The news was something their family had dreaded hearing but could never truly prepare for.
Among them, the one who maintained complete rationality was Om. His sister, Shreya, stood on the verge of breaking down, yet she refused to cry. She didn't want to seem weak in front of her younger brother or their devastated mother. Controlling herself, she hugged their grieving mother, letting only two silent tears escape.
Om said nothing. He simply watched his mother and sister sobbing quietly, then turned toward the commander standing in their doorway.
"How did my father die?" Om asked, his voice steady, his emotions buried deep.
The commander cleared his throat before replying, "Commander Viranth fell fighting a Soul Stage cultivator from the Eternal Kingdom. He fought bravely and inflicted severe injuries... but the enemy was a member of the Inner Circle. In the end, he couldn't defeat him."
Om inhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. "What was the name of the Soul Stage cultivator?"
The commander hesitated, looking down. "It's protocol. I'm not permitted to disclose that information."
Anger flared inside Om, but he swallowed it down. Closing his eyes for a moment to regain control, he asked again, "When will my father's body arrive?"
A soldier standing behind the commander stepped forward and said, "It will arrive within two hours."
Om simply nodded. "Okay."
When a soldier died on the battlefield, it was tradition to recover the body if possible for a proper burial. But often, especially in Soul Stage battles, bodies were destroyed beyond recognition — or stolen by the enemy.
They were lucky this time. Commander Viranth's body had been retrieved.
The officers stood silently in the corner, drinking coffee as they waited. Years of endless war had numbed them to death; mourning was a luxury few soldiers could afford anymore. After two centuries of war, death had simply become part of life.
Om understood this. He didn't see only the grief of a fallen soldier — he saw the loss of a father.
Shreya busied herself preparing refreshments for the guests arriving for the funeral rites, while their mother sat motionless, her grief overwhelming her. Om silently received the mourners, bowing politely.
Two hours passed in a blink. Soon, Commander Viranth's body arrived, encased in an ice coffin to preserve it.
Tears filled their eyes as they laid eyes on him — cold, still, forever beyond reach.
More and more people came to pay their respects. Among them was Mark, their neighbor — a young man around twenty who worked in the military. Though he looked barely older than a teenager, his maturity was far beyond his years. Om didn't know Mark's exact rank or chakra level, but his father had respected him deeply. That was enough for Om to offer the same respect.
Mark knelt before the coffin, offering a silent prayer, then accepted a cup of tea from Shreya before quietly sitting down beside Om.
Leaning in close, Mark whispered, "The day of the test is coming. Be ready."
Om stiffened. Anger surged within him — how could Mark talk about tests at a time like this? But he controlled himself. He stayed silent, not realizing that in his brief moment of fury, the nearby diya flame — burning in ritual honor for the dead — flickered violently and extinguished without any wind or external cause.
Mark left soon after, and the ceremony continued.
By evening, the body was cremated.
The family returned home in silence. They sat down for dinner, but barely touched their food. No one spoke. The house, once filled with laughter and life, now echoed with grief.
That night, each retreated into their own rooms. No one slept.
Om lay awake, hearing the muffled sobs of his mother through the thin walls. His world had shattered in a single day. Yet his mind wasn't solely filled with grief — it was consumed by a growing rage toward the unknown enemy who had taken his father's life.
As anger simmered, the filament of his room's lightbulb flickered, then burned out completely.
Om noticed it but said nothing. He closed his eyes, exhaustion finally pulling him into a restless sleep.
He awoke early the next morning at 6:00 AM.
While preparing a simple breakfast, the doorbell rang. Outside stood a man dressed in formal clothing, holding a satchel — an employee from the Bank of India.
Om opened the door. "Good morning, sir," the man said politely. "I'm Bharat, from the Bank of India. I've come to deliver the items Commander Viranth set aside for his family, along with his insurance benefits."
"Please come in," Om replied.
Bharat stepped inside and sat on the sofa. Shreya quickly brought him a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully.
From his satchel, Bharat pulled out three letters and three silver chains, placing them carefully on the table.
"Each letter has a name written on it," Bharat explained. "Please, each of you, take one chain. They were meant to be your keepsakes."
He handed Sharanya the insurance documents and bowed respectfully before taking his leave.
The family gathered around the table, staring at the things Viranth had left behind for them. Without a word, they each picked up their letter and chain and retreated to their rooms.
Sitting at his desk, Om unfolded his letter.