Yash sat cross-legged on the broad stone at the base of the ancient tree, the giant roots curling like sleeping beasts beneath him. Wind fingers passed through the leaves, making them whisper and shiver. For a moment he let the present fade — the mountain, the prayer, the quiet green — and let memory pull him back like a tide.
He was seventeen again.
The corridor smelled of waxed floors and cheap cologne, the fluorescent lights buzzing like distant insects. Magikau High moved like a river of bodies: sneakers slapping, lockers clanging, the low hum of gossip and adolescent threats. Yash walked through it like he owned it — not because he had the wealth or the fame, but because people knew not to cross him. A black jacket hung over his uniform, the jacket's back embroidered with the beetle crest and two words in crooked white paint: JOKER BEETLE. Behind him, a half dozen boys shuffled like loyal shadows, their faces blank and ready.
They were the school's rumor turned visible: brutal jokes, controlled chaos, the gang everyone whispered about in the quiet corners of classrooms. The Anacondas — another gang — were the only ones who could make a Joker Beetle leader sweat. Today they were meeting. Today they would clash.
Yash kept his face neutral, a trained mask. He enjoyed the power, yes, but more than that he enjoyed not being ignored — the way people flinched, the way the hall opened without asking. It was simple currency in a world of small cruelties. He felt alive.
Someone let out a low hiss from behind a locker. "There he is," a voice said. "That's Yash, the kid who runs the Beetles."
They flowed into the classroom like a tide. Students turned, some hurriedly including their backpacks, others watched with a mixture of fear and curiosity. The students eyes flicked, already calculating trouble.
Yash moved down the aisle toward his desk with deliberate, slow steps. The chatter thinned. The usual seat at the window — the one everyone knew was his — was occupied. A lanky boy in a plain uniform sat there, small and anxious, as if he didn't belong in the room at all. New transfer. Fresh meat.
Yash's jaw tightened. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air denser. He pointed at the kid's seat with the lazy authority of a dictator. "You there. Move."
The boy blinked, then stammered, "I… I'm sorry. I didn't know—"
A small mistake. An excuse he had no right to make. For a man like Yash, small mistakes were the exact thing that needed correcting.
Before the boy could finish, Yash's fist snapped out.
A single, brutal punch — clean, perfectly aimed — sent the student slamming off the bench and crashing to the ground. Gasps filled the classroom. The new kid curled instinctively, stunned.
The boy blinked, shook himself and, terrified but trying to be brave, scrambled up. "I'm sorry—" He raised his hands like a child begging for mercy.
Yash's fingers found the boy's collar and yanked him up so his face was in Yash's line of sight. Yash shoved him down on the table with hard force, bone and metal making a sickening noise. He leaned in, voice low and cold. "Now you know who I am. You remember that. You won't sit in my seat again."
The boy tried to apologize; the words were small stones tossed at a wall. Yash raised his hand like the finale — but something halted his fist mid-flight.
A presence. Not loud, not flamboyant. Just a hand on his arm, steady and solid.
The entire class turned.
A man stood there between Yash and the trembling student. He moved like someone who had reasons to be anywhere he pleased: calm, unfastened, a little older than the other students, yet not dressed like one. His eyes were quiet, but they carried an odd weight. He looked at Yash with a kind of patient curiosity.
"I am Zenro," he said simply. "And I'm a friend of this student. We're both transfers."
Yash froze. Anger quivered through him like a live wire. Who was this student to interfere? Who was this man to step into Yash's line? Yash's breath puffed out. The student in the seat stared at Zenro like he'd been rescued.
The student— Zenro — turned to the boy and gave him a soft nod of reassurance, then scanned the classroom like a calm storm. "Let's all take our seats," i don't want a fight "
The teacher finally arrived at the classroom blinked at the interruption, then, as if used to the eddies of youthful violence in this school, stepped in and politely redirected attention. Students shifted, murmurs running like small animals. Yash felt the power drain from his hand. The punch stopped and hung there, empty and ridiculous.
He let the kid go, but his eyes were two burning coals. He lowered his hand slowly as though completing a perfunctory motion. Yash sat down — not on his usual spot but near, eyes fixed on that newcomer, on the boy who called himself Zenro. The scream of the hallway seemed far away; only the small pounding of his heart was loud enough.
The new boy whose chair had been taken by force rubbed his jaw, pale and trembling. Zenro gave him a small "you okay?" look, which the boy answered with a grateful nod. For the first time in weeks, he felt protected.
Yash's mouth twisted into something like a grin—only it wasn't pleasure. It was a promise. This will not stand, he thought, watching Zenro with a new, personal contempt. You and him — both of you — I'll take you down. I'll break that smug look right off your face. I'll show you who rules.
The teacher took his place; the bell rang; the day resumed its march. Students took out their books and pencils like soldiers taking position. Yash let the class blur around him. His mind took a hard, cold inventory: the newcomer, the hand that had stopped him, the shifting balance. He tasted impatience like metal on his tongue.
As the classroom settled into the dull rhythm of arithmetic and politics, Yash focused on one tiny fact and turned it into a spear: Zenro — Zenro — and the nervous transfer boy — the two had intruded on his authority, insulted his control, and for the first time in a long while someone had the audacity to stop him. That was an offense that could not be allowed to linger.
He smiled inwardly, a dark, patient thing. I'll beat the hell out of them both, he promised himself, eyes cold as the stone he would one day sit upon. Wait and see, you sons of— The thought rose hot and venomous but remained only in the smoke of his mind.
To be continued