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Chapter: The Village Has Fallen (Rewritten)
The last light had bled from the sky by the time Parashu and the boy reached the village. Dust clung to their faces, their clothes, their thoughts. The road felt unfamiliar now—like the bones of something once alive.
The village was quiet. Unnaturally so.
Parashu paused, glancing around.
"This… isn't right."
They walked faster, steps stiff with exhaustion and dread. When they reached the leader's house, the door was already open.
The old man stood there like a shadow carved from stone. His eyes found Parashu's—hard at first, then soft with a tired humor.
"So," he said, not smiling, "you came back after all."
Parashu wasted no breath. "The Kara Army is coming. Master Vishma sent me."
The smirk vanished. The old man's shoulders slumped, as if the words were heavier than he'd expected.
"Then he's too late."
Parashu blinked. "Too late? What do you mean?"
The leader looked past him, into some place only memory could see. His voice dropped.
"Go home, Parashu. Whatever's left of it."
Parashu stiffened. "Home? There's nothing left for me there. My clan—"
"They're not your worry anymore," the old man said quietly. "The village is."
Parashu felt something sharp twist in his chest.
"What happened?"
The leader's voice cracked just slightly.
"After you left... the army came. We were too weak. We lost."
Parashu's stomach dropped. His breath caught.
"You mean they've already—?"
The old man nodded slowly.
"Your clan is gone. The Kara took everything. Every last one of them."
Parashu staggered back. His father's axe hung heavy in his grip now—no longer a weapon, but a weight. His legs threatened to give, but he stayed standing.
He didn't speak.
The wind whistled through the street. It sounded like a dirge.
The old man stepped closer, voice like gravel.
"They didn't take all the souls. Just those from Clan Vetala."
Parashu raised his head, confusion flickering through the grief.
The old man nodded again. "That's what I don't understand. It wasn't random. They came for your bloodline."
A beat passed.
"And now… you're the last."
Parashu didn't move.
The boy at his side glanced up, saying nothing.
"I'll keep you safe," the leader said. "Whatever time I have left—it's yours."
Parashu spoke at last. "I need time. Alone."
The old man nodded, solemn.
"Don't let grief bury you," he said.
Parashu snapped. "You don't understand!"
"I do," the leader replied softly. "I've buried more than you know. But listen to me—don't carry this alone."
He looked up at the dark sky.
"Being a leader is a curse. You see everything you couldn't save. And now, I won't lose you too."
The boy stepped forward, hand resting on Parashu's shoulder. His eyes were sharp.
"No one's touching him," he said. "Not while I'm here."
The leader narrowed his gaze. "Who are you?"
The boy grinned faintly. "If I told you, you'd send me away. But when they come, you'll thank me."
"You speak with pride," the old man warned.
"I was raised in the dark," the boy said, voice flat. "I know what it takes to survive."
There was a pause.
"Fine," the leader muttered. "Protect him. Whatever it costs."
The boy nodded once.
Parashu's voice cut through the moment. "We have to go."
The old man put a hand on his shoulder—one last time.
"Then go. But live."
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Chapter: The Last Memory (Rewritten)
They walked in silence until they reached a crooked hut near the village edge—Parashu's childhood home. It leaned now, a relic of warmth turned hollow. The air around it felt brittle.
Parashu stood in the doorway for a long time.
He didn't speak.
Then he went inside.
The boy waited near the door, watching.
"This place," Parashu whispered, "was once full of voices."
He walked slowly, looking at what was left—shadows on walls, marks on the floor, ghosts.
"I lost my parents young. Didn't care then. They were traitors. Or so I was told."
He stopped.
"This is different."
His voice cracked.
He sank to one knee—and saw something.
A small wooden box, its corners worn, its shape unmistakable.
He picked it up.
Etched into the lid, fading but clear:
"SPECIAL GIFT BOX FOR PARASHU – NO: 02"
His hands shook.
He held it for a long moment.
Then—he opened it.
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