Chapter 39: Echoes Beneath the Rooftop
An hour later, I lay sunk deep into the living room couch, a dazed survivor of father's monstrous culinary experiment. My tongue still tingled from the searing spice of the Chimera Vindaloo — that absurdly delicious death trap disguised as curry.
If someone had told me a week ago I'd be devouring rank four chimera meat stewed in fiery spices, I'd have laughed. But father's culinary madness had turned that unholy beast into a dish worthy of a Saint's final feast. If only my gut could digest more than a polite portion — my mortal insides would mutiny if I dared to gorge.
Dinner had been glorious chaos. Father, grinning like a mischievous child, ladled himself a heroic helping first — he always did, regardless of whether his "experiments" succeeded or failed. The rest of us eyed the pot suspiciously, past memories of culinary betrayal still fresh. But the first bite silenced the entire table. One taste and everyone knew — this was no failure.
What followed was a polite, cutthroat war. A measured ladleful for me, Vikram, and Arjun — our younger bodies couldn't handle too much monster mana. The adults, however, battled for every last morsel with the restraint of diplomats and the cunning of predators.
Even mother — unflappable, eternally patient mother — begrudgingly asked for seconds, grumbling about father butchering her precious chimera specimen. Meanwhile, Raj sat polishing his own spear with serene detachment, pretending not to care as his bowl was refilled again and again.
When the last drop of gravy vanished, father leaned back, arms behind his head, grin wide enough to split his face. He'd conquered the beast twice — once in battle, once in the pot.
Now, sprawled on the couch, I smacked my lips and groaned, "That was either the dish of the year… or my stomach's final stand."
Arjun's voice cut through my food coma. He sat stiff-backed, tablet forgotten on his lap, eyes shadowed by something unreadable.
"I met Ross today at the Academy," he said quietly.
The name snapped my haze like a twig. Ross. That mangy cur from the Aditya kennel. Another shame I'd buried deep.
"What about him?" I asked, tone even, knuckles whitening on the couch arm.
"He's boasting all over campus. Says he's challenging you tomorrow. Says now that you've 'stolen' an awakening, he'll break you properly — mana against mana. No excuses."
I didn't rant. Didn't scoff. I just exhaled. Of course Ross would crawl back the moment I clawed free.
"Then tomorrow, I'll go to the Academy," I said simply, pushing myself upright. No drama. No threats. Just fact.
I drifted out of the living room, past the warm clutter of family photos along the marble staircase. Footsteps echoed through a house that whispered old wealth and older secrets. One floor passed. Two. I barely realized I'd climbed to the heavy iron door leading to the rooftop.
I pushed it open. Night air washed over me — crisp, cool, cleansing.
Our rooftop was more than stone and railing. It was a crown above Delhi's restless lights. On one side, father's vegetable patch thrived — okra, beans, and the ghost peppers that bit back when plucked. Opposite, mother's herb garden sprawled in fragrant discipline — holy basil, sleeproot, bitterleaf, all swaying under moonlight. Between them, a wide patio, scattered with sturdy chairs and uncle Anil's open-air bar — stocked with bottles from every corner of India and a few too exotic to name.
I drifted to the bar. Tonight, I needed that familiar burn. I rummaged until my fingers found a bottle — coffee-infused whisky. Gentle, grounding.
I poured a neat glass, leaned on the iron railing, and let the city's hum wrap around my thoughts.
The Academy. My kingdom and my gallows. A boy with no mana but too much curiosity — memorizing monster anatomy, mastering techniques he'd never wield, watching classmates shatter stones and bend lightning while he clapped politely from the stands. I'd dreamed I was special — a late bloomer — until reality stabbed me with a goblin's crude spear.
I sipped. The burn quieted the churn.
A soft throat-clear behind me snapped me to the present. I cursed and flung the glass off the roof.
A flick of power plucked it from the air — floating it back, unbroken.
Uncle Anil leaned by the herb garden, arms crossed. Tall, iron-boned, salt-and-pepper hair tousled by the wind. His eyes, deep as old wells, had seen more mistakes than I'd yet imagined making.
"You and Raj owe me more glassware than liquor," he said mildly. With a flick, the bottle drifted back to him like a loyal dog.
I stared — envy and awe wrestling inside me. Mana so finely molded it looked like magic.
He read it instantly. "Rank one mana's too thin. When you rank up, you'll manage it — or better."
He poured a drink for himself, then one for me. I took it but didn't sip. Drinking in front of Anil always felt like confessing a sin to a priest.
He leaned beside me, moonlight crowning the scars on his knuckles.
"Academy days," he said, voice low. Even the basil seemed to hush. "They branded you weak. They branded me coward. Back then, Delhi still bled. The Saints were rebuilding walls faster than monsters tore them down. People wanted heroes — fists, not minds. Your father was the golden hammer. Me? The strategist too soft to swing one."
His eyes found mine — soft iron.
"Your cage was weakness you couldn't change. Mine was fear I wouldn't admit. Cages rust the same way. And break the same way — by admitting you were trapped."
He clinked his glass to mine. "Ross is noise. Beat him tomorrow if you want. But don't think a fist will silence that voice calling you worthless. You face that voice alone."
He drank, then turned for the door. But paused.
"Fate spins its wheel whether we break ourselves or not. Your father and I — we'd twist it for you if we could. But it's not our right."
And he vanished into the dark, leaving only the basil and moonlight to listen to my racing thoughts.
Third Person POV
As Vijay's footsteps faded down the stairwell, the night's hush trembled. Shadows not born of moonlight slithered and settled.
Two hunters materialized by the ghost peppers. Black-clad, faces hidden, they exuded the stale arrogance of men who thought badges made them gods.
One — older, scarred across the chin — flicked his hand, tasting the air.
"Bone Snapper's mana," he rasped. "Fresh."
The younger, brazen one leaned against Anil's bar, fingering a crystal decanter.
"Heh. The Association coddled these brothers too long. Let 'em think they're above the Council, the Saints. I say — bring in the Hawk squad . We'll clip their wings."
He smirked at the rooftop garden — the calm herbs, the peaceful patio — as if it were already his.
And then his partner let out a sickening gurgle.
The older hunter hovered midair — limbs bent backward like a marionette in a nightmare. Neck twisted until flesh split.
Hunter Two froze. Air stuck in his throat. He felt it before he saw it — the molten heat crawling under his skin, burrowing into his bones.
A voice, low, fatherly, promised apocalypse.
"That title... was given by those who watched mountains turn to ash in my wake."
Rajesh stepped from the garden shadows. No armor, no roar — only sleeves rolled, veins pulsing faintly with magma under moonlight. He did not look at the hunter so much as through him, like a man peering into a coffin he'd already dug.
Hunter Two dropped to his knees. His bladder failed. He choked on a scream that wouldn't come.
Rajesh's steps were slow, deliberate. Each one cracked the air.
"Your mana," he murmured, calm as prayer. "Will liquefy in two days. Your Constellation link? Severed by the fourth. Skin slips by the sixth. By the eighth, you'll crawl — your soul screaming for a mercy that will not come. On the ninth... you burn for seven days more."
Anil appeared behind him, ghost-quiet. A flick of his hand and the corpse of the older hunter hit the stone with a final, wet smack. Another flick — the trembling survivor slammed beside him like a rag doll.
Rajesh didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on a horizon no mortal could see.
Anil laid a calloused hand on his brother's burning shoulder.
"Brother. Enough. Overplay your wrath now, and the association swarms. Let this maggot crawl back and spread your truth. That's punishment enough."
The rooftop garden trembled. Basil crisped to ash at Rajesh's feet. He exhaled, fire leaking from his breath.
"He's my son, Anil. My blood. I see the chains binding him, same as the ones that once bound us. I couldn't break them for him. If they force him — if the Saints twist his fate —"
Anil's grip tightened, steady as granite.
"He is your blood. You twist his path now, and fate knots itself crueler. You know this truth better than anyone alive. Our father was victim of the fate's cruel joke . But we promised to endure . "
Rajesh laughed — a sound like iron cracking.
"If they make him their martyr... I will burn Delhi to bedrock. And when heaven comes down to stop me — I'll burn heaven too."
Anil's teeth bared in a mirthless grin.
"Then I'll stand beside you, brother. We'll watch the gods choke on the ashes. But until that day... let the wheel spin. Let the boy be the boy."
The brothers — volcano and bone — turned their backs to the corpses and moonlight.
Behind them, the rooftop re-knitted its calm. Herbs breathed away the smoke. The city below dreamed on, blind to the wrath it slept beneath.
The garden. The battlefield. The promise.