---
Days passed. The smoke cleared. The dead were buried, their names whispered into the wind.
But something new began to stir.
It started with a single hammer strike.
Clang.
The old gates of the academy—buried under vines and dust—were pulled open for the first time in years. Rusted hinges cried out like ghosts being disturbed. Behind those gates lay cracked stone floors, collapsed walls, and statues long forgotten.
Parashu stood at the entrance, shirtless, dirt-streaked, his hands wrapped in cloth. Master Vishma handed him a pickaxe without a word.
Parashu took it.
And swung.
Stone shattered.
So began the rebuilding.
---
It wasn't easy.
The academy had been abandoned for over a decade. Moss covered everything. Vines coiled around pillars like they were strangling memory. Wild animals had made it their home. But Vishma had a vision—and Parashu had fire in his soul.
Soon, others joined.
Villagers who had lost sons. Mothers who wanted purpose again. Even a few surviving warriors from the recent battle lent their strength. The pain they carried turned into bricks. Their grief was mixed into mortar.
Day by day, the ruin turned into a temple of discipline again.
One hall became a sleeping quarter.
Another was turned into a training yard.
The ancient armory was unlocked—and inside, they found old weapons. Not polished or new, but with history in every scratch. Vishma picked up one of Shivam's old swords. It was heavy, chipped.
"This blade once stopped twenty raiders," he said softly, placing it on the new wall like an offering. "It deserves to shine again."
---
The hardest part wasn't rebuilding the structure.
It was rebuilding the trust.
Word spread fast. Some villagers were still afraid. "They're reviving the place that made Jamadigini," they whispered. "They'll raise another monster."
But others… others came with hope in their eyes.
A boy with no father.
A girl who had watched her home burn.
A young man whose legs shook but still walked toward the academy gates.
Parashu watched them all.
Master Vishma stood before the gathered few, voice strong again.
"This academy is not for the gifted," he declared. "It's for the broken—those willing to bleed to protect others. Those willing to rise, again and again."
He looked at Parashu.
"And this time, the gods won't choose the hero. We will."
---
The Academy of Shadows was alive again.
It smelled of sweat, steel, and sawdust. It rang with the clash of wooden swords and the thump of falling bodies. It echoed with the roars of those refusing to give up.
A graveyard had turned into a forge.
A boy named Parashu had become its first flame.
And the fire was only beginning.
---