Salembur, 1996:
The stagnant water of the pond near Salembur reflected a sky turning the color of a fresh bruise—mottled purples and angry, swollen greys. Eleven-year-old Deva shifted uncomfortably on the damp grass, his small frame shivering as the encroaching treeline began to swallow the remaining light.
“Surya, please. We need to go back,” Deva whispered, his voice trembling like a dry leaf.
His elder brother, thirteen-year-old Surya, didn’t move. He was a statue of stubbornness, leaning precariously over the bank, his eyes locked on the murky depths. “Not yet! I made a deal with the guys at school. I’m not showing my face without a snake-fish. Imagine their faces when I pull out a real eel!”
Deva opened his mouth to protest, but Surya cut him off with a sharp gesture. “I got it! See?”
Deva squinted at the dark shape breaking the surface. “I think it’s just a piece of wood, Surya.”
Surya grunted, pulling back his line. “Yeah… you’re right.”
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then, with a triumphant splash that shattered the silence, Surya hauled a thrashing, elongated shadow onto the grass. It was slick, dark, and powerful. But as they stuffed the prize into their wicker basket, the celebratory mood vanished. The sun dipped below the horizon with a suddenness that felt like a door slamming shut.
It was exactly 6:00 p.m.
“Kartha says the blood-drinkers roam the hills at night,” Deva whimpered, clutching his brother’s sleeve.
Surya snorted, wiping mud from his forehead with a bravado he didn’t quite feel. “Kartha just tells those scary stories to protect his job. There are no such—”
A sound like tearing silk cut him off.
Before Surya could turn, a blur of grey and shadow slammed into him. The boy was thrown against a tree with sickening force. His body fell limp, sliding down the bark like a broken doll.
From the darkness stepped a creature that defied every law of nature. Its skin was the color of wet slate, its limbs unnaturally long, and its eyes burned with a pale, predatory hunger.
“A Yaksha,” Deva breathed—the word a curse. (Translation: Vampire)
With terrifying speed, the creature snatched Deva and vanished into the undergrowth. Cold, sharp panic pierced Surya’s heart. He ran, screaming his brother’s name, guided only by the snapping of branches and his own frantic pulse.
He reached a dilapidated hut, smelling of rot and ancient dust. There, on the dirt floor, lay Deva. Surya rushed to him, shaking his shoulders, begging him to wake up.
“He won’t awaken,” a rasping voice drifted from the rafters.
The Vampire descended, its clawed feet silent on the floorboards. “I put him in a deep sleep. Are you his brother? Shall I send you to the place where I sent him?”
Surya’s legs felt like lead, his breath hitching as a cold, clawed hand wrapped around his throat. But as the creature squeezed, something within Surya’s marrow ignited. A dormant, primordial heat surged through his veins.
His right hand began to pulse. Glowing orange veins—like molten lava—spider-webbed across his skin. Driven by a primal instinct, Surya grabbed the Yaksha’s choking arm.
Sizzle.
The vampire shrieked, recoiling as acrid smoke rose from its charred flesh. “What are you?” it snarled, its pale eyes widening. “One of those Vessels?”
Before Surya could process the question, the creature’s fist slammed into him, plunging the world into blackness.
As Surya lost consciousness, the Vampire caught the scent of something unfamiliar. From the drifting ashes, an unknown figure emerged.
The Vampire began to shiver. It took two steps back and tried to flee—but the mysterious figure appeared from the opposite end, slicing off the vampire’s head in a single motion.
A flash of steel was the last thing the Vampire ever saw.
Kartha, the village guard, stood over the unconscious brothers. His lone hand gripped a heavy, notched kukri, its blade dripping with black ichor.
Kartha knelt beside Deva, checking for a pulse—one that wasn’t there.
“I’m sorry,” Kartha whispered.
As Surya groaned, his eyes fluttering open to the wreckage of the hut, Kartha added softly, “His soul… it is already taken.”
Tears cut clean tracks through the mud on Surya’s cheeks.
Seven days later, the reflection in Surya’s eyes was no longer the dark woods, but the whitewashed walls of his school.
Surya sat on a empty wooden bench under a sprawling tree, still in his salt-stained school uniform. He was watching the sunset, though he didn’t see the colors; he only felt the crushing weight of the silence where Deva’s voice used to be.
Across the road, at a weathered food stall, Kartha sat on a low stool. The old guard gestured toward an empty plate. "The rice here is good," he called out, his voice rough but not unkind. "I usually eat here. Join me."
Surya moved like a sleepwalker, sitting in silence as the steam rose from their bowls.
“How are you holding up, kid?” Kartha asked gently.
Surya stared at his rice. He didn't answer.
Noticing the hollow look in the boy's eyes, Kartha’s expression darkened with guilt. “I apologize,” he whispered. “For not saving him.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Surya said, his voice finally cracking. “It was mine. I’m the one who took him to the pond.”
Kartha looked at the stump of his missing arm. “You are not the only one haunted by the past, boy. My family was taken by a witch. What happened cannot be reversed. It is only about the actions you take now to avoid repeating the past.”
Surya looked up, brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Kartha exhaled a long breath. “In this world, every family is eventually touched by the Mythics. It is a hard truth. You must find a way to move on, as impossible as that seems.”
“How did you defeat it?” Surya asked suddenly.
“I was trained for it,” Kartha replied. “It’s my job.”
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Surya didn't hesitate. “Then... can I join you?”
A sad smile touched Kartha’s lips. “Thanks, kid. But I can manage on my own.”
As Kartha stood to leave, Surya lunged forward, grabbing the older man’s sleeve. His grip was desperate. “Will you Accept me as your disciple.”
Kartha took a breath and said, “The job is life?risky. I won’t encourage it.”
Surya continued “You just said we must take action to avoid the past! I don’t want others to suffer the pain we share!”
Without a word, Kartha pulled his arm away and began to walk into the night. Surya stood frozen, his heart breaking as he watched his last hope disappear into the shadows.
But after a few paces, Kartha stopped. His shoulders slumped as if yielding to fate. He turned back. "Come here."
Surya grabbed his bag and ran to him.
“The world is a shared space, Surya,” Kartha began, his voice rasping like grinding stone. They stood in the bleeding light of the schoolyard, where shadows stretched long and hungry. “Shared with creatures that consume both soul and flesh. Legend says we live in the Age of Divine Absence—a moment when Lord Shiva closed his eyes for a single blink."
"During this blink, the creatures of the underworld rose to claim the surface. We call them Mythics. To hold the line, our ancestors forged a new path: Vessels—specialized soldiers trained to combat the tide. They founded the BLINK Association to guard humanity through this long, dark second."
Kartha’s gaze hardened. “I am one of them.”
He turned fully to face the boy. “My Vessel type is a Weaponized Norman. I am a basic human who uses weaponry alloys to bridge the gap. But there are Vessels with supernatural blood. You are one of them, Surya. You are built to absorb the raw energy of the world and convert it into a force of your own. I saw what you did to that Yaksha. It was unrefined—a mere spark—but the power is there.”
The wind picked up, swirling dust around them. Kartha stepped closer, his shadow looming large. “Once you kill a demon or a witch, their kin do not forget. They hunt. They chase. Your life will never be normal again, and the danger will follow everyone you love. Your body is a rare type of Vessel, Surya—one I haven't seen in many years.”
Kartha paused, offering one final exit. “Think twice. Do you truly want to become a tool of war?”
Surya didn’t blink. His jaw set, his eyes burning with a terrifying clarity. “I do.”
A faint, grim smile touched Kartha’s lips. “Fine,” he replied. “I accept you.”
The decision marked the end of Surya’s childhood.
The first year broke him. Dawn began with meditation beneath the open sky and ended with his body shaking in the dust, lungs burning as he struggled to match Kartha’s pace. Failure earned no comfort—only another command to stand and try again.
The second and third years hardened him. He learned to breathe with the sun, drawing strength from its heat, and to move with the wind, letting instinct guide his steps. Pain became familiar. Exhaustion became expected. Praise remained rare.
By the fourth year, Surya no longer questioned the trials. Scorched skin, fractured bones, and sleepless nights faded into routine. His body adapted. His will sharpened. Silence replaced complaint.
Six years had passed.
It's Salembur, 2002.
Surya stood before a cracked mirror and splashed cold water on his face. “This time - I will not. Not again,” he whispered to his reflection. At nineteen, he had grown into a tall, broad-shouldered young man, his frame carrying the weight of years of silent training. He moved with a practiced discipline, folding his bedsheets and straightening his room until everything was in its precise place.
He pulled on a loose T-shirt, checking his reflection one last time. As he prepared to leave, he saw his grandmother still asleep. He scribbled a quick note on a scrap of paper——placed it gently beside her, and stepped out into the morning air.
He reached the outskirts of Salembur on foot, where a familiar figure waited.
“Timing is the most important thing to follow, Surya,” Kartha said. The village guard had aged; his head was now bald, and his face was etched with the deep lines of his early fifties, though his posture remained as rigid as a spear.
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry,” Surya replied, casting his gaze downward.
“Excuses are only for the first mistake,” Kartha said.
The Assessor, a man in charge of the student selection for the elite BLINK program, arrived shortly after. He flipped through Surya’s records with a clinical, almost bored expression.
“Five attempts,” the Assessor noted, his voice flat. “That is a long time, Surya. This is your final chance. Will you pass this time?”
“Yes,” Surya replied, his voice a steady, resonant bass.
Kartha nodded encouragingly. “All the best, Surya.”
The physical feats were effortless, a testament to years of grueling labor:
100-meter dash: 6 seconds (Limit: 10 seconds) – PASSED
Underwater breath-hold: 3 minutes (Limit: 2.30 minutes) – PASSED
Strength test: Hoisting a 220-kg stone with a single rope – PASSED
Then came the final hurdle: the Iron Dummy. It was a massive, reinforced slab designed to mimic the hide of a Mythic, as unyielding as industrial armor.
“Will he do it with bare hands, Mr. Pandu?” the Assessor asked, turning toward Kartha.
“He is an Elemental Vessel,” Kartha replied firmly. “He needs no blade. These Vessels are meant to sunder Mythics with nothing but their charged strikes. Ordinary men rely on Weaponry Alloy—like my kukri—to bridge the gap. He shouldn't have to.”
“Yes, I see that in his profile,” the Assessor countered, pointing at a red mark on the page. “But this is the specific test where he always falls short. This is why he has failed five times before.”
“Let’s see,” Kartha said, his jaw set. “This time, he will do it.”
Surya centered himself. He closed his eyes, searching for that primordial heat he had felt as a boy. He felt the energy stir, but it was stubborn, flickering like a dying coal. Only his right hand began to pulse with that familiar, molten-orange glow. With a roar of focused frustration, he drove his fist into the center of the dummy.
The impact rang out like a bell across the clearing. The Iron Dummy spider-webbed with fractures, but it remained standing—dented, but not destroyed. He had passed the physical requirements, but his control was still a flickering candle rather than a roaring sun.
The Assessor let out a short, mocking laugh, glancing at Kartha before marking the clipboard and walking away without a word.
Kartha stood still, looking at Surya with the pained expression of a mentor who had watched his student hit a wall he couldn't yet climb.
A week after the test, a postman arrived at his house.
Surya received the courier and when he opened the sealed cover, he was surprised. It wasn't just a notification; it was an official decree from the highest authority in the land.
The letterhead bore the embossed insignia of the BLINK Association, the ink sharp and uncompromising:
BLINK ASSOCIATION
OFFICIAL CORRESPONDENCE
FROM:
TO:
KARTHA:
LOCATION:
VESSEL TYPE:
SOURCE:
TAG:
ALLOTTED SECTION:
RESULT:
REMARKS:
Surya stared at the word PASSED. He had failed the Iron Dummy test—he knew he had. Yet, here was the seal of the MUMBAT HQ, overriding the local results.
Surya went to his grandmother to share the news. His grandmother stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the distant, jagged hills. She didn’t turn. She didn't acknowledge his presence.
“It has been this way since the day - we lost deva” Surya thought, the silence stinging more than any shout.
The silence was her only weapon, and she wielded it daily.
With a heavy heart, Surya packed his meager belongings.He left a simple note on the tea table: Bye Grandma... I’m leaving for a long journey. Take care.
Kartha squinted at the official result page before handing it back to Surya.
“Can you tell me... what does it say?” Kartha asked, his voice unusually quiet.
“It says I passed,” Surya replied, a bit surprised. “Even as a Kartha, you can’t read the English script?”
Kartha looked away, a shadow of embarrassment crossing his weathered face. “In my time, everything carried a local language tag. I never had much schooling... reading and writing the foreign tongue is a struggle for me.”
He reached into his vest and pulled out a weathered piece of parchment. It was a hand-drawn route map, detailed with landmarks, hidden paths, and warning symbols.
“What’s this? A route map?”
“It will be useful,” Kartha said firmly. “The road to Munnar is not just a journey of distance; it is a journey through Mythic territory. Be careful, Surya. Avoid the night. Do not try to be a hero yet—you are still a student, a flickering candle in a world of storms.”
Surya knelt and touched Kartha’s feet in the traditional sign of respect, receiving the silent blessing of the man who had been his only anchor for six years.
Before he left, Surya made one last stop. Deep in the village stood the ancient banyan tree. The locals hurried past it, whispering of Chataans (translation: Goblins) and shifting shadows. But as Surya looked up into its sprawling canopy, he remembered his grandfather’s voice from a lifetime ago.
“Pray here, little one,” the old man had whispered, his face creased with a permanent smile. “People fear what they do not understand. But this tree? This is where the good things begin.”
Surya touched the bark. For a moment, the stubborn heat in his blood felt quiet. Peaceful.
He reached the nearby town. As he boarded the bus, the engine’s roar drowned out the ghosts of the pond. He looked out the window at the receding village.
The journey had only just begun.
In the rural regions of this world—particularly within the folklore of the Western Ghats,
For the sake of narrative clarity and the modern?military tone of the BLINK Association, the terms Vampire/Vamp will be used primarily in upcoming chapters.
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