at him, his expression a mixture of profound concern and ancient wisdom. He extended a hand, helping Ayaan sit up.
"That…" Murshid Umar's gaze was solemn, fixed on the faint mark. "...is the Seal of Light. And your world is about to change forever."
High above them, from a distant rooftop, a figure watched. It was the Foreign Man in black, standing perfectly still, a small, black book clutched in his hand. A chilling, unnatural red light glowed within his eye, like a coal ember.
"The boy has awakened," the Foreign Man murmured, his voice a cold whisper carried on the city breeze. "The Dajjali Cycle begins."
TO BE CONTINUED...