BORN OF A MONSTER

The First Breath Scorched His Lungs

The first breath scorched his lungs. His body is weak. Fragile. Useless.

A newborn's cries echo in the house—his own.

Nayra hates this part. The helplessness. The waiting. The wasted time before he can move, act, fight again.

A woman's voice, raw with exhaustion, cuts through the haze.

"He's beautiful…"

Same as last time. The same soft warmth. The same tired joy.

Then, his father's voice—hard, expectant:

"He will unlock his chakras like the others. He must be strong."

Of course. The man has never changed. Power is all he values. Just like last life.

Nayra's tiny fingers twitch. Deep within his soul, the Sudarshana Chakra hums—his anchor, his curse. As long as it exists, death is just a doorway.

Again.

But this time…

He will go further before they come for him.

And then—his parents speak the name that binds him to this world once more:

"Nayra."

A whisper. A decree.

His mother's lips part, her words slurred with fatigue: "A strong name… He'll surpass us all."

Nayra listens.

Not with an infant's dull senses—but with a mind sharpened by lifetimes.

He knows this scene. The same house. The same words. The same frail hope in his mother's voice.

He has been born here before.

He has grown.

He has died screaming.

This isn't life.

This is a cage of seconds and heartbeats, and time is the only jailer that matters.

But not this time.

His tiny fingers twitch, a movement so slight it might be a trick of the flickering light.

Powerless now.

Not for long.

Behind those newborn eyes, his mind is already unspooling futures, plotting paths, sharpening knives yet to be held.

His parents name him with love.

Their eyes—warm, hopeful—gaze upon him as if he is something precious. A blessing. A child to be cradled, protected, cherished.

They are fools.

Nayra does not see guardians when he looks at them. He does not see people.

He sees raw material.

The Headslayer Cutter.

A blade forged from the bones of one's own parents. An abomination whispered of only in the darkest corners of forbidden knowledge. A weapon born from the ultimate severance—of blood, of weakness, of all sentimentality.

And it holds a power beyond steel.

The Headslayer Cutter does not cut flesh. It does not break armor.

It shatters minds.

Any opponent with a will weaker than the wielder's collapses before the blade even touches them. A weapon of pure psychological annihilation.

But to forge it…

He needs their bones.

Eliminating them now is impossible. His body is weak and useless. Even if he somehow manages it, he will die before he can shape their remains into a weapon.

No.

He will wait.

He will grow.

He will strengthen.

And when the moment comes, he will take what he needs.

For now, he plays his part—the helpless, innocent child.

Just as he has before.

His father's rough fingers brush against his tiny hand. "Nayra… I wonder what kind of man you will grow up to be."

Nayra's fingers twitch.

[A man? No. A monster in the human skin.]

His mother smiles, her voice soft with exhaustion. "He will be strong. I can feel it."

His father chuckles. "Then he must have inherited your will. I am nothing but a humble man."

His mother shakes her head, still staring at the child in her arms. "No. He is different. There's something… powerful about him."

Nayra lies still, his newborn eyes barely open, watching them.

[You have no idea.]

His parents are normal people—simple villagers with only the first chakra gate unlocked. They want nothing more than to live peacefully.

But in his past life, they died in the war that would come.

This time, they will serve a different purpose.

Outside, the world does not care for innocence.

This is an age where chakras bloom at birth—where power is not gifted, but expected. Those who fail to awaken are cast aside, their lives deemed worthless before they have even begun. The strong rise. The weak vanish.

And Nayra?

To all eyes, he is one of the cursed few—born with his chakras still locked.

Or so they believe.

The truth hums beneath his infant skin. He has walked this path before. In past lives, he was discarded at first, only to unlock his chakras later.

His chakras will awaken when he chooses, not when nature demands.

His father leans back, the weight of the world in his sigh. "We should test him soon. If he hasn't awakened..."

His mother stiffens, arms tightening around her child. "Don't. He's just—"

"You know how this world is," his father interrupts, voice rough. "No chakra means... complications."

"Then we protect him," she whispers into Nayra's downy hair.

[Foolish.]

Nayra already knows the truth about his body. The locked chakras mean nothing.

Even when they test him—when they always test him—the results will lie. A trick of energy. A carefully crafted deception.

Let them think him powerless.

Let them lower their guard.

For now.

The house groans under the storm's fury, the wind screaming through every crack. His mother sleeps, her exhausted breaths barely audible over the tempest. His father slumps against the wall, sword at his side, fighting to keep his eyes open.

Nayra does not sleep.

An infant's body should be lost to senseless oblivion—but his mind burns through the limitations of flesh.

Then he feels it.

A presence.

Not the gods.

Something beyond.

[The Larger Cosmos.]

It has found him.

No shape. No voice. Just the weight of something vast pressing against reality itself, the air thickening with its attention.

It never intervenes.

But it sees him.

A thought-not-thought slithers into his consciousness:

"You should not exist."

Nayra's lips curl—a grotesque parody of a smile on a newborn's face.

Let it watch.

Existence is his to claim.

And this cycle, he will wrench it from the hands of fate itself.

His father jerks upright, hand flying to his sword. "Strange... I could've sworn—"

His mother stirs. "Mmm...?"

"Nothing," his father mutters, though his eyes dart to the shadows. "Just... a feeling. Like eyes on my back."

She exhales, half-asleep. "You're exhausted. Rest."

A pause. Then his father's calloused hand settles on Nayra's head. "Sleep well, Nayra."

Silence.

They do not know.

But the night has tipped.

Something has shifted.

Four winters have come and gone since his birth.

To his parents, he is simply a child—quiet, perhaps too observant, but still just a boy. They clothe him. Feed him. Love him in their own flawed way, never suspecting the thing that wears their son's face.

But Nayra is no child.

His mind is a graveyard of lifetimes:

Aryan, the first life—a meaningless death on a world called Earth.

The second hell—a brutal existence in this very world, where he was broken, discarded, and left to rot by those stronger than him.

Those memories have scoured his soul clean of warmth. What remains is something sharper. Colder.

Yet he plays the role perfectly.

Laughing when expected. Crying when necessary. A masterful pantomime of innocence.

Because this world punishes recklessness.

Power draws the eyes of the gods too soon.

So he grows in the dark—

—muscles tightening with stolen training,

—chakras coiled like sleeping serpents,

—patience honed to a razor's edge.

The moment he steps into the light, the hunt will begin.

And Nayra?

He intends to be the hunter.