Chapter 3: The Deva’s Mark

Blinding golden light flooded the ruined temple. Aryan squeezed his eyes shut as the searing energy surged from his palm, scorching the ground around him. The wave of power blasted outward, hurling Raktavij backward.

The Asura slammed into the crumbling temple wall with a thunderous crack, shattering the stone behind him. For the first time, his smirk faded—replaced by shock.

Aryan dropped to his knees, gasping for air. His hands trembled, still pulsing with golden energy. The remnants of the orb disintegrated into shimmering dust, swirling around him before branding his wrist with a glowing symbol—a radiant, circular sigil with three intersecting lines, reminiscent of the Trishul.

The moment the mark appeared, the air shifted.

The ruins, once dark and suffocating, were now illuminated by a soft, divine light. The choking aura of dread retreated.

Raktavij's eyes narrowed. His voice was low, a dangerous growl.

"Impossible…" he hissed. "The Deva's Mark?"

Aryan stared at his wrist, his breath still ragged. His vision blurred in and out of focus. The symbol burned faintly, but strangely, it didn't hurt. Instead, it felt… familiar. As if it had always been there, waiting to be awakened.

From the rubble, Vikram's hoarse voice echoed.

"Dude… what the hell was that?"

But before Aryan could respond, the ground trembled again—only this time, it wasn't from Raktavij.

A golden portal split the air behind him. Warm, celestial light poured through it, and from within the rift, two figures stepped out.

The first was a woman with skin like molten bronze, her hair flowing like liquid gold. She wore a regal crown and armor etched with runes. Her eyes, piercing and fierce, gleamed like burning suns.

The second was a tall man with storm-gray eyes and a sharp, angular face. His silver hair billowed unnaturally, though there was no wind. He carried a spear crackling with lightning, and his presence made the air vibrate with power.

Aryan's eyes widened. Even without being told, he knew who they were.

Varuna, the god of water and justice.

Indra, the god of thunder and storms.

The Devas had come.

Raktavij's eyes darkened. He spat blood onto the temple floor and let out a guttural snarl.

"You called them here…" he seethed, his voice dripping with venom. "You fool."

Aryan staggered to his feet, disoriented. "I-I didn't—"

But Varuna raised his hand, and the crumbling ruins froze in place. The swirling dust and debris stilled mid-air, as if caught in an invisible current.

Indra's eyes narrowed on Raktavij. Lightning crackled around his spear.

"Your time is over, Asura," he growled.

Raktavij, despite being outnumbered, chuckled. His eyes flashed with cruel amusement.

"Time?" he sneered. "You cannot stop time, Deva. It is already shifting."

Without warning, Raktavij's body dissolved into black mist, melting into the shadows. His laughter echoed through the broken temple as he vanished.

"Run while you can, boy," his voice hissed from the void. "You are no longer mortal. The hunt has begun."

And then, he was gone.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The temple was nothing more than a pile of rubble, and the golden light of the portal slowly dimmed. The sigil on Aryan's wrist pulsed faintly, as if recognizing the Devas' presence.

Indra stepped forward, his sharp gaze locking onto Aryan.

"You are marked by the Devas now," he said, his voice low but powerful. "You carry our blessing… and our curse."

Aryan's throat was dry. "What… what does that mean?"

Varuna's voice was gentler, but equally firm.

"It means you are now part of the war, whether you wish it or not." She knelt beside him, her eyes ancient and sorrowful, as though she had seen countless mortals fall before.

"The Asuras will come for you," she warned. "And the Devas will protect you. But you must choose… to either embrace your fate—" her eyes hardened—

"—or be consumed by it."

Aryan's legs felt weak. His head spun. Just hours ago, he was a normal guy sneaking into a ruined temple on a stupid bet. And now?

Now, he was marked by gods.

Hunted by demons.

And bound to a war as old as time itself.

Vikram stumbled over, holding his bruised arm. "I… I think I peed a little," he muttered, wide-eyed.

Despite himself, Aryan let out a shaky laugh, still half in shock.

"Yeah… same."

But in the back of his mind, one question gnawed at him.

What had he become?