The night was unnaturally quiet.
The winds had stilled. The rivers had paused. The stars refused to shine. Above the sacred land of Bharata, a rare lunar eclipse loomed — one not seen in a thousand years. The Vedic seers had long predicted this night, scrawled across ancient palm-leaf manuscripts in faded ink and guarded inside temples hidden from the eyes of kings and sages. It was known as the *Ratri Sankramana* — the Night of Crossing. The realms of mortals, gods, and demons would briefly align, and in that fragile moment, a soul of pure dharma would descend.
Deep within the Vindhya forest, far from cities and kingships, the ruins of an old ashram echoed with the cries of a woman in labor. This wasn't an ordinary woman — her name was **Vedika**, once a princess of the kingdom of Kalinga, who had vanished three years ago after renouncing her crown. She lay now on a bed of lotus leaves, her body covered in sweat and ash. Around her, glowing *yantras* made of turmeric and vermilion pulsed softly with divine energy.
Beside her knelt a man both ancient and eternal — **Maharishi Karunesh**. His white beard flowed down his chest, eyes closed in deep chanting, fingers weaving mudras as sacred mantras spilled from his lips like rivers of power. He was no ordinary sage. Once a divine sentinel of the upper realms, Karunesh had defied the Devas themselves — choosing to descend to the mortal plane to await this very birth. Branded a traitor and erased from celestial records, he had waited silently, hidden in the mortal world for centuries.
Tonight, his purpose would be fulfilled.
Vedika screamed again, her voice tearing through the night. The skies responded — thunder rolled, and a blood-red moon emerged, casting eerie crimson light upon the earth. Trees bent as if bowing to the coming storm. Animals fled. Somewhere, conch shells shattered. The ground itself trembled.
And then — silence.
A cry pierced the night.
A child had been born.
Karunesh gently took the infant in his hands. At first glance, he seemed human — but only for a moment. The sage gasped. The child's back shimmered faintly, revealing a **trishul-shaped birthmark** glowing with golden light. His eyes opened — irises burning softly with saffron hue, like the first light of dawn. And from his tiny body radiated an inner warmth, like the echo of some ancient fire.
"So it begins," Karunesh whispered, tears in his eyes. "He is the one. *Vishwajeet*... the Eternal Flame."
But even as the child cried, the sky darkened once more. Clouds churned unnaturally. A spiral of black mist formed above the ruins, and an unearthly voice echoed — not in sound, but in *thought*, pressing into the minds of all living things.
> "He must not live."
Karunesh's face hardened. "Asuralok," he spat. "So they know."
From the spiral, a creature descended — a **shadow wraith**, its form ever-changing, like smoke given shape. Crimson eyes blinked through the darkness. Its body crackled with corrupted energy. These beings were rarely summoned; they were born from the fear of dying gods and the hate of broken demons. This one had been sent to *erase destiny* itself.
Karunesh stood, still holding the child. With his free hand, he pressed his fingers to the earth.
> "Om Raksha Raksha Rudraaya Namah!"
Golden light erupted beneath him, forming a divine mandala etched with the symbols of Shiva and Vishnu. The shield shimmered to life just as the wraith struck. The clash of energies exploded outward, burning trees and shattering stones.
Inside the shield, the mother and child remained unharmed.
Outside, Karunesh's robes turned to ash, but he stood firm.
The wraith shrieked and circled the shield like a predator. It hurled curses, bolts of dark lightning, and illusions meant to twist the mind. Karunesh countered each with mantras older than the Puranas. But with every spell, he grew weaker. His divine spark — the last remnant of his celestial self — was burning out.
"Forgive me," he whispered to the child. "I cannot protect you for long."
As the shield finally cracked, Karunesh performed one last rite. He drew a symbol in the air — a key of flame. Then he whispered to the baby's soul, sealing away its true power until the time was right. The birthmark dimmed. The saffron glow in the eyes faded.
With one last surge of strength, Karunesh thrust his staff into the ground. A portal opened — not of magic, but of fate. It led to a small village far from here, a place untouched by kings or gods. A place where the child could live… for now.
He wrapped the child in golden silk, placed a *Trimurti amulet* around his neck, and kissed the boy's forehead.
"Your name shall be *Aarav*, the peaceful one," he whispered. "But one day, you will remember who you truly are. Vishwajeet — the flame that will not die."
The child vanished into the portal.
And as the wraith struck the final blow, the ruins exploded in light.
The next morning, in the quiet village of Devapur, an elderly farmer named **Hariram** found a baby lying on a bed of lotus leaves near his doorstep. The child was calm, cooing softly, eyes now brown, no trace of divine light.
His wife, **Kamala**, cried tears of joy. They had prayed for a child for decades.
They took him in.
Named him Aarav.
And raised him as their own.
But in the celestial realms, gods argued. In Asuralok, demons plotted. And in the hidden corners of earth, ancient beings awakened from slumber.
For the flame had been lit.
And the war of ages was about to begin.