The Early Years in the Mortal Realm

In a small cottage at the edge of the village, the handmaiden who had once fled the Celestial Palace now lived a life of quiet simplicity.

Each morning, she lit the small hearth, warming the modest home before stepping out into the back garden to pick fresh vegetables and gather firewood.

Her life had changed forever since that fateful night—since the flight through darkness, since the pursuit through the haunted forests of Mount Mahameru.

But she had no regrets.

Now, Nagantara was two years old—a child with a bright smile and laughter that filled the silent home with warmth.

He grew strong, untouched by sickness, his silver-blue eyes brimming with light. Yet upon his back, the mark of the dragon still pulsed faintly, a glow that waxed and waned with the turning of the stars.

At night, when its glow shone too bright, the handmaiden was ever watchful, ensuring that no wandering eyes from the village might glimpse what should never be seen.

One evening, as Nagantara toddled toward the door, the handmaiden swiftly reached for his hand.

"You must never go outside at night, Nagantara."

The child tilted his head, his silver eyes wide with innocence.

"Why is it dangerous?" he asked, his voice still soft, words shaped by the unsteady cadence of youth.

The handmaiden smiled, yet there was sorrow in the curve of her lips.

"Because the world is not always kind, my child. You must stay here. With me."

Time passed.

Nagantara grew into a lively boy, filled with boundless curiosity.

He ran through the garden, chasing butterflies. He climbed the small trees, laughing as the wind ruffled his dark curls.

Yet the handmaiden knew—deep within her heart—that there was something beyond mortal understanding about this child.

Something that surpassed even her own comprehension.

One morning, as she stood by the small river, washing garments upon the smooth stones, she heard the sound of Nagantara's voice calling out.

"Mother! Look at this!"

She turned.

There, at the water's edge, stood Nagantara, his tiny hands cupped around a small fish, its delicate body writhing.

But that was not what stilled her breath.

The fish was encased in a soft, silver-blue light—the same glow that pulsed from Nagantara's dragon mark.

Her heart tightened.

"Mother, why is it glowing?" the boy asked, his eyes filled with wonder.

The handmaiden rushed forward, gently yet firmly taking the fish from Nagantara's hands, returning it to the flowing stream.

The silver-blue glow around the creature faded, dissolving into the rippling waters.

She knelt before Nagantara, her hands resting on his small shoulders, her grip gentle but firm.

"Nagantara," she said, her voice quiet but serious. "What did you just do?"

The boy's silver eyes blinked, filled with the innocence of childhood.

"I don't know," he admitted. "The fish looked sad, so I held it… and then the light appeared."

The handmaiden sighed, long and slow.

This was the first true sign.

His power had begun to awaken—far sooner than she had feared.

But no one could know. Not the villagers. Not anyone.

She met his gaze, her tone soft but resolute.

"Listen to me, child."

She cupped his face lightly, ensuring he understood every word.

"Whatever you just did—you must never show it to anyone. This is our secret. Do you understand?"

Nagantara nodded, though confusion clouded his young features.

"Why must it be a secret?"

The handmaiden's gaze darkened, shadows flickering behind her eyes.

"Because this world is not yet ready to see you for what you truly are."

She smoothed back his dark curls, forcing a small smile.

"But one day, you will understand why."

Whispers in the Village

The days passed.

And Nagantara began to understand.

There was something different about him.

He felt it—a quiet hum beneath his skin, a force stirring in his veins, allowing him to do things no other child could.

But he had learned to hide it, just as his mother had taught him.

Yet even in secrecy, the village began to notice.

The whispers began softly.

At first, curiosity. Then doubt.

People watched him with cautious interest.

A child with strange eyes, a child with a mark upon his back.

Then the stories grew.

They spoke of how the garden behind his home flourished unnaturally fast.

How the river shimmered with an eerie glow whenever he wandered near.

"That boy is not ordinary," an old woman muttered in the market square. "He carries something within him—whether it is a blessing or a curse, I do not yet know."

Time moved forward.

Nagantara was now five years old.

He was swift and agile, his boundless curiosity leading him through the forests and rivers that had become his home.

He climbed trees with ease, he danced with the wind, he sat by the water's edge, tossing pebbles into the flowing stream.

Yet he also sensed that his world was more complex than it seemed.

At first, the villagers simply watched.

But the small wonders that followed Nagantara's presence soon changed their gaze from curiosity to something else.

A wounded bird healed in his hands.

A dying tree bore fruit once more after he had rested beneath its boughs.

The people spoke in hushed voices, uncertain of what to make of the boy.

"The child brings fortune," some whispered, awe-struck by the wonders he left in his wake.

But others…

Others were not so sure.

"A blessing or a curse?" another voice murmured, thick with suspicion. "Such things do not happen without reason."

Within the quiet cottage, the handmaiden listened to the whispers of the village, her heart heavy with unease.

She had known this day would come.

The people of this world did not always welcome that which they did not understand.

And though she had tried to shield Nagantara, she knew she could not hide him forever.

One evening, she sat upon the wooden steps of their small home, watching as Nagantara played before her.

The boy knelt in the dirt, dragging a small wooden stick across the earth—drawing symbols in the dust.

A great circle, within it a coiled dragon, its form eerily familiar.

The same mark that shimmered upon his back.

"Nagantara."

Her voice was gentle, yet firm.

The child lifted his head. "Yes, Mother?"

She hesitated only a moment. Then, softly:

"You must be careful."

Her words were calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency in them.

"The people here… they are not like us. They will not understand who you are."

Nagantara frowned, tilting his head. "Why?"

"Because you are different, my child. And difference often breeds fear."

The boy nodded slowly, though his young mind could not yet grasp the weight of her words.

Yet somewhere within him, a seed of understanding had been planted.

A feeling he could not yet name.

That he did not quite belong.

The Challenge by the River

The following day, as Nagantara wandered along the riverbank, a group of village boys approached.

Their faces were alight with a mixture of curiosity and something darker—doubt, perhaps even hostility.

Each bore a small wooden stick, held lightly but with purpose.

The largest of them, a boy with thick, curled hair, stepped forward.

"You're strange," he declared. "Why did your back glow the other night? I saw it."

Nagantara froze.

He searched for an answer, but the others did not wait.

"Are you a monster?" another boy taunted. "Or are you something evil?"

"No."

Nagantara's voice was soft, yet resolute.

"I am not evil."

The first boy smirked.

"Then prove it."

He lifted his stick, not in violence, but in challenge—to provoke a reaction.

Nagantara did not flinch.

He simply watched him, his silver-blue eyes unblinking beneath the sunlight.

The soft glow within them unsettled the others.

One of the boys instinctively stepped back, though he could not say why.

Then—

"Look! He is a monster!"

A boy shrieked, his fear breaking loose.

And with that, they turned and fled.

The other children fled, leaving Nagantara alone by the riverbank.

He did not move.

He only stared into the water, watching his own reflection ripple upon the surface.

Inside him, a quiet pain stirred—a wound he did not understand.

Why were they afraid of him?

That night, the handmaiden found him sitting alone outside their small cottage, his arms wrapped around his knees.

She stepped out into the cool night air, settling beside him on the wooden steps.

Above them, the sky was scattered with stars, a vast ocean of silver light.

She waited for him to speak.

At last, he did.

"They called me a monster."

His voice was small, yet heavy with something deeper—doubt, sorrow, confusion.

"Am I a monster, Mother?"

She was silent for a moment.

Then, gently, she placed a hand upon his small shoulder.

"No, my child."

Her voice was soft, yet firm.

"You are not a monster. You are something greater—something beyond what they can comprehend."

He lifted his gaze, silver eyes shimmering in the darkness.

"Then why do they fear me?"

She sighed, her fingers tightening slightly on his shoulder.

"Because they do not understand what you carry within you."

Her gaze drifted toward the distant mountains, as though seeking answers in the faraway peaks.

"Sometimes, things we do not understand seem frightening. But one day, they will know the truth."

Nagantara nodded slowly, though the sadness in his eyes did not fade.

He said nothing more that night.

Yet within him, something had changed.

A quiet understanding.

That his fate was greater than he had ever imagined.

A Presence in the Dark

The village slumbered, wrapped in the hush of midnight.

But the air was colder than usual.

The wind from Mount Mahameru carried the scent of damp earth—but something else as well.

A presence.

A stirring that none could name, yet all could feel.

And in the forest beyond the village, something moved.

A shadow—shapeless, shifting, its crimson eyes glowing like embers.

It had no true form, only the whisper of something unnatural.

It was a hunter.

A seeker, sent by the Council of the Gods.

A creature that did not tire, did not waver.

Its sole purpose—to find Nagantara.

It came to a halt at the village's edge, its gaze sweeping across the sleeping homes, their windows glowing dimly with the last flickers of oil lamps.

Though Nagantara's mark was faint, its power still whispered across the air—a call only the hunter could hear.

It let out a low, guttural growl—a sound like the wind keening through hollow stone—before gliding forward, its shadow stretching long beneath the moonlight.

It moved toward a small cottage, the one set apart from the rest.

The one where the child slept.

Inside, Nagantara lay upon a woven mat, deep in the peace of childhood slumber.

The handmaiden sat nearby, her hands spinning fine threads from the fibers of the forest trees.

A simple task.

A quiet night.

Yet something shifted in the air.

A sense of wrongness.

A coldness she had not felt before.

She stilled, her hands tightening around the thread.

Then—

A sound.

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

Just outside the door.

Her breath caught in her throat.

In one swift motion, she extinguished the oil lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

She crept to the bamboo wall, pressing her eye to a small gap in the woven slats.

And what she saw froze her blood.

A great shadow, towering and formless, its eyes like burning coals, drawing closer to the door.

It had found them.

The handmaiden reached swiftly beneath the woven mat, her fingers closing around a small dagger—a blade she knew was useless against such a creature.

But she had no other choice.

With careful movements, she shook Nagantara gently, her voice barely a whisper.

"Nagantara, wake up."

The child stirred, his silver-blue eyes fluttering open. "What is it, Mother?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"There is no time to explain. We must leave. Now."

Without hesitation, she lifted him into her arms, wrapping him tightly in a thick cloth, shielding him from the cold.

"Stay silent, my child."

Nagantara nodded, sensing the tension in the air. He did not yet understand, but he trusted her.

Behind them, the door creaked open.

The creature stepped inside, its ragged breath filling the room, its burning eyes sweeping the shadows.

It searched, its presence pressing against the walls like an unseen weight.

But it found nothing.

With a low growl, it inhaled deeply, sifting through the air for the lingering trace of Nagantara's energy.

Beyond the walls, the handmaiden ran.

Her steps were quick, light, her breath controlled as she pressed forward into the darkened forest.

She had to get as far away as possible before the creature realized they were gone.

But she was not fast enough.

With a snarl, the beast burst from the house, its blazing eyes locking onto them immediately.

The hunt had begun anew.

The handmaiden ran, clutching Nagantara tightly against her chest.

But the shadows moved faster than flesh.

In the span of a breath, the creature leapt before them, blocking their path.

Its crimson eyes burned, its form looming, darkness twisting around it like smoke given life.

Its growl sent a shudder through the trees, the very air vibrating with its presence.

The handmaiden stopped, her heart pounding.

Her grip tightened around the dagger—a futile weapon against such a thing.

She glanced down at Nagantara, her eyes filled with sorrow.

"Forgive me, my child," she whispered. "I am not strong enough."

The creature advanced, each step slow, deliberate—a predator savoring its inevitable victory.

Then—

A light burst forth.

A brilliant, blinding blue radiance, erupting from Nagantara's back.

The creature froze, a snarl turning into a hiss of agony as the light scorched its form.

The handmaiden staggered back, her eyes wide as she watched Nagantara slip from her arms and stand on his own.

His silver eyes shone, no longer the gaze of a child, but something ancient, something powerful.

The mark upon his back burned like a star, illuminating the darkness.

"Do not touch her."

Nagantara's voice was not that of a child.

It rippled with something deeper, something that sent a tremor through the air.

He lifted his hand, and from the dragon's mark, a wave of energy surged forward—

—hurling the beast back with unimaginable force.

The creature let out a terrible shriek, its form convulsing, writhing as the light consumed it.

Then, in an instant—

It vanished.

Gone, as though it had never been.

Silence fell.

The handmaiden stood motionless, her body trembling between fear and awe.

Slowly, Nagantara turned, his silver eyes fading back to their normal glow.

A small, tired smile flickered across his lips.

"Mother… I protected you."

Then—his small body wavered.

And he collapsed into her arms.

She caught him, clutching him tightly, her breath ragged with emotion.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she whispered:

"You protected me, my child."

Her arms tightened around him, her gaze lifting toward the darkness beyond the trees.

"But I do not know how much longer we can survive this."