The next day, sunlight streamed into Marian High School's corridors, filtering through the windows like hope returning after a long storm.
And with it, returned Armaan.
His shoulders no longer felt heavy, and his voice, once absent, now flowed again — cool and calm, yet grounded. He completed his duties as class monitor with the same quiet grace that once made him stand out. Even Ms. Sen, who had grown deeply concerned over the past few weeks, smiled as she watched him engage in class again — attentive, composed, and... finally present.
During lunch break, Samar couldn't hold back his grin.
"Look who decided to grace us again," he joked, nudging Armaan.
Armaan raised an eyebrow, chewing his food calmly. "Did I go anywhere?"
Roumit chuckled. "Your body was in school. Your soul? We're not so sure."
Even Alya, sitting a little further away, sighed in relief. Though she didn't say much, her eyes often trailed to Armaan — still watching for signs of that haunting silence. But instead, what she saw was the boy she admired... slowly rebuilding his rhythm.
But beneath all that laughter and returned routine — deep inside the silence between each heartbeat — the decision still waited.
The thought of the Draconic Realm, of colossal dragons and buried legacies, loomed in the back of his mind like a sleeping titan.
He smiled more often now, but the storm hadn't rested completely.
It was just... holding its breath.
Three days had passed since Armaan's return to normalcy.
And yet, tonight, even as the world outside his window slept under a veil of stars and faint clouds, his mind refused to rest.
He sat quietly on the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the floor but seeing something far beyond it.
The question—no, the decision—still echoed in his soul.
"Should I really go to the Draconic Realm…?"
He had spoken to Farmaan, heard his friends, and even watched the bloodshed dragon stare through his dreams. But something still felt… incomplete.
Then—suddenly—
A jolt in his memory. A flicker of recognition.
"…Oh damn," he muttered, slapping his forehead. "How could I forget him?"
He didn't stand. He didn't transform.
He just reached toward his left waist.
As if summoned from the silence itself, his Aethar Blade shimmered into his hand — Meiryuu Engetsuzaan, its presence cold and eternal, the weight familiar like the breath of a lifelong friend.
He gripped the hilt tightly, closed his eyes — and descended.
The air shifted. The bed, the room, the world — gone.
Now he was standing again in that vast, eerie, fog-drenched realm where stars were missing, and silence hissed like static in the air.
The same void where, long ago, he had received his blade... and been tested.
And there he stood — hooded, cloaked, still.
The spirit of his blade.
Meiryuu Engetsuzaan.
Armaan exhaled, slightly amused. "Don't scare a kid, old man…"
The figure didn't reply instantly. Then came the grumbling voice, thick with low, tempered scorn.
"What do you think I am, huh?
Some decoration on your waist?"
His tone sharpened like a blade drawn halfway.
"You face dreams darker than death, wrestle with dragons, chase after vengeance, and not once do you think to consult the soul who walks beside your every strike?"
Armaan chuckled softly, lifting both hands.
"Okay, okay — calm down, calm down. I'm sorry, alright? I should've asked you first."
He took a step forward. "But I'm asking now. Be honest, Meiryuu… Should I go? To the Draconic Realm?"
A silence followed.
That quiet — the kind that rings in the ears like a deep, distant beep.
The hooded figure remained still, then raised his chin ever so slightly. His voice this time, more tempered. He spoke not like a scolding teacher, but a weathered warrior:
"You must go."
"You've already become more than human, Armaan. The realms beyond Earth are stirring… and you, bearer of a bloodline older than memory, are at the center."
"That realm… the Draconic one… is not just your past. It is your future."
"The dragons there — they already feel you. You are an anomaly. A storm rising beyond its skies."
"If you stay… your enemies will come for those you love."
"But if you go… you may finally be strong enough to stand between them… and what lies ahead."
Armaan stood still, eyes closed.
The storm within his chest began to settle — not because he had found peace…
…but because he had found resolve.
He opened his eyes again—
The black void was gone.
The soft, familiar scent of his room returned. The creak of the fan, the rain-marked window, and the moonlight slipping through his curtains like a sneaky intruder.
He exhaled.
Still gripping his Aethar Blade, he let it vanish with a flick of his wrist—into the air, into nothingness—where it belonged until called again.
With a light thump, he fell backward on his bed, arms stretched wide as he stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling didn't have any answers, but somehow, it felt like the right place to talk.
He muttered to himself with a half-smirk, "So even he thinks I should go, huh…"
A moment of quiet.
And then a shift—his lips curled into that familiar smirk again, the storm in his chest finally swirling with purpose.
"Well... if everyone's insisting,"
He stretched, eyes gleaming.
"Who am I to refuse…?"
He punched the pillow under his head, closed his eyes halfway.
"Let's go, baebyyyy…"
His voice was low but laced with a surge of quiet excitement—
The kind that comes before a storm changes the sky.
The next morning dawned gentle, as if the skies themselves respected the weight of Armaan's thoughts.
Still barefoot, he sat on the edge of his bed, the phone in his hand trembling slightly—not from fear, but from a resolve finally born.
He dialed the number.
It rang.
"Armaan?" Farmaan's voice came through, warm and gravelly.
"Gramps... I've made my decision."
There was a silence on the other end. Not confusion—only quiet expectation.
"I'll go. To the Draconic Realm."
A long breath slipped from Farmaan's end.
"I see…" he said slowly, his tone layered with both pride and concern. "I was afraid this would be your answer."
Armaan gave a small laugh. "You knew I'd say yes eventually."
"That doesn't mean I wasn't hoping for a delay. For more time. More... childhood left in you." Farmaan's voice wavered just slightly, but the pride in it was unmistakable. "But I won't stop you. Just promise me, Armaan... go there not as a boy seeking strength—but as the warrior you've already become."
Armaan's expression softened. "I'll be careful. I won't let this power control me."
"When do you want to go?"
Armaan looked up at the ceiling, the light from the window dancing across his sharp eyes.
"Next Sunday. I'll be ready."
Farmaan was quiet for a moment more, then said, "Alright. I'll prepare everything needed... "
"Thanks, Gramps," Armaan replied, his tone firm, final.
"You're welcome, kid," Farmaan answered. "May whatever's ahead bow to your will."
The call ended.
Armaan leaned back on the bed, hands behind his head. He stared at the ceiling fan spinning above, then smirked faintly.
"So even Meiryuu thinks I should go, huh? …Well then. Let's do this."
The clock ticked softly in the hallway. Outside, the moon sat half-hidden behind clouds, casting shadows across the floor of the house.
Armaan stood near the dining table, arms folded, his aethar blade nowhere in sight for once. The atmosphere in the room felt a little off—quiet, but not peaceful.
His mother was drying dishes; Sohana was scrolling through her phone, humming something soft. It was the right time.
Armaan cleared his throat.
"Mom… Sohana…"
Both looked up.
"I might be gone for a few days. Starting tomorrow."
His mother arched an eyebrow. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"
Sohana turned off her phone and leaned forward. "What's this about?"
"It's… a Rakshak mission," he said, tone steady and eyes avoiding theirs. "It came up unexpectedly. Classified. Might take a few days."
There was a brief silence. His mother's brows furrowed with concern.
"Another one? Can't they send someone else? You just returned from one, didn't you?"
Armaan gave a small smile. "This one's different. And I'm the only one suited for it. I'll be fine."
Sohana crossed her arms. "And where is this mission?"
Armaan paused for half a second—a moment long enough to be noticed.
"Somewhere far from here. I don't have clearance to share the exact location."
His mother sighed. She was used to these missions by now, but that didn't make it any easier.
"Just stay safe, Armaan. And update me if possible. You never call."
He gave a light laugh. "I will. Promise."
Sohana narrowed her eyes, watching him closely.
"You're hiding something."
Armaan didn't flinch. "I'm not."
"Then why do you look like you're going to war and not a mission?"
Another silence.
"I'll be back," he said simply. "Trust me."
And with that, he turned and left the room, footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Behind him, his mother stood still, dishcloth in hand.
Sohana watched his back disappear around the corner.
"…Something's not right," she murmured.
But neither of them stopped him.
Not tonight.
The sun had barely peeked over the horizon when Armaan stood at Howrah Station, his sling bag hanging lightly from one shoulder, a soft breeze tugging at the hem of his jacket. He'd said his quiet goodbye to his mother and elder sister Sohana, masking the truth under the veil of a "long Rakshak mission."
He boarded the early local train to Gunjanpur, his expression unreadable, eyes fixed on the blur of green fields and sleepy villages flashing past the window. The rocking of the train did little to quiet his mind. He wasn't nervous—but he wasn't calm either. Somewhere between resolve and uncertainty, he simply sat there—still.
An hour later, the train hissed to a halt at Gunjanpur station. He stepped off, greeted by the familiar silence of the rural outskirts. Slinging his bag properly, he started walking. The streets were still fresh with morning dew, the same route he had taken so many times before. The way to Farmaan's house hadn't changed. But something about this morning felt… different.
He reached the old iron gate of the two-storied house and knocked twice.
The door creaked open.
But it wasn't Farmaan who opened it.
It was Alya.
Armaan blinked, stunned.
"Wha—What the... Alya? What are you doing here?"
Alya folded her arms, a sly smile creeping up her lips, "For now, just come in. You'll know everything soon."
Armaan stood frozen for half a second, then exhaled with a sigh. "Unbelievable..."
Still, without a word more, he stepped inside.
As Armaan stepped into the living room, his eyes widened—and for a second, he just stood there, frozen.
Seated on the couches were not just Samar and Roumit, but also Advika, and beside her—Reet and Manvi.
"What the—?! What is this gathering!?" Armaan exclaimed.
He looked around in disbelief before turning toward the one person responsible for all kinds of unexpectedness in his life.
"Gramps…" Armaan said, furrowing his brow in mock irritation, "Don't tell me this is what you meant when you said, 'I'll prepare everything,' huh?"
Farmaan chuckled, arms crossed. "Caught me."
Armaan sighed dramatically and slumped onto the nearby couch. "Can someone just explain what exactly is going on here?"
Farmaan nodded. "Well, when all of them came to meet you that day... the day you broke down and told them everything... while you were asleep, they stayed back and we talked."
He looked at Samar and Roumit fondly. "That's when they told me—they want to go with you. To the Draconic Realm."
"What?" Armaan sat up immediately, looking from Samar to Roumit.
"You're serious?"
Samar nodded. "You're my brother. I'm not letting you face all that alone."
Roumit pushed his glasses up. "Besides, who else would scold you for your recklessness?"
Armaan glanced at Alya, who gave a soft smile. Advika smirked like she had seen it coming. Reet and Manvi simply waved.
"But I—" Armaan started, only for Farmaan to raise a hand.
"I know. You're going to say it's dangerous, that they don't have powers like you. But I've already decided. If the dragon permits... they'll go with you. I've already begun preparing their bodies for minimal spiritual alignment."
Armaan clenched his jaw. "You all already decided this? Without even telling me?"
"Because we knew you'd argue," Samar replied flatly.
"And you're arguing now," Roumit added.
Armaan stared at them all… then groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Unbelievable…"
"But," he said after a pause, looking serious, "this still depends on the dragon. I'll have to ask him first. It's not my choice to make alone."
"Then do that," Farmaan said, placing a hand on Armaan's shoulder. "But remember—you're not alone in this. You never were."
Armaan looked at the people around him—all of them smiling, determined, unwavering.
And for once, he didn't feel the weight of the world on his shoulders alone.
After the tension eased, Armaan finally turned to Reet and Manvi.
"Yo, long time no see," he said with a soft grin.
Reet smirked. "Huh, look who's acting all cool. Still remember how you almost drowned in the pasta bowl at Manvi's birthday? Pasta Warrior~!"
Armaan's grin twitched. "I knew I shouldn't have saved you that day..."
Everyone chuckled.
Manvi smiled gently, "It's good to see you again, Armaan. You look... different. Stronger."
He scratched his cheek, a little embarrassed. "Well, things have been... different."
Then, suddenly, he turned to Advika, narrowed his eyes, and without a word—flicked her forehead.
"OW! What the heck!?" she yelped, rubbing her forehead while still grinning.
"You really called me last night, talked for nearly half an hour, and didn't even mention this surprise?" Armaan asked, raising an eyebrow.
She stuck her tongue out. "It's called drama, Mr. Rakshak. Ever heard of it?"
Armaan just sighed in defeat.
But Alya, standing a few feet away, had noticed how easily he interacted with Advika. The forehead flick, the teasing—it stirred something inside her. A pinch of jealousy.
She looked away, but—
"Hey, Alya," Armaan called her, walking up with a gentle voice. "Thanks for yesterday. Really."
She blinked, flustered. "W-Why are you thanking me? I didn't do anything."
"You stayed," he said simply. "That's enough."
Alya's cheeks turned a slight pink again as she smiled, looking down.
For a moment, everything felt light again—like the storm had cleared, even if for a while.
Farmaan looked at Armaan with a calm nod.
"The room's ready for you, kid."
Armaan gave one last glance at everyone—Samar was tightening his wristband, Roumit adjusting his specs under the tube light, Advika playing with the wind chime on the window, and Alya, quietly watching him with hopeful eyes.
He didn't say a word. Just smiled faintly and headed upstairs.
The room was exactly how he remembered it. A quiet box of memories—wooden floor, old almirah, the same mat rolled in the corner... and that eerie stillness in the air.
He sat down cross-legged, placed both hands on his knees, exhaled deeply...
And then everything faded.
---
He opened his eyes—
Black void. No ground. No sky. No time.
And floating before him, coiling endlessly in the void like a crimson stream lost in an abyss, was the Deepsea Bloodshed Dragon.
Its body was still a bleeding mural of power—rivers of blood flowing like armor, void-black eyes gazing into his soul.
It opened its titanic maw and spoke, voice echoing like mountains collapsing.
"I know for what you have come."
A pause.
"I grant you permission."
Armaan's eyes widened slightly.
"Samar and Roumit shall accompany you... And I shall lend them a sliver of my power. Enough to keep them alive, should a dragon breathe their way."
Armaan blinked, surprised. "Oh... that was fast."
The dragon's gaze remained unblinking.
"But know this—"
"They go as mortals... just as you once did."
"But when they return... they shall become more."
Armaan's expression turned sharp, serious now.
"What... do you mean more?"
The dragon didn't smile. But its silence... was louder.
"You will find out soon."
A long pause.
Then it continued.
"When you return to the room, stand. Ask the two to hold your shoulders tightly. Then, call for me again. The rest is my task to handle."
Armaan stood straight, a small smirk returning to his face.
"Heh... got it, your majesty," he teased, his tone light.
And in a blink—
He was back.
When Armaan opened his eyes, the familiar ceiling greeted him. The air of the room still carried that eerie silence, but his heartbeat had settled. He stood up, cracked his neck a little, and walked down the stairs where everyone was still waiting, gathered in the drawing area.
They looked up immediately, expectantly.
"Well?" Samar asked, half standing.
Armaan sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
"It said yes."
Everyone's expressions relaxed—part relief, part anxiety.
He continued, "It's allowing you both—" he gestured toward Samar and Roumit, "—to come with me to the Draconic Realm."
Roumit blinked. "Wait... just like that?"
"Not really," Armaan said with a small smirk. "First, it mocked you both. Said it's lending you a sliver of its power. Just enough so you don't evaporate from a dragon's breath."
Samar narrowed his eyes. "It mocked us?"
"Literally said—'I'll give them just enough to survive a dragon's breath.'" Armaan chuckled lightly, then added more seriously, "But it also warned..."
Everyone straightened.
Armaan looked at both of them intently.
"He said we're going there as mortals. But when we return—we won't be the same. We'll be something... more."
There was a short silence. Even Advika's smile faded a bit.
Alya whispered, "That sounds... cryptic."
Roumit pushed up his glasses. "Cryptic is an understatement."
"But," Armaan stepped forward, resting his hands on both Samar's and Roumit's shoulders, "whatever we face there, we're facing it together. And I trust you guys."
Samar smirked. "Damn right."
Roumit nodded, adjusting his bag's strap with a flick.
Armaan looked at Farmaan, who gave a firm, proud nod.
"Everything's ready. It's time."
Armaan stood tall at the center of the room, his expression composed, yet fire burned quietly in his eyes. He was already in his Rakshak uniform—dark, sleek, lined with glowing insignias of his order. His aethar blade was fastened securely at his left waist, its chain gently swaying. His long black jacket, trimmed in silver, hung low till his ankles like a proud banner fluttering before war.
He glanced once over his shoulder.
Samar and Roumit nodded, already stepping up beside him.
"Hold tight to my shoulders," Armaan said, calm but commanding.
The room held its breath.
As Samar and Roumit gripped his shoulders firmly, Armaan took one last look around the room—the place where it had all begun, and now, where it would change forever.
He exhaled slowly, then smirked ever so slightly.
"Time to write a new legend..."
His voice rang with resolve, laced with fire.
"Let's fly."
He inhaled deep, and in the blink of an eye—
WHOOSH—
A swirling, circular gate burst open beneath their feet. It was pure shadow, inky and endless, shaped like a whirlpool of darkness.
And then—
They were gone.
Sucked in, as if devoured by the abyss itself.
Only the silent, swirling black mark on the ground remained for a second… before vanishing too.
The room was left in silence.