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The sun was low, drenching the sky in a quiet orange as shadows stretched long over the village ruins.
Master Vishma stood at the entrance of the shrine, his eyes distant, body worn, and soul heavy. He had returned—but not as a savior. Not this time. Tears clung to his tired eyes, though none fell. His pride—his self-respect—was torn apart by guilt. The village he swore to protect had burned, and he had failed.
"It hurts like hell," he whispered to himself. "To live after failing the ones who believed in you."
But he didn't come back to mourn.
Inside the shrine, the air was tense. Parashu stood beside the village leader, both of them watching Master Vishma approach. His presence still commanded silence—despite the pain behind his eyes.
"I have an idea," Vishma said, voice low but certain. "We can't save everyone… but we can give them a chance. We reopen the Academy."
The village leader frowned. "The Academy?" His voice was sharp, almost bitter. "You mean the machine that creates killers like Jamadigini?"
"No," Vishma replied softly, yet firmly. "We don't need killers. We need heroes."
He paused, letting the silence settle before he continued.
"I know—heroes like Jamadigini are born. But others... others like Shivam and Rustam? They were made. Trained. Forged by fire, hardship, and relentless discipline. The Academy gave them that."
Parashu's face twisted in confusion. "What is this Academy? I've never heard of it."
The village leader sighed. His voice carried the weight of memories long buried. "Nowadays, anyone can call themselves a soldier with a few months of training. But back then… it wasn't so simple. There were three tiers of academies—each more brutal than the last. Only the strongest—those who passed all trials—were allowed to enter the true Academy."
Parashu's eyes narrowed. "And who were Shivam and Rustam? I've never heard of them."
"Few have," Vishma admitted. "They weren't famous like your father. But they were the kind of men who stood where others fell. They were the silent protectors. The ones who carried burdens so others wouldn't have to."
"Then why was the Academy shut down?" Parashu asked.
This time, the village leader answered with a heavy heart. "Because people feared what it created. They saw men like your father—Jamadigini—not as protectors, but as weapons. They forgot that behind every blade was a choice, a story… a sacrifice."
The room fell silent.
Parashu looked down at his hands—the same hands that now carried a cursed legacy. And yet, he felt something else stir. A whisper of something more.
Hope.
Master Vishma stepped forward. "We can't change the past. But we can prepare for the future. The Kara Army isn't stopping. And if we don't stand together—if we don't raise warriors who understand both pain and purpose—this village will fall again."
The village leader didn't speak. But his eyes, once dim, seemed to carry a flicker of light.
The kind that only comes before a storm.
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