28 November 2114, Neelvan (11:07 am)
(Sumedh's home)
The television flickers in the corner of the living room.
The lights are off. Only the blue-gray glow of the screen cuts across the room.
Sumedh sits on the sofa using mobile.
His parents are behind him. They think he's not listening.
But he is.
A stern voice echoes from the TV:
> "...still no official confirmation from the Southern Military Base. However, eyewitnesses report that more than three dozen unidentified entities—possibly curse-class or rogue shadows—attacked Zone-4B in the late morning. The death toll is estimated to be in the hundreds."
His father stands with arms crossed, jaw clenched.
His mother sits at the table, her hand covering her mouth.
> "What kind of monsters do this?" she finally says, almost a whisper.
His father doesn't respond. The news continues.
> "We remind our viewers that these reports are unverified and that the government has not declared a state of war with the curse nation. However, tensions along the border remain high."
> "Fourteen survivors have been rescued. Only three of them were children. One of them—an 11-year-old girl—was found unconscious in a burned-down alley. Authorities believe she may have used a rare form of Swar to repel the attackers. She is currently being treated in a secured military facility."
Sumedh tightens his grip on the mobile.
His mother mutters, "An 11-year-old... why would they attack a city without warning? There were no military bases there. No weapons, no reason... just families."
His father finally speaks.
Quiet. Heavy.
> "That is the reason."
She looks at him. "What do you mean?"
> "They want chaos. Fear. And to see how long we wait before fighting back."
> "But how can curses attack openly? Isn't there a pact? A treaty?"
> "Treaties don't matter to people who already died once."
Silence again. The news switches to footage of smoke, rubble, crying survivors.
Sumedh lowers his head.
> "Why?" he asks quietly.
His parents don't answer.
---
The television is silent now.
Only the hum of the ceiling fan remains.
Sumedh gets up quietly, mobile still in hand.
"Going to study?" his mother asks, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
He nods. "Yeah…."
He disappears into his room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
His mother exhales slowly and slumps onto the sofa.
There's a long silence before she whispers:
> "I'm glad you're not out there anymore…"
Her husband doesn't reply immediately. He stands by the window, the faint scars on his leg just visible where his pants ride up.
> "I wish I could say the same for him," she adds, her voice trembling now. "He's only twelve."
He finally speaks, voice low.
> "That's exactly why I'm not out there."
She looks up at him, confused.
He continues.
> "Because the war we're heading into isn't going to be fought just on borders anymore. It'll be fought inside—in our cities, our systems, and our minds."
> "You think the attack today was a coincidence? A warning?" he shakes his head. "No. It was a test. And we failed."
She clenches her fists. "He's a child. He likes stories and movies. He cries when his pen breaks. And you want him to—"
> "I want him to survive," the father says sharply, turning toward her. "I want him to live in a world where he's not helpless. Where he's not one of the kids buried under the rubble."
His voice softens.
> "Do you know why the military started recruiting Swar users so young now? Because the balance is slipping. The border pacts are just for show. We're not preparing for if a war starts… We're already in one. A cold war that's getting warmer every day."
> "And Sumedh… has potential. Whether we like it or not."
His wife's eyes fill with tears.
> "But what kind of world are we sending him into?"
He doesn't answer. He just sits beside her and takes her hand.
---
Sumedh's mother holds her husband's hand tightly, but her eyes plead with him.
He looks down, jaw clenched.
> "You think I haven't asked myself the same thing a hundred times?" he says, barely above a whisper. "You think I want to be that kind of father? The one who sacrifices his son for a country that might not even remember his name?"
He laughs, dry and broken.
> "I look at him… and I see someone who could've been a writer, a teacher, a filmmaker—anything but this."
He pauses. His voice cracks for the first time.
> "But I've got no choice. None of us do."
She tries to speak, but he gently places his palm over her hand, stopping her.
> "You know how the laws are now. Since the Disarmament Pact, no guns, no bombs, no drones. The world gave up technology after the Great Collapse. Now it's just swords, knives… and Swar users."
> "That's it. They're the only weapons we have left."
> "And there are so few of them. Most kids who awaken Swar either die young or lose control. Out of tens of thousands, only a thousand—maybe two—are trained well enough to make it into the military."
He looks toward Sumedh's door.
> "And our son... he has it. Something rare. Something dangerous."
His hands tremble slightly as he speaks. He leans forward, elbows on knees, like the weight of his words are too much to carry.
> "If I don't prepare him, if I don't harden him… he'll die soft. He'll die like the rest."
> "I don't want to be the villain in his story. I want to be the father who protected him from al
l this."
> "But this world... it doesn't let men like me be both."
Silence hangs heavy in the room. His wife wipes her eyes quietly, but says nothing.
------End of Chapter 3
© 2025 Parth Bhelekar. All rights reserved.
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