Long Ago... The War That Shook the Heavens

  The heavens trembled beneath the weight of the ancient war. The sky cracked like a broken mirror as the gods and demons clashed in a battle of cosmic fury. Indra, the King of the Gods, led his divine army into the fray, his Vajra flashing like lightning, striking down the great Asuras one by one. The sky itself seemed to split open with each strike, a rain of fire and thunder falling from the heavens. The gods were mighty, shining with celestial power, their weapons forged in the fires of creation itself.

  Agni, the god of fire, blazed across the battlefield, his flames scorching the earth beneath him. His inferno consumed the very air, reducing everything in its path to ash. Varuna, the god of oceans, summoned waves that surged like tidal waves, flooding the battlefield and drowning entire battalions of Asuras. The heavens were their domain, their power infinite.

  But the Asuras were relentless.

  Led by Narakaasura, the demon lord of pain, they fought with a fury borne from ages of suffering. Their bodies were twisted and massive, their weapons forged in the darkest pits of the earth. They came with roars that shook the very foundations of the world. Their eyes burned with hatred, and their strength was unmatched. They were the forgotten children of the cosmos, cast aside by the gods, their suffering turning into rage, their rage into power.

  The battle raged for eons. The heavens trembled, and the earth quaked beneath the might of the two armies. Each side refused to yield. But in the end, it was the Devas who emerged victorious. The gods sealed the Asuras away, trapping their souls in the deepest corners of the earth and locking them away in eternal prisons. They thought the war was over, that the Asuras would never rise again.

  But they were wrong.

  Eras passed.

  The ancient war between the gods and demons faded into myth, whispered at the edge of forgotten tongues. The heavens, once trembling under celestial fury, now stood silent. What was once a war of gods wielding lightning and demons born from fire became nothing more than a child's bedtime tale. The thought of divine power, of creatures born of flame and rage, seemed absurd. Distant. Impossible.

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  But beneath the earth, in places where no light touched—deep in scorching deserts, in tombs carved into the sides of craggy mountains, and in the dark, labyrinthine depths beneath sprawling cities that never slept—something was stirring.

  The Asuras.

  Their bodies? Destroyed. Shattered. Their forms, broken long ago, were now nothing but ashes in the wind. But their rage? That never died. It lingered, buried beneath the cracks of the world, like embers hidden under the ash of a long-dead fire. A hatred so ancient, it had become one with the earth itself.

  And as humanity suffered through war, betrayal, and the desecration of memory, those old, forgotten echoes of fury began to stir again. They fed on the suffering of the world. They grew stronger. They twisted.

  The seals that had kept them at bay? They weakened.

  Then, one fateful day…

  The Ashborn Asuras were reborn.

  They were no longer gods. They no longer carried the immense power of the divine.

  No. They were something far worse.

  They were ghosts made flesh.

  Monsters born from the very trauma and pain of the world. From forgotten beliefs, broken spirits, and shattered hopes.

  These Asuras didn’t march in grand armies. They didn’t raise thrones of bone or scream their names into the sky. They didn’t conquer with force. No. They crept through the shadows, silently, feeding off fear, drawing strength from the suffering of others.

  They did not feed on the blood of gods.

  They fed on the blood of humans.

  Entire villages vanished overnight. The people? Erased without a trace. Towns were swallowed by the earth, leaving nothing but silence. Children born with black eyes, possessed and twisted by forces they could never understand. Cities, once bustling with life, became graveyards, their streets overrun with weeds, their walls stained with blood.

  And when the people cried out for help, when they begged for the gods to return and deliver them from this nightmare…

  The heavens remained silent.

  The Devas did not come.

  Instead, they called it "balance."

  They claimed humanity must face its own darkness. That the time for divine intervention had passed.

  But for those who remained? For the souls left in the wreckage? It felt like abandonment.

  And in that silence, something new began to stir. Something darker. Something human.