It all began on a night just like this one.
A chill seeped into my skin as I stood in the Leader’s Room—a chamber carved from dark, ancient stone. The walls were cold to the touch, damp with age, and echoed every breath like a whisper of judgnt. The faint hiss of oil lamps flickered in the corners, their smoky glow casting long, dancing shadows on the floor. The scent of burnt oil mixed with steel and sweat—sharp, tallic, unwelcoming.
In front of stood the man they called the Head of the Singhaniya Clan.
My father.
He towered over in silence, his sharp jawline bathed in the flickering amber light. His presence lood like a wall, unmovable and cold. His eyes—black, pitiless—stared at as if searching for a mistake.
It was the night I returned from my first mission.
I was five.
They called it an assassination. But it wasn’t. Not really.
It was a hunt. A ssage.
They sent to kill the head of the Johariya family—not because they thought I could do it, but because they wanted to die trying. I was a pawn in a ga I didn’t understand yet. A tool they could discard without sha.
They believed I’d fail.
That I’d get caught.
That I’d die.
That was the point.
I wasn’t his son. Not in his eyes. I was a defect. A crack in the legacy. A stain on a bloodline that prized precision, silence, and shadows. But ?
My aura was too large, too wild, too alive. Like trying to hide a wildfire in a dark alley. I lit up in the presence of others, a spotlight where there should’ve been silence.
But my curse... was my strength.
The Johariya estate slled of perfu and power. Marble floors, chandeliers, gold-frad paintings—none of it mattered.
Because when I entered his study, he turned.
He looked at .
And froze.
His pupils dilated. His hands trembled mid-motion. For a mont, it was as if ti had stopped.
His eyes locked onto , like he’d seen death itself walk into his study.
That was my aura.
That was my presence.
He didn’t scream.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t even breathe.
He rose from his chair with a trembling breath, as if unsure if I was real.
A bead of sweat traced down his temple.
"Wh... who are you?" he whispered.
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t need to.
The study was silent—too silent.
The ticking of the golden clock on the wall grew louder, each second like a drumbeat before war. My boots tapped softly against marble as I stepped closer.
He reached for the drawer.
Too slow.
My fingers moved faster than thought. The dagger left my belt and glinted in the lamplight. One clean motion. No hesitation.
Steel t flesh.
His mouth opened, but no sound ca.
He dropped to his knees like a marionette with cut strings.
Blood blood on his white kurta, a red flower of silence. He looked up at one last ti, eyes wide with sothing between fear and awe.
Then he fell.
No guards. No alarms.
Just death.
And a five-year-old boy standing in a dead man’s legacy.
And I ca back ho. My small boots soaked in mud and blood. The dagger in my hand still warm. My hands were shaking—not from fear, but from cold.
Mission complete.
No one waited for at the gate.
No one lit a lamp.
No one even looked surprised.
No one celebrated.
No one smiled.
Not even a nod.
Just silence... and him.
He stepped into the light, his white robe brushing against the stone. His gaze never left mine. Those sa cold, empty eyes that had greeted the day I was born.
He stopped a few feet away, letting the silence devour .
The torchlight flickered between us.
He didn’t speak at first. Just looked.
My breath caught in my throat, waiting for sothing—anything. A nod. A sigh. A flicker of pride.
Instead, he leaned forward just slightly.
"Still alive," he muttered. Not to —to himself.
Then, those cold words:
"From now on, you will train under Mr. Rudra."
He turned to leave, robes trailing like judgnt behind him.
He looked down at . And all he said was—
"From now on, you will train under Mr. Rudra."
Then he turned.
And walked away.
No acknowledgnt. No praise. Not even a glance back.
I stood there... motionless.
I just wanted to hear one sentence.
The one they always said to my brother and sister after their missions
I rembered the ti my brother ca ho from his mission—he was thirteen. The clan welcod him with cheers. Our father clapped his shoulder. Told him he made the family proud.
"You did great, son," he said.
My sister got flowers after her first poison kill. An embroidered robe. Even a feast.
I got silence.
And cold.
But I guess I was just too delusional, huh?
After that night, my training began.
Not the kind that hones you.
The kind that breaks you—rips out everything human and replaces it with steel and silence. You stop dreaming. You stop crying. You stop rembering what a family is.
Rudra wasn’t just a teacher. He was a forge.
And I was the blade he chose to shape.
He never raised his voice, never insulted . But his standards? Unforgiving.
He made strike until my knuckles bled, taught to hold my breath in poison chambers until my vision blurred—because assassins must outlast death itself.
Sleep ca only when earned. Pain wasn’t punishnt—it was polish.
He never coddled .
But he never doubted , either.
"I don’t train boys," Rudra once said. "I train legends. And you, Kunal... you’re already halfway there."
I did countless missions. I completed every single one.
Word spread quickly in the underworld.
"There’s a child assassin," they whispered. "Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink."
One target threw down his weapon the mont I appeared.
Another tried to run.
Didn’t make it past the gate.
My na beca a ghost story told among warlords and rcenaries. If you heard I was coming... it ant you were already dead.
I didn’t train.
I forged myself into a weapon.
Each mber of the Singhaniya family bears a curse disguised as power.
They call it the NeeraKshetra Curse.
An ancient gift passed down like a crown of thorns. A bloodline power etched in the eyes of the Singhaniya.
Our ancestors believed it was a divine punishnt—others believed it was a blessing from the God of Death himself.
Only one thing was certain: when the eyes awakened, death followed.
Every child of the clan hoped for them.
Every enemy feared them
These eyes grant four core abilities:
Kaal Drishti –
Ti bends. Movents stretch like molasses in winter.
The user sees the world in slow motion, calculating every twitch, every breath, before it happens.
Mrityu Vidhita –
The fatal flaw reveals itself.
Openings in defense, cracks in stance—no matter how brief—beco glaringly obvious to the user. A second becos eternity.
Agnivajra –
Strike. Silence. Death.
The user can kill with one blow before the victim even realizes they’ve been touched. It’s an execution masked as a whisper.
Sampurna Niyantran –
Mastery over perception and aura.
The wielder can use all three abilities simultaneously, manipulating their aura at will to vanish like mist, and reappear as death incarnate.
But not .
Every user has a unique passive ability.
Mine was called: Overwhelming Aura.
Where others could suppress their presence, I could not. My aura poured out like a tidal wave, impossible to contain. People felt it before they saw .
It made "diffactive"—unable to use Sampurna Niyantran. A flaw. A weakness.
That’s what they believed.
But they were wrong.
They thought it was my weakness—
But I made it my strength.
Because of my aura, my targets froze. Their instincts scread before their minds could comprehend. It was like a high-tier beast had entered the room, and their souls shattered under the pressure.
They couldn’t move.
Couldn’t react.
Couldn’t live.
And before long...
They started calling sothing else.
Sotis I wonder...
What would I have been without the clan? Without the blood? Without the blade?
Would I have laughed louder? Run farther? Dread bigger?
Or was I always ant to be this?
A nightmare dressed as a boy.
An assassin craving one thing no kill could give:
A father’s approval.
The Nightmare Assassin.
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