“I know not the truth, only the story that is mine to tell…”

  So begins the Whisper of the Seerless One, whose eyes saw not the path ahead, but the echoes behind. In the Time Before Flame, it is said the moon bore no shadow, and the sky knew no color of death. But all things fall.

  When the moon bloomed red, it was not prophecy—it was memory. The gods did not descend; they recoiled. And in their silence, men became monsters.

  Thus came the Rain of Blood, not as punishment, but as reminder. A mark upon the world that stories, once born, cannot be undone.

  It is written:

  

  “The sands will drink until the bones rise. The sky will burn until the truth is buried beneath a thousand lies. And still, the story shall be told.”

  —Recovered from the Broken Tablets of Sha’Nul, deep beneath the ruin-temples of Al’Maress

  On the outskirts of an uncharted, endless jungle, a lone woodcutter lived. His days blurred into an endless cycle of labor—from the first light of dawn to the deep hush of dusk. His only reprieve lay in the stillness of night, where exhaustion lulled him into dreamless sleep.

  With no family to call his own, no friends to ease his solitude, his world was bound to a single rhythm—the rise and fall of his axe. Woodcutting was not just his craft; it was his existence.

  Life in the village he served was much the same—unchanging, untouched by time. Perched on the fragile border between civilization and the untamed wilderness, the villagers passed down their survival skills from generation to generation. Fathers taught sons, mothers taught daughters, an unbroken chain of resilience.

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  The only event of significance in the village’s long, uneventful history—aside from its very founding—was the arrival of a Brahmin family. In an age famed for great rishis and munis, they sought refuge in this secluded land, not merely for solitude but to immerse themselves in sacred texts, seeking the divine.

  The woodcutter, in contrast, was far from holy. He was a simple man, his purpose rooted in his simple craft—the tireless effort of shaping the wild into something useful. Wood birthed fire, and fire gave life to humanity.

  Each morning, before the village stirred, he delivered freshly chopped timber to every household. In return, he received only what he needed to survive—food, clothing, the barest essentials.

  One day, word of his work reached the ears of the Brahmin’s wife. She sought him out, requesting wood for a yagya—a sacred fire ritual in honor of Agni, the god of fire.

  He humbly accepted.

  The next morning, before even the sun had risen, he set out towards the forest. A small bundle of fruit, gifted by the kind woman, sat tucked under his arm. His axe rested on his shoulder, its weight familiar.

  But as he ventured deeper into the trees, the sky darkened.

  Then, the rain began to fall.

  Even for a man accustomed to the wild, this was unnatural.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, rolling across the sky like an unseen force preparing for war. Lightning snapped through the heavens, casting eerie flashes of white across the jungle. And then—

  The earth trembled.

  At first, it was barely perceptible. A shudder beneath his feet. But within moments, the trembling grew violent, the very land recoiling as though in fear.

  The woodcutter staggered, widening his stance, bracing against the shaking ground. His breath came fast, uneven. Something was wrong.

  And then—he saw them.

  A lone rider emerged on the horizon, his face hidden behind a demonic mask. Then another. And another.

  With every flash of lightning, more figures appeared, their shrouded forms cutting through the rain like phantoms. The woodcutter’s breath hitched. His heart pounded against his ribs.

  He knew terror.

  Trembling, his lips moved without thought. A desperate whisper, a final plea:

  "Prabhu..."

  Then, the world twisted.

  A searing flash of light tore through him.