The air was thick with incense and ancient energy, heavy and suffocating like the breath of

something old and forgotten. In the depths of the ritual chamber, firelight danced upon walls

etched with runes so ancient, even the gods may have forgotten their meaning. Thunder

growled in the distance, as if the heavens themselves sensed what was about to unfold.

Murunda knelt before the blackened pot—massive and crusted with carvings of beasts long

extinct or never meant to be. Lion paws curled around the base, eagle talons pierced the rim,

serpent coils spiraled upward like twisted veins. He chanted with trembling reverence, his

voice barely above a whisper, eyes rolled back in a trance

“Oṃ karaṇa nāśaka, mṛtyu samyogam... Oṃ...”

With a sudden motion, he slashed his palm. Blood welled and dripped, slow and deliberate,

into the pot. As the first drop met the pot’s surface, it hissed—then sparked. A flash of

blinding white light cracked the darkness. The pot shuddered. The carvings groaned and

writhed, as if waking from a long sleep.

Then, silence.

And from that silence, a shadow rose.

It was vast and wrong—its shape never staying still. Wings unfolded, but not wings. Claws

emerged, then melted into fangs, scales twisted into feathers, and back again. A mass of

chaos, a creature not born of flesh but of sin and memory.

A shape formed not by nature, but by ancient sin. A creature not meant to exist...

Sharbha—the primal hybrid, the one who defied the divine.

Outside, cats screamed in the night. The earth trembled, cracking beneath the weight of

unseen pressure. Hawks fell from the sky in silence.

Murunda pressed his forehead to the cold stone floor.

“Oh my lord,” he breathed, barely audible. “We have done it. The eagle hybrid lives... or did,

before the transformation. His body accepted the change. The sigil—it glowed.”

Murunda continued, reverently.

“We found the other child’s blood too—the Phanin Boy. The one you spoke of. The one with

the serpent power. You were right. The balance... it was necessary.”

From the pot, the shadow howled—low, guttural, unnatural. The very stone of the chamber

split, dust raining from the ceiling. Glowing runes appeared on the far wall, their language

old as the stars.

Then, a voice.

Not a whisper, nor a sound—but a pressure on the soul.

“Son... you’ve done well. But this is only the beginning.”

“Create the Seven Aniuman—beasts forged in void and shadow. Seven limbs of

my rebirth. With your blood, awaken them. When the seventh beast is born... I

shall walk again.”

Murunda’s face lit with fanatic purpose. “Yes, my lord! But... your power—it is still bound.

How will I shape them without your strength?”

“The gods sealed me. Trapped my essence. I am shadow, nothing more.”

“But I can lend you a shard. A fragment. Enough to begin.”

A sigil of black fire flared on Murunda’s forehead. He convulsed, his screams echoing off the

stone. Shadows peeled from the walls and entered him, crawling under his skin like living

ink.

“Chant the mantra of shadows. Shape my avatars. Beasts born not of flesh, but

of nightmare. Let them hunt the serpent boy. Delay the gods. Clear the path for

my return.”

Centuries Earlier – The War of Heaven

The skies burned with dawnfire as Sharbha strode across the land, a titan beyond

comprehension. His form was a tapestry of chaos: lion’s mane, eagle wings spanning

mountains, an elephant’s trunk lashing like a whip, serpent scales rippling across his body,

bull hooves shattering the earth beneath him. No weapon harmed him. No spell bound him.

With each step, the land buckled. With each roar, storms were born.

Lightning struck him, but bent. Fire engulfed him, but he stood unscorched.

The gods gathered—dozens of them, desperate.

“He is the end of creation!” cried the High God, voice shaking the sky. “No human can slay

him. No beast can oppose him. He is not man, not animal. He is both. He is neither.”

Another deity wept as cities burned below.

“There is no choice left... We must seal him.”

Together, they circled the beast. Hands raised. Voices joined. Incantations older than time

rang out. Threads of gold-light wrapped around Sharbha’s limbs. He roared and thrashed,

cracking mountains with his struggle—but the bonds held.

“You cannot destroy what you don’t understand!” Sharbha screamed. “I AM

THE BALANCE! I AM THE TRUE NATURE!”

The gods wept as they spoke the final words.

“May the world forget you. May the soul be trapped. May the body be burned to

ash.”

A pot was forged from divine fire, mid-air, surrounded by swirling starlight and temporal

energy. Sharbha’s essence was sucked into it, his body immolated—smoke and ash cast to the

wind. The pot fell from the heavens like a meteor and buried itself in the earth.

And so, the beast slept.

Present – Ritual Chamber

The shadow twisted, speaking once more. No mouth, no eyes—just raw, speaking darkness.

That day... they cheated. They couldn’t kill me. So they caged me. Burned the

only vessel that could hold my truth.

Murunda rose to his feet, shadows still clinging to him.

But my blood unlocked the prison. My descendant—Murunda. He heard me. He

answered.

The shadows curled upward, forming words in the air.

“Seven vessels. Seven Aniuman. And then... rebirth.”

The shadow pulsed one final time above the pot. Its voice, deep and ancient, filled the room

like the hum of a collapsing star.

Sharbha (echoing):

“Go now, my son. Shape my limbs. Let my shadow give rise to power... beyond

imagination.”

Murunda (bowing low):

“Yes, my lord. I will not fail you.”

He rose slowly, his eyes gleaming with twisted ambition. The blood on his palm still dripped,

but he felt no pain—only the thrill of becoming something greater.

Murunda (grinning):

“I will forge the most powerful Aniuman the world has ever seen. Stronger than anyone”

The shadow paused mid-air, flickering like flame in the wind.

Sharbha (softly, almost amused):

“Good. Embrace your hunger... but remember who gave it to you.”

With that, the shadow stretched, twisted, and vanished—dissolving into smoke that drifted

upward and vanished into the cracks of the chamber.

Silence fell.

Murunda stood in the aftermath, his breath heavy. Then slowly, he began to laugh. A low,

chilling laugh that echoed through the chamber walls like a creeping storm.

Murunda (to himself):

“They call him a god... they call him a beast... but I—”

“I will become something more. Something absolute.”

He walked to the heavy stone doors at the end of the chamber, hand outstretched. Shadows

curled around his fingers like loyal pets, caressing the handles before he flung them open.

Murunda (with a devilish smile):

“The world has forgotten its monsters. Time to remind them what fear tastes like.”