Years rolled by, seasons passing like fleeting shadows — each one shaping Rivaan into something stronger.
His grandfather's training was relentless: strike, dodge, repeat, without mercy or pause.
One morning, exhausted and bruised, fifteen-year-old Rivaan finally snapped.
"You old man! You don't even have a heart!" he shouted.
"What do you even know about battle?"
Virat said nothing. He simply turned and walked away.
Since then, Rivaan couldn't help but notice one thing in the house —
a rusted sword, resting near the edge of corrosion, forgotten and untouched.
One day, driven by curiosity, he reached for it.
But the moment his fingers brushed the hilt, a strange weight pressed down on his chest — heavy and cold.
"That sword isn't meant for you," Virat said from behind, voice low and steady.
Rivaan scowled. "Why do you keep it then? You don't even fight anymore!"
His grandfather traced a hand gently over the blade. "This sword has taken more lives than you can imagine," he said quietly.
"And if you're unlucky, one day you'll witness its wrath firsthand."
From that day on, Rivaan never touched the rusted sword again.
But in the back of his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that Virat's tales were just stories — old man's tales.