The demon charged. Threw boulders. Crushed the ground. Swore he’d broken mountains bigger than this boy.
What the Rakshasa didn’t know: he wasn’t fighting a warrior. He was fighting Kartikeya —Shiva’s son, born from cosmic fire, raised for exactly this. The peacock feathers erupted like a halo, the boulder stopped mid-air with one hand, and the finishing strike was a blue lightning wave that ended the fight before the demon understood it had already been decided.
That blood carries something ancient. Something that already knows how the fight ends before it begins.
