The forest spoke—not with a voice, but with a presence. It was like the wind carried memories, the trees hummed with truth, and the ground beneath Parashu's feet trembled as if it had waited centuries to be heard.
"You want to know the truth about Jamadigini," the forest whispered. "Then listen."
---
Long ago, before the war, before the Kara Army rose, there was a man named Jamadigini. Not the monster you've heard of. Not the murderer the world made him out to be. He was a protector. A warrior. A father.
He belonged to no clan. He was found as a child under a burning sky, in the middle of a battlefield, his body wrapped in flame but untouched by it. A sage took him in and raised him in silence, training him in the forgotten ways of energy wielding—fire, spirit, and soulcraft.
Jamadigini had only one weakness—love.
He fell for a woman not of this world. , exiled from her realm. She taught him how to feel. She made him believe that peace was possible, even for someone like him. They hid away and had a child—you, Parashu.
But peace is fragile.
One day, word spread that Jamadigini had married. The council of the old world—the ones who feared the union of spirit and human—labeled it a curse.
To protect you, Jamadigini did the unthinkable.
He vanished.
He became the villain they needed so no one would ever come looking for his son. He turned himself into a symbol of chaos. And it worked. The world chased him, feared him. But no one ever looked for you, because they thought your bloodline was broken.
"He burned himself to save your name," the forest whispered. "He died every day, carrying the weight of betrayal, so that you could live free."
---
Parashu stood still, his fingers twitching with silent rage.
Everything he believed—his training, his hate, his questions—shattered.
"Where is he now?" Parashu whispered.
The forest went quiet for a long time.
"Wandering. Watching. Waiting for the day his son will know the truth… and forgive him."
A soft wind blew through the trees, and for a moment, Parashu swore he could feel a hand on his shoulder. Warm. Familiar.
Not a warrior's grip—but a father's touch.
He didn't cry.
But the forest did.
And it rained.