5. The Spark Before the Flame

The following day, the academy bustled with its usual arrogance. Inner disciples paraded their power, flaunting their talents, while outer disciples like Ruhi and Aayan remained shadows on the fringes—unseen, unheard, and unimportant.

But something had shifted.

Aayan wasn't the same boy who endured beatings in silence. The Dam'n Fucking God System pulsed within him like a heartbeat, feeding his mind with newfound clarity. It wasn't just power he craved—it was control over his destiny. And Ruhi? She was the first step toward that control.

But strangely, it didn't feel like she was just a mission.

Ruhi sat on the edge of her small, creaky bed, her injured ankle propped up with a cloth-wrapped stone to keep it elevated. The bruises on her arms had darkened overnight, aching with every slight movement. She sighed, feeling the familiar sting of helplessness.

A soft knock interrupted her spiral of thoughts.

She frowned. No one ever visited her.

Limping slightly, she opened the door—and there he was.

Aayan.

His disheveled hair caught the dim glow of the lanterns lining the hallway. He held a small, makeshift tray crafted from an old wooden plank. On it sat two bowls of steaming rice, some boiled vegetables, and what looked like poorly cooked meat. But it was warm, and the aroma—though simple—felt like a luxury compared to the cold, bland meals usually served to outer disciples.

"I figured you didn't eat much yesterday," Aayan said quietly, avoiding her gaze as if embarrassed. "Thought you might be hungry."

Ruhi blinked, her chest tightening with an emotion she couldn't name. No one had ever done something like this for her—not without expecting something in return.

She stepped aside without a word, silently inviting him in.

The room was small, barely enough space for the rickety bed, a cracked mirror, and a wooden crate serving as a table. Aayan set the tray down carefully, sitting cross-legged on the floor without hesitation.

Ruhi sat opposite him, tucking her injured foot beneath her other leg.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the faint chirps of night insects outside and the distant laughter of inner disciples basking in their superiority.

Aayan finally broke the silence.

"I'm not a good cook," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "But it's warm."

Ruhi picked up the bowl, her fingers brushing his for a fleeting second. A strange warmth spread from that brief touch, making her heart stutter. She quickly looked away, focusing on the food.

They ate in silence for a while, the simple meal somehow tasting better than anything she'd had in weeks.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aayan didn't answer immediately. He set his bowl down, staring at his hands—the same hands that had been clenched into fists more times than he could count, either to fight back or to endure.

"Because no one was ever nice to me when I needed it," he replied softly. "And I know what it feels like… to be invisible."

His honesty disarmed her more than any charm could have.

She looked at him differently then—not as the academy's loser, but as someone who carried invisible scars, just like her.

After they finished eating, Aayan cleaned up without waiting for her to offer. He even adjusted her makeshift ankle support, his fingers lingering a bit longer this time, his touch gentle but firm.

Ruhi's heart raced.

It wasn't just the warmth of his hands—it was the way he looked at her. Not with pity. Not with judgment. But with something raw, something real.

When he finished, he didn't leave immediately.

Instead, he sat back down, his eyes meeting hers.

"Do you ever feel like you're meant for more?" he asked quietly.

Ruhi swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

"I used to," she whispered. "Before the academy crushed that hope."

Aayan leaned forward slightly, his eyes dark and intense under the flickering lantern light.

"Then maybe it's time to hope again."

The room grew unbearably silent after that, the air thick with something neither of them could name.

Aayan reached out slowly, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair from Ruhi's face. His fingers lingered near her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin softly.

Ruhi's breath hitched.

She should've pulled away. She should've said something. But she didn't.

Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

When she opened them again, he was closer.

His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes—as if silently asking for permission.

And Ruhi… she didn't say no.

Their lips met softly at first, hesitant and unsure. But the moment their mouths touched, something ignited.

Aayan's hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. His lips were warm, slightly rough, but it only made the sensation more intoxicating.

Ruhi's hands found his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his worn-out shirt, anchoring herself to the moment.

The kiss grew hungrier, more desperate, as if they were both trying to drown out years of loneliness and rejection in each other's touch.

Aayan gently laid her back against the thin mattress, his body hovering over hers, careful not to put pressure on her injured ankle. His lips trailed from her mouth to her jaw, then down the curve of her neck, leaving a trail of heat wherever he touched.

Ruhi's breath grew ragged, her heart racing uncontrollably.

"Aayan…" she whispered, her voice trembling—not from fear, but anticipation.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers.

"If you want me to stop, just say it," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

But Ruhi didn't want him to stop.

For the first time in forever, she felt seen. Wanted.

She pulled him back down, her lips finding his again.

And the night was just starting