A Storm Within!

Maqbir staggered out of the cave, his mind in turmoil. Meilin—his first wife, long thought dead—had returned, speaking of the Creator and an impending war that would shake the very foundations of Prithvi. His children—Shailya and Tanii—were now beyond his reach. His heart ached, but his body burned with fury.

The heavens seemed to mirror his agony as rain poured from the sky, drenching him in a relentless downpour. His breaths were ragged, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. He tilted his head up, letting the cold rain mix with his warm tears.

"I trusted you, Meilin… I trusted you!"

His roar echoed through the shallow forest, shaking the branches of nearby trees. The air grew heavy, thick with his rage. But his fury did not go unnoticed.

A low growl reverberated through the rain. The same monstrous presence from before—an unseen entity that had stalked him—now emerged from the shadows. It was a grotesque beast, standing on six jagged limbs, its skin resembling charred rock, steaming as the rain hit it. Its many eyes glowed a sickly yellow, locked onto Maqbir with predatory intent.

Maqbir exhaled sharply, his body stiffening. His fingers instinctively curled around the hilt of his sword.

The Sword of Despair.

A dark, unholy blade, bound to its wielder's emotions. It responded to pain, to suffering, to hopelessness—and tonight, Maqbir was filled with all three.

The beast lunged first. Its maw, lined with jagged teeth, opened wide to swallow him whole. But Maqbir sidestepped at the last moment, twisting his body and slashing at its exposed ribs. Sparks flew as his blade barely scratched the creature's hardened hide. The impact sent Maqbir skidding back.

The beast laughed, a guttural, wretched sound.

"Too weak…" it rasped, stepping forward. "You reek of grief… of loss. That is why you shall die."

Maqbir gritted his teeth. The sword in his hand pulsed. He could feel it. His despair was feeding into the blade, whispering to him, begging to be set free.

He gripped the hilt tighter.

"Then let's see how much despair I have left to give," he growled.

The first form of the Sword of Despair awakened.

"Form One: Lamenting Strike."

A deep, sorrowful hum resonated from the blade. The rain around it evaporated as a crimson glow flickered along the steel. Maqbir surged forward, slashing diagonally across the beast's torso.

For the first time, the creature roared in agony. Black, acidic blood sprayed from the wound, sizzling as it hit the ground. Maqbir did not stop. He slashed again and again, his movements fueled by grief, by rage. The sword wept with him, each swing heavier than the last.

The beast attempted to counter, swiping its massive claws toward him. Maqbir barely dodged, but the edge of its talon tore through his shoulder. Blood poured down his arm, but he didn't flinch. He merely adjusted his grip and raised his sword high.

"Die."

He drove the blade straight through the creature's skull.

The beast spasmed violently, screeching in agony. Maqbir twisted the sword deeper, his face expressionless, as though his fury had burned out into something cold and merciless.

But it wasn't enough. His rage hadn't faded.

He kept stabbing. Again. And again. And again.

By the time his fury had subsided, the creature was unrecognizable, its body mangled beyond form. Maqbir stood over the carcass, chest heaving, rain washing the blood from his face.

With one fluid motion, he flicked his sword to the side, sending a crimson arc of blood scattering across the wet earth. He sheathed the weapon but did not move.

He lifted his head toward the sky, his face devoid of emotion.

Then, without warning—

BOOM!

He slashed the air with all his might. A devastating shockwave erupted from his blade, tearing through the forest. Trees were cleaved in half, splitting like brittle twigs. Animals shrieked and fled. Even the rain seemed to pause, if only for a moment, as the force of his strike echoed through the land.

Silence.

Maqbir stood alone, breathing heavily. His rage had finally settled, but the emptiness remained.

"Meilin… you're alive."

The words still echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than any blade ever could. For years, he had accepted her death. He had moved on, rebuilt his life, taken a new wife, raised his children. But she had been alive all along, walking a path he could never have imagined—working for the Creator.

"First, you came for your daughter, and now for your son."

Maqbir clenched his fists as he trudged through the forest. His boots sank into the mud, the soil soft from the relentless rain. Thunder rumbled above, mirroring his frustration.

"Did I fail her? Did I fail them?"

Tanii. Shailya. They had already lost so much. Now, Meilin wanted to take them away—to train them, to prepare them for a future where war loomed over Prithvi like a vulture circling its dying prey. Maqbir knew war was inevitable, but could he bear the thought of letting go of his children?

He stumbled, catching himself against a gnarled tree. The bark felt rough beneath his fingers, grounding him for a moment. His breath came out in ragged pants, mixing with the rain as he whispered, "Shailya… Tanii…"

A sudden gust of wind shook the branches above, making the leaves tremble. The world around him felt alive, as if it, too, grieved with him. Somewhere in the distance, the wail of a lone jackal echoed—a haunting sound that sent a chill down Maqbir's spine.

"This isn't the time for weakness."

Gritting his teeth, he pushed forward, each step fueled by a new resolve. Meilin's words still rang in his ears. "The War is near, I want you to train a leader."

"A leader… of what? Of a dying world?"

He reached the outskirts of Diwankula, where the first few houses stood, their warm lights flickering through the rain. His home was close. He had only a few hours before the Clan Meeting. He had to compose himself. He had to wear the mask of a leader, no matter how much his heart ached.

As he stepped onto the cobbled path leading to the Mahoraga estate, the rain grew heavier, as if the sky itself mourned with him.

Meanwhile, in the Realm of the Soul

Shailya stood within an endless void, surrounded by nothingness. Before him, Vahalla loomed like a god, his piercing gaze unreadable.

"You rely too much on what you see," Vahalla's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. "Your eyes deceive you. They distract you from what is real."

Shailya wiped the sweat from his forehead, adjusting his stance. His prediction senses had improved, but they were still incomplete. He had to learn to go beyond them—to feel the flow of battle rather than react to it.

Vahalla stepped forward, raising a single hand.

"Attack me."

Shailya hesitated, then gripped his sword and lunged. His movements were fast—no, they were perfect. His strikes carried precision, his footwork honed from hours of relentless training.

But in the next instant—

BAM!

Shailya's body was sent flying. He hit the ground hard, pain flaring through his ribs. He coughed, gasping for air.

Vahalla had barely moved.

"You predict attacks before they happen, but that is not enough," Vahalla said, walking toward him. "You must learn to predict without seeing."

Shailya struggled to his feet, gripping his sword tighter. His mind raced, replaying the fight.

What did I miss?

Vahalla smirked, watching him closely.

"Again."

And so, Shailya attacked once more—determined to surpass his limits.

Inside the Mahoraga Estate

Dakuni stood by the window, watching the storm rage outside. Her hands were clasped together, her brows furrowed in worry. Maqbir had left hours ago, and he still hadn't returned.

The house was filled with murmurs. Guests had started arriving for the Clan Meeting, exchanging pleasantries, unaware of her unease. She caught glimpses of them through the wooden partitions—distant relatives, powerful clan heads, warriors adorned in ceremonial robes.

A familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Dakuni, where is Maqbir?"

She turned to see an elderly man, his sharp gaze piercing through her. It was Haruzo Mahoraga, one of the oldest members of the Mahoraga Clan and a friend of Maqbir's father. His presence alone commanded attention.

"He stepped out for a bit, but he will return soon," she answered with a forced smile.

Haruzo studied her for a moment before nodding. "The meeting begins soon. If he is not here, the elders will not take it lightly."

Dakuni exhaled as the old man walked away. She turned back to the window. The rain had begun to slow. Maqbir… where are you?

Just as the thought crossed her mind, the front doors swung open. A cold gust of wind swept into the estate, followed by a drenched figure.

Maqbir.

He stepped inside, water dripping from his hair, his robes soaked through. His eyes were shadowed with something Dakuni had never seen before—a pain deeper than exhaustion, heavier than duty.

"You're back," she whispered, stepping forward. "Maqbir, where—"

"I'll explain later," he cut her off. His voice was low, strained. "Prepare for the meeting. I'll be there soon."

Dakuni hesitated but nodded. She knew better than to press him when he was like this.

Maqbir walked past her, heading to his chamber. As he passed, she caught a glimpse of his hands—clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

And for the first time, a sliver of fear crept into Dakuni's heart.

As Maqbir shut the door to his chamber, he finally let himself breathe. His reflection stared back at him from the polished bronze mirror—a man torn between past and present, between duty and fatherhood.

Meilin's words lingered.

"Leave your children to me, just the way I left our daughter in your hands."

Maqbir turned to the window, his gaze distant. The storm had passed, leaving behind a heavy, damp silence. Raindrops clung stubbornly to the glass,

glistening like remnants of a shattered past. The world outside was still, but within him, the tempest raged on.

"The true storm has only just begun."

He exhaled slowly, his breath fogging up the window. For too long, he had carried the weight of old wounds, shackled to ghosts that refused to fade. But clinging to the past was a burden for the weak. He was not weak. He was Maqbir Mahoraga—the Clan Head.

"A man who walks forward does not look back. Duty is the only path, and I must walk it, no matter how much it cuts into me."

A voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Maqbir, have you seen Tanii anywhere?" Dakuni's soft inquiry carried a trace of concern.

Maqbir let out a quiet chuckle, one filled with a sorrow he could not express. So, she was not joking after all. Meilin had taken their daughter, just as she had said she would.

He turned to Dakuni, his expression unreadable. Then, gently, he took her hand in his own.

"Don't concern yourself with her," he said, his voice steady, as if anchoring himself to the present. "She is with my old friend—safe and secure."

Dakuni studied him for a moment, searching his eyes. She had known Maqbir long enough to sense the unspoken turmoil behind his words. But she did not press him. Instead, she smiled.

"You startled me, but... it's fine," she said with quiet reassurance. "I trust you. And I trust your friend."

Her words, so simple yet unwavering, struck Maqbir deeper than any sword ever could. A sudden warmth surged through his chest—an unfamiliar but welcome feeling. His entire life had been one of battles, bloodshed, and sacrifice, yet here, in this fleeting moment, he found something he had long forgotten.

He found peace.

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. He pulled Dakuni into his arms, holding her as if she were the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

Dakuni's voice was gentle. "Is everything alright, honey?"

Maqbir closed his eyes, allowing himself to surrender, just for a moment.

"Yes," he whispered, a small smile forming on his lips. "Everything is fine."

For the first time in a long time, he meant it.

The past had carved its wounds into him, but he would not let it define him. He would not be consumed by regret.

"The past is a lesson, not a prison. And a man who bears responsibility cannot afford to falter."

And so, as the night deepened, Maqbir, Dakuni, and Meilin each stepped into a new phase of their lives. The storm had passed, but the road ahead was long.

And Maqbir Mahoraga would walk it.

[To be Continued in Chapter 35]