Armaan stretched his arms lightly, the last trace of tension slipping from his shoulders. His voice, now softer and more grounded, broke the silence.
"Hey," he said, glancing at each of them with a calm gaze, "why don't you all come with me to Gramps' house? He'll be pleased to meet you. And Advika,"
—he looked at her with a subtle smile—
"he's a big fan of yours, you know?"
Advika blinked once, surprised.
"Eh? Me?" she pointed at herself, her brows lifting.
Then, with that familiar sparkle never really gone from her eyes, she gave a proud grin.
"Ohh reallyyy? Well then, let's not keep the fan waiting!" she said with her usual playful energy, tossing her hair confidently. "Let's go and meet your Gramps!"
Samar chuckled, nudging Roumit lightly. "She never really changes, huh?"
Roumit gave a small smile. "She just knew when to tone it down."
They turned as a group, walking down the familiar village path. Above them, the clouds shifted slightly, letting gentle sunlight pour through, casting warm glows across their shoulders.
The morning breeze of Gunjanpur carried the scent of damp soil and burning wood, light mist still lingering over the narrow roads. Birds chirped lazily above the electric lines as the group walked through the quiet village.
Soon, they arrived at a tall, whitewashed, two-storey house—not a tiled hut like most around, but a proper, solid home with an iron gate, a modest verandah, and a staircase that led to the second floor and eventually the rooftop.
Armaan stepped ahead and knocked at the metal door, twice.
It creaked open within seconds.
Farmaan stood there, blinking.
"Armaan—?"
His eyes widened when he saw the whole group behind him.
"Ah… so the kids of 11-B have raided my house now, have they?" he said, half-jokingly, before his eyes fell on someone unexpected.
"Advika?"
His tone shifted—somewhat surprised, somewhat pleased.
"I remember you… you're Dharmendra's student, aren't you?"
Advika smiled, rubbing the back of her head. "Yep, second time meeting. First one wasn't exactly the best scenario though..."
Farmaan's gaze softened as memories surfaced. "Yes… Tara's funeral."
He nodded slowly, stepping aside to let them in.
As Samar and Roumit greeted him with respectful grins, he welcomed them like old comrades—having met once before. But when his eyes subtly shifted toward Armaan's elbow and saw Alya clinging to it, a faint smirk escaped his lips.
"So… this side of my student I see for the first time," he muttered just loud enough for Armaan to hear.
Armaan, predictably, said nothing—just walked in like it didn't happen.
The group settled in the spacious living room, sunlight softly pouring in through the mesh windows, catching the floating dust in golden strands. The ceiling fan above creaked slightly as it turned, and the fragrance of freshly brewed tea filled the air.
Farmaan disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before returning with a kettle and six cups.
"So," Armaan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, "who is Dharmendra, gramps? You've never really talked to me about him… even when you were explaining the Kalambhaar Cave situation. You only said that Advika's a nice girl and that's all."
Farmaan paused, pouring the tea.
A subtle smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he handed the cup to Advika.
"Oh, Dharmendra… You kids only know him as a strict instructor now, but back in our day—he was a menace on the field," he said, settling down into his chair with a nostalgic chuckle. "We were comrades—Rakshaks side by side. Fought dozens of missions together. Got each other's backs more times than I can count. He saved my life once… and I returned the favour in Nepal."
Everyone listened in silence as Farmaan's eyes flickered with memory.
"He was sharp, brave, and carried a prana reserve like a damn ocean. I'm not surprised Advika's his student. He always had a sharp eye for talent… though I didn't expect you to turn out so much like him," he added, looking at Advika with a teasing grin.
Advika blushed slightly, caught between pride and embarrassment. "You saying that like I'm a troublemaker too…"
Farmaan laughed softly, sipping his tea.
"Well… aren't you?"
The group chuckled as the old man's warmth spread in the room.
"Still," Armaan added, "can't believe someone trained by your comrade ended up in the same mess as me."
"Fate's funny like that," Farmaan said, his voice dipping into a rare seriousness. "The more you try to outrun it, the harder it pulls you into the storm."
Armaan didn't respond—he just leaned back and looked out the window.
After some moments of warm conversation and old tales, the weight of the recent days began settling back onto Armaan's shoulders. He rubbed his eyes lightly, stood up, and with a sigh said,
"I'm gonna rest for a bit. Haven't really slept properly in a while."
Farmaan nodded in understanding. "Go ahead, beta. The same room upstairs—the one you used during training. It's just as you left it."
Armaan quietly headed upstairs, the wooden steps creaking faintly under his footsteps. The others remained seated, sipping their tea, letting silence breathe for a moment.
About ten minutes passed.
"Do you think he's actually asleep?" Samar suddenly asked, sipping his last bit of tea.
Alya raised a brow.
"Why don't you go check?" Roumit teased.
Samar smirked and leaned back. "Nah. Alya, you go. You're the one closest to him lately."
Alya looked around, cheeks already threatening to flush. "Wha– Why me?"
Roumit grinned. "C'mon, you're the only one he wouldn't punch if he wakes up mid-check."
With a defeated huff, Alya got up, trying to suppress her smile. "Fine, fine… I'll check."
She tiptoed upstairs and gently pushed the door open.
There he was—Armaan—lying on the side of the bed with one arm resting over his stomach, his dark brown hair ruffled across the pillow, lips parted just a little, chest rising and falling in the calmest rhythm she'd seen in weeks.
He looked peaceful.
No, not just peaceful—innocent. Almost like the entire burden of Rakshakhood had vanished from his frame.
Alya's heart skipped a beat.
He's… so damn good-looking, even when he sleeps… it's unfair.
She walked closer, barely making a sound, and slowly sat on the floor beside the bed. Her fingers reached out hesitantly and traced lightly along the edge of his cheek. His skin was warm, soft under her touch. Without thinking, her fingers drifted down toward his lips—but just as she was about to touch them, she gasped softly and pulled her hand back.
No! What am I even doing? she scolded herself, cheeks now glowing bright pink.
She stood up quickly and backed out of the room, closing the door silently behind her.
As she walked down the stairs, she tried to compose herself, slapping her cheeks lightly to drain the blush.
When she returned to the angan, everyone looked up at her with questioning eyes.
"So?" Samar asked.
"Is he asleep?" Roumit smirked.
Alya cleared her throat, waving her hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Out like a rock. Probably drooling."
Everyone narrowed their eyes suspiciously at her red face.
"You okay?" Advika asked, her eyes sharp.
"I'm fine!" Alya snapped, waving them off again as she took her seat, looking anywhere but at them.
But no one missed the way she tugged at her sleeves, hiding the grin that refused to leave her lips.
After a while, the easy flow of conversation shifted. The laughter mellowed, and curiosity quietly crept in.
Samar leaned forward, his fingers interlocked on his lap. His voice was casual but firm.
"So… Mr. Farmaan," he said, glancing briefly at the stairwell as if checking Armaan was still upstairs, "what do you think that dragon really is? The Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon?"
At the mention of that name, a quiet tension filled the air. Farmaan's smile faded. His eyes sharpened with a flicker of thought. He set his cup down on the low table beside him and leaned forward.
"…Hmm." His voice dropped lower, a little weightier. "See, it's not like I know for sure… but this is what I believe, based on what Armaan told me."
Everyone straightened in their seats.
"That dragon... the Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon. If it's truly calling to Armaan through prana-linked dreams—dreams that can trigger real fear, fatigue, and even shifts in his spiritual rhythm—it's not a normal dragon. Not even a regular Draconic realm dweller."
He paused for a moment, letting the silence settle before continuing.
"I think what it's saying is true. About the war. About the lineage. About the inheritance. Everything."
Alya's eyes narrowed. "But… how can you say that so confidently? What makes you believe it?"
Farmaan looked up, his tone calm, yet edged with conviction.
"Because something similar happened long ago. Not to me, but to another Divya Rakshak I fought beside. He once connected with a being far beyond human understanding through dreams, and those visions led him to uncover truths buried for centuries—truths that reshaped his path. What Armaan is going through… it mirrors that."
He looked around the circle of young warriors, his voice steady and full of weight.
"Also... I've watched Armaan grow up. The power that radiates from him now—it doesn't feel like a mere blessing. It feels inherited. Ancient. Like something awakened. His instincts, the way his prana reacts—he's changing. Slowly… dangerously… but with purpose."
Samar nodded slowly, processing.
"And what about the dragon's motive?" Roumit asked. "Is it really trying to help? Or is it manipulating him?"
Farmaan looked out of the window briefly, as if trying to feel something in the distant breeze.
"That's the part I'm unsure of," he admitted. "But if it wanted to harm him, it already had enough chances. Instead, it chose to connect and offer. Which means it has expectations. Maybe even hope."
He looked back to them.
"I think this dragon isn't his enemy. At least… not yet."
Roumit adjusted his glasses, the lenses slightly fogged from the morning warmth. He took them off, rubbing them slowly with the corner of his T-shirt. As he held them up to the light, scanning for dust particles with a squint, he asked casually but firmly:
"So what do you think, Mr. Farmaan? Should Armaan actually go to the Draconic Realm?"
The room fell into a deeper silence. Even Advika, who was casually twirling her hair, suddenly stopped. All eyes turned to Farmaan.
Farmaan took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second, and said—
"I think… he should go."
The words dropped like a thunderclap. Everyone blinked, stunned. Even Alya's eyes widened in disbelief.
"What?" Samar leaned forward. "You're seriously saying that?"
Farmaan nodded solemnly, folding his arms.
"Yes. I know it sounds insane, sending a sixteen-year-old into a realm where dragons rule and the rules of reality don't follow ours. But hear me out."
He placed a hand on his knee and continued, the weight of years behind his voice.
"The Draconic Realm isn't just a myth, and it isn't just about awakening powers. It's the origin point. And that dragon—Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon—wasn't just talking randomly. When it said 'when are you coming,' it wasn't a request… it was a call. A reminder."
A moment of silence passed, but Farmaan wasn't finished yet.
"You don't realize it, but Armaan has already become an attraction. A beacon. Someone—or something—in the multiverse has started to take interest in him. And not just because he's strong. It's because he's an inheritor. That blood running through him… it carries weight beyond this world. A scent that things far darker than Danawas can smell."
His voice dropped lower, gravely serious.
"If he stays here, unprepared, unaware of what lies ahead, he won't just be putting himself in danger. He'll be putting all of us in danger."
Roumit slowly placed his glasses back on, digesting the words. Advika had stopped chewing her nails. Samar looked deep in thought.
Alya finally asked, softly, "So you're saying... the danger is inevitable?"
Farmaan nodded. "Yes. But understanding the source of his power… understanding himself... that's what might give him a chance. And that answer lies in the Draconic Realm."
Farmaan exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as his voice turned softer—more personal.
"But…" he said slowly, "I don't really want him to go alone."
Everyone looked up.
"That place—" he glanced out the window as if the very sky held the weight of what he was about to say, "—that realm holds nothing but colossal dragons. Creatures born of storms, voids, blood, and flame… One roar from the wrong dragon, and Armaan could be blown into dust before he even understands what hit him."
He fell silent.
Just then, a chair scraped loudly.
Samar had stood up.
"I'll go with him."
The words weren't loud, but they landed like a meteor.
Everyone stared, stunned.
Farmaan blinked. "What…?"
Samar nodded, his usual relaxed demeanor now carrying a sharp determination.
"If Armaan's going, then I'm going too. I won't let him shoulder everything alone anymore."
"And I'm coming as well," Roumit added, rising up beside Samar, adjusting his glasses with his thumb. "I may not have brute strength, but my brain's saved us more than once. Armaan needs us, and I won't let him face an unknown world without backup."
Farmaan opened his mouth to object—but the words wouldn't come. He looked at the two boys, standing tall, eyes burning with resolve. A part of him wanted to argue, to tell them they were just kids.
But then… he remembered the training grounds. The nights of blood. The Kalambhaar Cave.
They weren't just kids anymore.
Still, he tried once. "You don't understand. It's not just a different realm, it's a completely different existence. You could die there. You will be terrified there."
"And?" Samar said with a shrug. "That's what we signed up for. We became part of his story the day we stepped into his war."
Roumit nodded. "We're not walking beside him just for the victories, gramps. We're also here for the terrors."
A long silence. Farmaan's eyes began to tremble slightly—just slightly. Then, quietly, he smiled.
"...Fine."
He stood up, walked over to them, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
"Please," he said, voice heavy with trust and emotion, "go with him, Samar and Roumit."
The room quieted once again.
Because they all knew now—Armaan wouldn't be walking into the mouth of destiny alone.
He'd have his brothers beside him.
Just as the weight of the decision began to settle, Advika crossed her arms and stepped forward with a pout that barely masked the seriousness in her voice.
"Then I'll go too," she said boldly. "There should be someone strong to protect these three idiots. And who's better for that job than a Divya Rakshak?"
Everyone blinked.
Samar was already chuckling, "Wait, you protecting us?"
But Advika was serious—her eyes fierce with resolve, her usual playfulness toned down, even if just a little.
But Farmaan raised a hand before she could say more.
"No."
Advika frowned. "What?"
"You're not going, Advika."
There was a pause.
"But why—"
"You're a Divya Rakshak," he said firmly. "Your duty lies here, in this world. You have responsibilities now—people who rely on you, civilians who sleep peacefully because of you. If every strong warrior leaves, who'll stay behind to defend the earth?"
Advika opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Farmaan walked to her slowly and gave her a soft smile.
"Besides…" his tone shifted, playfully teasing now, "…you're way too playful for a place like the Draconic Realm. You'd probably get distracted teasing the dragons and end up befriending one."
Everyone burst out laughing—especially Roumit.
"Honestly, I can see that happening," he grinned.
Advika puffed her cheeks. "You all are the worst."
But even she couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at her lips.
Farmaan placed a hand on her shoulder gently. "You're strong, Advika. And I trust you. That's why you must stay. Not every battle is meant to be fought with fists. Some, like this one, are about support. Armaan will fight better knowing you're watching over the world he's protecting."
She looked down, her fingers twitching slightly… then nodded.
"…Fine. But bring him back safe."
Samar, Roumit, and even Farmaan nodded.
And silently, they all knew—
The journey to the Draconic Realm had begun taking shape.
Just as the laughter from Farmaan's teasing faded into silence, Alya raised a valid concern—her voice soft, but tinged with worry.
"…But will these two even be able to go with Armaan?" she asked, glancing at Samar and Roumit. "What if the dragon… denies to transfer them along? I mean, it only came for Armaan, right?"
The question left a silence in its wake, one that made even Advika bite her lip.
Farmaan nodded thoughtfully, arms crossed.
"That," he said, "we'll have to ask from that dragon itself."
He glanced at Armaan's room briefly, where their future inheritor was still resting in peace—completely unaware of the conversation shaping his path.
Farmaan continued, "And not just that—if the dragon agrees, I'll also request it to lend some of its power… even if just a small fraction."
He looked at Samar and Roumit directly.
"Because right now, you two are just powerless fellows. If you're really going to the Draconic Realm, you'll need something to keep yourselves from getting blown away by a dragon's sneeze."
"Wait—dragons sneeze?!" Roumit's eyes widened.
Samar facepalmed. "Not the point, Roumit."
Farmaan smirked. "That's still less ridiculous than you two trying to enter a realm of beings who can bend oceans and split mountains barehanded."
Everyone chuckled—but beneath the humour, there was a deep, brewing seriousness.
The storm was approaching. And the foundations were now being laid.
After the heavy yet necessary discussion, the atmosphere gradually lightened. They spent some time in Gunjanpur—wandering the narrow, sunlit lanes, revisiting the old training ground where Armaan had once bled and grown, and enjoying some pakoras from the tiny stall near the bus stop that Farmaan recommended with too much pride.
Advika, despite being denied to join the Draconic journey, returned to her usual cheer, dragging Alya to a small pond near the temple and teasing her about the earlier blushing scene. Roumit quietly clicked pictures of old walls and rusted gates, while Samar and Armaan walked silently under the neem trees, saying little—but understanding much.
As the sky began to shift into hues of amber and rose, the group gathered at the railway station once more. The return journey was quieter—partly from the fatigue, partly from the new weight in their hearts.
When the local train finally pulled into Howrah station, the sun was already bowing to the horizon. Without any grand words or dramatic goodbyes, they parted ways, stepping into the twilight of the city, into the shadows of their thoughts.
Each of them carried something back with them from the village.
But Armaan… he carried something more.
The whispers of the Draconic Realm were now louder than ever.
And the clock had already begun ticking.
The train left behind more than tracks. It left behind childhood.