The ride through Tokyo was silent.
Arjun sat in the back of a black sedan as Emi drove through the neon-lit streets. The rhythmic hum of the city outside contrasted with the storm inside his mind.
His fingers still tingled from the energy of the Gandharva Astra. He had felt it in his veins, like something ancient and primal had awakened within him.
Finally, he broke the silence.
“Dhanurveda.” He tested the word, glancing at Emi. “You said I awakened the Gandharva Astra. What does that mean?”
Emi didn’t look at him. Her hands remained steady on the wheel as she took a sharp turn. “It means you are not just a warrior. You are the heir to a forgotten legacy—one that existed before swords and guns, before even the samurai.”
Arjun frowned. “Legacy?”
She exhaled. “The divine art of Dhanurveda. The science of celestial warfare. The knowledge of the gods.”
Arjun sat up. He had heard the name before—from his grandfather in India.
An ancient martial science. The discipline that had shaped the greatest warriors of the Mahabharata—Arjuna, Rama, Bhishma, Parashurama.
But those were myths. Stories.
…Right?
The car slowed as they reached the outskirts of the city, stopping in front of a massive wooden torii gate, half-hidden by the forest. The area was eerily quiet.
Emi parked the car and stepped out. “Come.”
Arjun followed her through the gate, his boots crunching on the gravel path. The air smelled of cedar and incense. The deeper they walked into the shrine grounds, the more Arjun felt… something.
A pulse in the air. Like the earth itself was alive here.
Finally, they reached an open courtyard. At its center, an old man sat cross-legged, eyes closed, a long wooden staff resting across his lap.
Emi stepped forward and bowed. “Guruji. I have brought him.”
The old man’s eyes opened, sharp and piercing, as if he had been waiting for this moment for centuries.
He studied Arjun for a long moment before speaking.
“Welcome, Arjun Rao. I am Guru Vishwamitra.”
His voice was deep, carrying the weight of ages.
“You have awakened your Astra. But power without discipline is chaos. Tonight, we begin your initiation into Dhanurveda.”
Arjun’s breath hitched. This was real.
The stories. The myths. The war he never asked for.
And it was just beginning.
The shrine’s courtyard was lit only by flickering torches, casting long shadows over the ancient wooden beams. The scent of incense hung thick in the air.
Arjun stood at the center, his pulse steady, his mind sharp. Across from him, Guru Vishwamitra remained seated, watching.
Emi stood to the side, arms crossed. “We need to test how much you already know.”
Arjun nodded. “I was trained in Kyūdō.”
“Kyūdō.” Guru Vishwamitra’s deep voice rumbled with amusement. “The way of the bow. Precision, control, and detachment. A noble path, but limited.”
Arjun frowned. “Limited?”
The old sage slowly stood, gripping his staff. “Kyūdō teaches discipline. But Dhanurveda…” He stepped forward, his piercing eyes locking onto Arjun. “…teaches war.”
Arjun inhaled sharply. This was going to be different.
Guru Vishwamitra gestured to Emi. She pulled a silk cloth off a rack behind her, revealing two weapons.
One was a traditional Yumi—the long, elegant bow used in Kyūdō. The other was a Chakra Dhanush, a Vedic war bow made of dark wood, covered in golden etchings of Sanskrit mantras.
“Choose.”
Arjun stepped forward, his eyes shifting between the two.
The Yumi—graceful, balanced, precise. A weapon of patience. A weapon he had trained with for years.
The Chakra Dhanush—thick, sturdy, and radiating an unfamiliar energy. A weapon of raw power.
He hesitated.
Then, instinct took over. His fingers curled around the Chakra Dhanush.
The moment he touched it, a pulse of warmth surged through his veins—not burning, not painful, but alive. The wood felt heavier than his Yumi, but the weight felt… right.
Guru Vishwamitra gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Now, let us see what your modern archery has taught you.”
He lifted his hand—and five wooden targets shot into the air.
Arjun didn’t wait. He stepped back into his stance—shoulders squared, bow raised.
In a flash, he pulled the string back and released. The arrow shot forward, striking the first target dead center.
A second arrow flew. Then a third. All perfect.
Emi raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”
But Guru Vishwamitra simply smiled.
The fourth and fifth targets curved—moving in midair.
Arjun’s eyes widened. What? That was impossible. Targets don’t move in Kyūdō.
He fired anyway—and missed.
The last wooden target dropped to the ground, untouched.
Silence.
Guru Vishwamitra exhaled. “And there it is.”
Arjun lowered the bow, frustrated. “You made them move.”
The old sage nodded. “Because the battlefield moves.” He stepped forward, tapping his staff against the ground. “Kyūdō is static. Dhanurveda is fluid. Kyūdō is precision. Dhanurveda is instinct.”
He pointed at Arjun’s feet. “Your stance is too rigid. Your movements, predictable. You fire in a straight line. That is why you failed.”
Arjun clenched his jaw. He had never failed a shot before.
Guru Vishwamitra’s voice softened. “In war, your enemy will not stand still and wait for you to release. They will strike before you even draw your arrow. Kyūdō will not save you.”
Arjun’s fingers tightened around the bow. “Then teach me.”
The old man’s smile deepened. “Good. We begin now.”
He raised his staff—and the ground beneath Arjun shifted.
Before he could react, dozens of targets burst into motion—swinging, twisting, dodging.
And this time, they would not wait for him to fire.
Arjun’s breath steadied as the wooden targets spun unpredictably in the air. Some swung from invisible wires, others launched themselves at impossible angles. This was no Kyūdō range. This was chaos.
His mind screamed focus—but every time he locked onto a target, another blurred past his vision.
“Fire,” Guru Vishwamitra commanded.
Arjun moved on instinct. He drew the Chakra Dhanush, fingers gliding over the bowstring. But the moment he pulled back—
Nothing.
There was no arrow.
Arjun froze. His body knew the motion, but the bow had no quiver, no physical arrows to draw from.
Guru Vishwamitra’s eyes gleamed. “You are waiting for the arrow to be given to you.” He tapped his staff against the ground. “Dhanurveda does not give. It manifests.”
Emi, standing nearby, crossed her arms. “Create the arrow, Arjun.”
Arjun exhaled. Create?
He pulled the string back again, willing something to appear—nothing.
The targets suddenly rushed toward him.
His heart pounded. If he didn’t fire now—
The fire inside him stirred.
The same warmth he had felt when the Gandharva Astra had first appeared.
Not physical. Not material. Energy.
His fingers tingled. He let go of thought—and let instinct take over.
A spark ignited.
Flames erupted along the bowstring. A glowing arrow of pure fire formed between his fingers, crackling with celestial energy.
Arjun’s eyes widened—but there was no time to hesitate.
He released.
The Agni Astra roared to life.
The fire arrow ripped through the air, twisting mid-flight as if it had a will of its own. It struck the first target—then split apart—leaping like a wildfire to the others.
One by one, the spinning targets exploded into cinders.
Silence fell. The last embers flickered into the night air.
Arjun stood still, his breathing heavy, the Chakra Dhanush still warm in his hands.
Emi let out a low whistle. “Not bad.”
Guru Vishwamitra, however, simply smiled. “Your journey has begun.”
Arjun exhaled, gripping the bow tighter.
This power… It wasn’t just his.
It was something greater. Older. Divine.
And he had only touched the surface.
The scent of burned wood lingered in the night air as the last embers from Arjun’s fire arrow faded. The Agni Astra had awakened.
But Guru Vishwamitra’s expression was not one of celebration. It was of knowing.
He turned, gesturing for Arjun and Emi to follow.
“Come. There is something you must see.”
They walked through the shrine grounds, past towering cedar trees and stone lanterns glowing with soft golden light. The deeper they went, the more Arjun felt a shift in the air. A pulse—something ancient buried beneath the surface.
They stopped at the entrance of a small wooden temple, its doors marked with Sanskrit inscriptions.
Guru Vishwamitra pushed them open with a single hand. The scent of aged parchment and incense filled the room.
Inside, the walls were lined with scrolls—hundreds of them. Each inscribed with symbols Arjun recognized as Devanagari and ancient Japanese kanji.
At the center of the chamber stood a single pedestal. Upon it lay a scroll, its edges frayed by time, sealed with red wax bearing an unfamiliar sigil.
Guru Vishwamitra gestured to it. “This was written over a thousand years ago, passed down by the sages who knew this day would come.”
Arjun stepped forward. His fingers trembled as he broke the seal.
The parchment unfurled, revealing inked words that pulsed with a faint glow:
“When the Archer of Two Worlds awakens, the Demon King shall rise again. The cycle of war will begin anew, and the balance of Dharma and Adharma shall be tested once more.”
Arjun’s heart pounded. Demon King.
Emi’s expression darkened. “Ravana.”
Guru Vishwamitra nodded. “Reborn.”
Arjun tightened his grip on the scroll. The name was legendary. Ravana—the ten-headed asura king, slayer of gods, the master of dark weapons. If this prophecy was true…
The battle that once tore through the heavens was about to repeat—in his lifetime.
And he was at the center of it.
A cold wind swept through the shrine, causing the torches to flicker. The glow of the prophecy’s ink faded, leaving only inked words on brittle parchment.
Arjun’s mind raced. The Archer of Two Worlds. Ravana reborn.
He turned to Guru Vishwamitra. “You knew this was coming.”
The old sage nodded. “We have been watching. Waiting. But now, the Asura’s forces know of your awakening. And they will not wait.”
A whisper of movement.
Arjun’s instincts flared. He snapped his head to the side—just in time to see a shadow slip between the trees.
Emi’s body stiffened. “We are not alone.”
Guru Vishwamitra exhaled. “They have come.”
Then, the attack began.
Steel hissed through the air.
Arjun ducked just as a curved dagger slashed where his throat had been. He rolled backward, landing in a crouch. Black-clad figures dropped from the trees, their masked faces shrouded in darkness.
Their movements were precise—too disciplined for common mercenaries.
The Cult of Kali.
One assassin lunged, his blade flashing in the moonlight.
Arjun moved on instinct.
His footwork shifted—Dhanurveda combat patterns flowing through his muscles. He sidestepped, grabbing the assassin’s wrist and twisting—a snap of bone, a choked cry.
Another came from behind.
Emi intercepted. She slid past Arjun, drawing a small talisman from her sleeve. She whispered a prayer—and a pulse of energy erupted outward.
The assassin recoiled as a golden sigil burned against his skin, searing through his black robes. He stumbled—just long enough for Emi to sweep his legs out from under him.
More emerged. Five. No—ten. Surrounding them.
Arjun’s fists clenched. No bow. No time.
His mind whispered one thought: Manifest.
His body obeyed.
A blinding golden glow erupted from his hands—the Chakra Dhanush formed in an instant.
The assassins hesitated. They had not expected this.
Arjun wasted no time. He pulled back the string—fire crackled, the Agni Astra igniting once more.
One shot.
The fire arrow split apart mid-flight, becoming three streaks of flame.
Three assassins fell, their robes igniting as they screamed. The others faltered.
Guru Vishwamitra stepped forward at last, his gaze calm. He raised a single hand—and whispered.
“Shakti.”
A shockwave rippled through the air.
The remaining assassins seized up, as if unseen hands had grabbed their bodies. Their eyes widened in silent terror—and then their bodies disintegrated into black smoke.
Silence returned.
The shrine stood untouched, but the ground was littered with smoldering remains of the assassins.
Arjun exhaled, lowering his bow. His arms trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the power surging through his veins.
Guru Vishwamitra turned to him, his expression unreadable.
“Now you understand, Arjun Rao.” His voice was calm, but heavy. “You are no longer fighting for yourself. The war has already begun.”
Arjun’s breath slowed. He looked at his hands—his destiny no longer a mystery.
He was the Archer of Two Worlds.
And Ravana’s forces would come for him again.
This was just the beginning.