Surya pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped into the main hall. Standing at the center was Guru Pedro. He was every bit the legend the rumors suggested—forty-three years old, draped in a sweeping black cape, with a cowboy hat casting a shadow over his weathered face. A gleaming spadroon sword hung at his hip, the hilt worn from years of use.

  "How is your health, boy?" Pedro asked, his voice a deep, resonant rumble.

  "I’m… I’m okay," Surya managed, still adjusting to the man's presence.

  "My apologies, kid," Pedro said, his tone turning raspy and sincere. "I was on a mission in a neighboring village yesterday. I should have been more cautious about the forest border. I should have been here."

  "It’s fine. We made it back without any major injuries," Surya replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  As they shook hands, Pedro’s grip was like iron. "I’ve been expecting you. Pandu—or Kartha, as you call him—sent word of your arrival long ago."

  Pedro gestured to the four figures standing in the shadow of the rafters. "You’ve already met Subha. These are your other colleagues: Pari, Chandru, and Rohan."

  Surya’s eyes widened as they landed on the youngest of the group. "He’s just a kid!"

  "I was selected on my first try," Rohan chirped, puffing out his chest. At thirteen, he looked entirely too small for the heavy gear he wore. "Moonmask was the same age when he started. Mantisman and Verge were only fourteen."

  "Tag names?" Surya asked, blinking.

  "Every elite earns one," Pedro explained. "Chandru is Moonmask. Pari is Mantisman. Rohan is Pause."

  Surya turned to Chandru, who was leaning against a pillar, idly tapping his watch. "Moonmask… I remember. Vaishu mentioned you in the forest."

  "At least your brain still functions after that head-kick," Chandru retorted, his eyes never leaving his wrist.

  Surya ignored the jab and turned back to Pedro. "Is this the whole team, Master? Where are the others?"

  "One more will join us by the end of the week," Pedro said.

  "That’s it? Only seven of us?" Surya asked. "That sounds horribly low for an elite division."

  "It is," Pedro admitted. "The criteria for the BLINK Association are absolute. We require a specific level of biological eligibility and physical peak before a student even sets foot here. In the past, too many recruits died before graduation. We tightened the entrance tests to stop the funeral processions."

  Surya looked down at his scarred knuckles. "I believe it. I failed those tests five times. I only barely managed to scrape by on the final attempt."

  Pedro tilted his hat back, a curious look crossing his face. "Scrape by? Surya, you passed because of a direct recommendation from your Village Kartha."

  The air seemed to leave Surya’s lungs. "Do you mean… that even if I failed, I could have made it into BLINK just because Kartha said so?"

  "No, you misunderstand," Pedro clarified. "The local Kartha is the assessor. They conduct the tests and report the results directly to the MUMBAT HQ. They hold the keys to the gate."

  Surya froze. The memory of the "bored" Assessor and the official-looking clipboard flashed through his mind. It was a setup. Kartha had staged the entire thing—the five failures, the 'final' chance, the local official.

  Why did he lie to me? Surya wondered, his mind racing. Then, a realization hit him. He knew me too well. I was an adamant, desperate boy. If I had known Kartha held the power to pass me, I wouldn't have trained. I would have spent my days pestering him, grabbing his only arm, begging for a favor until he gave in.

  Surya pictured it vividly: him being a nuisance to an old man who only had one hand to eat, work, and defend himself with. Kartha hadn't just been testing Surya’s body; he had been protecting his own peace and forcing Surya to earn his strength.

  "There was likely a reason he didn't disclose the truth," Pedro intervened, noticing Surya’s distant gaze.

  "Yeah," Surya said, a bitter but respectful smile tugging at his lips. "He knew I needed the struggle. But even so… he’s the one who finally let me through. Even though I still couldn’t break that damn Iron Dummy."

  Vaishu joined the group a moment later, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looking slightly overwhelmed by the grand hall. Guru Pedro gestured toward her with a welcoming nod. "Everyone, welcome our second initiate, Vaishu. She’s a Trait Vessel with a talent for blinking through space."

  Rohan, the youngest, practically bounced over to her. "Which attempt did you get in on, sister?" he asked, his voice full of genuine curiosity.

  "Five tries," Vaishu sighed, her shoulders slumping. "It was a long road."

  Rohan then turned his bright, inquisitive eyes toward Surya. "And you, brother? How many for you?"

  Surya felt a cold pit in his stomach. He looked at the official records in Pedro’s hand, then at his own scarred knuckles. For six straight years, he had failed. For six years, Kartha had pushed him, tested him, and sent him back to the dirt. He wasn't a prodigy who had breezed through the gates; he was the longest-qualified student in the history of Section D.

  He was the ultimate underdog, and the weight of those six years felt heavier than the Iron Dummy itself.

  Guru Pedro cleared his throat, calling the room to order as he began to detail the unique strengths of the team Surya would now call his own:

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Subha (Verge): 19 years old. A Devotee Vessel specializing in psychic perception and the activation of the Ajna Chakra. She is a master of Spiritual Energy.

  Rohan (Pause): 13 years old. A Paranorman capable of Object Stasis—the ability to completely freeze the motion of physical items in mid-air.

  Pari (Mantisman): 19 years old. A Weaponized Norman. He has no supernatural "source," relying instead on a mastery of Kalaripayattu and blades forged from a specialized weaponry alloy.

  Chandru (Moonmask): 19 years old. A Celestial Vessel who draws power from the lunar cycle.

  "What’s a Paranorman?" Surya asked, the terminology feeling like a second language he hadn't learned yet.

  "It's a distinction of origin," Pedro explained. "Paranormans are individuals born with supernatural traits that defy human biology—specific powers like Rohan’s stasis or Vaishu’s teleportation. They don't draw from a broad energy pool; they are the ability."

  Pedro paced the room, his cape swirling behind him. "On the opposite end, we have Normans. They are pure humans who have reached the absolute peak of physical discipline. They bridge the gap using martial arts and weaponry alloys. In fact, more than 70% of BLINK graduates are Weaponized Normans. They are the shield of humanity."

  He paused, looking between Surya and Chandru. "Energy Vessels—the Elementals and Celestials—are the rarest of all. You are born with a 'Source' that acts like a stubborn, overflowing well. You are the only ones capable of injuring a Mythic with your bare hands, provided you can control the surge."

  Surya turned to Chandru, his brow furrowed. "So... you’re an Energy Vessel like me?"

  "I am," Chandru said, finally looking up. His gaze was cold, like moonlight on ice. "But I am Celestial. There is a bridge between us, but we stand on different sides. Elementals like you pull energy from the Earth—fire, water, stone. Celestials like me reach for the cosmos—the sun, the moon, the stars, and the void."

  Pedro stood up, the spurs on his boots jingling as he checked the buckles on his leather gear. "I will handle the basics for Rohan and Vaishu. Surya, your training is far more volatile. Your Kartha, Mr. Pandu, has already honed your physical fitness and combat styles. Here, you will learn to regulate the flood."

  He gestured toward Chandru. "Moonmask will be your mentor. He will assist you in channeling your source."

  "Don’t think I’ll go soft on you just because we’re both Energy Vessels," Chandru replied, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. He didn't even look up from his cheap, plastic pygmy watch.

  Surya tightened his grip on his bag, his own internal heat pulsing in response to the cold challenge. This was going to be a long week.

  The next morning, the sun had barely touched the jagged peaks of Munnar when Chandru ordered Surya to pack. They didn't head to a training field, but deep into a secluded valley where the mist clung to the trees like a shroud. Finally, they reached a massive, crumbling structure: Ockslaw Mansion.

  The garden was a graveyard of thorns, and the paint was peeling from the walls like dead skin, but the architectural skeleton was magnificent.

  "What is this place?" Surya asked, staring at the haunting silhouette of the house.

  "My old home," Chandru replied, his voice echoing in the empty courtyard. "An ancestral property."

  "It’s huge... and grand," Surya remarked, stepping over a rusted, skeletal gate. He looked at the quiet, brooding guy beside him. "What happened here, Chandru? Your parents left this place? Do they live nearby?"

  Chandru stopped dead. The air around him seemed to crystallize, a sudden drop in temperature that made Surya’s breath hitch.

  "I don't know what happened to them," Chandru said, his back turned.

  "You don't know? Didn't you even try to find—"

  "Mute yourself," Chandru snapped. He turned, his eyes flashing a dangerous, icy blue. "You are here to train, not to conduct an interview. Keep your mouth shut and follow me."

  In the center of the dusty backyard stood a simple training dummy. It wasn't the heavy iron or reinforced wood Surya was used to; it was made of loose cotton stuffed into a burlap sack, suspended by a thin, flexible wooden stake.

  "Your training is over once you break this dummy into two clean pieces," Chandru commanded.

  Surya let out a short, confident laugh. "Are you serious? I dented an iron slab during my entrance test. This thing is a pillow. I’ll be done in five seconds."

  "I haven't finished—" Chandru began, but Surya was already moving.

  Surya wound up a massive, fire-assisted punch and slammed his fist into the center of the bag. Thump. To his absolute shock, the dummy didn't explode. The soft cotton absorbed the blow, and the flexible stake swayed back, dispersing the energy of the impact effortlessly. The bag remained completely unharmed, swaying gently as if mocking him.

  Surya stared at his fist. He realized the physics immediately: hitting iron was easy because the iron resisted, giving his force something to "break" against. But hitting this soft target was like punching a cloud.

  "Failure," Chandru said flatly. "As a penalty, you will do one hundred push-ups. Use the arm opposite to the one you just used to punch."

  "One hundred? One-handed?" Surya yelped. "Come on, can I get a rookie rebate?"

  "Two hundred push-ups," Chandru replied without blinking.

  Surya’s mouth snapped shut. He realized that with Chandru, every word of complaint acted as a multiplier for the pain. He dropped to the dirt, his left arm trembling as he began the grueling count.

  Throughout the afternoon, the cycle repeated. Surya would rise, roar, and strike the dummy with enough power to level a stone wall, only for the soft cotton to swallow the blow.

  "Again," Chandru would say, his eyes fixed on his watch, marking the seconds of Surya's failure.

  Surya continued to strike, his knuckles sore and his ego bruised. He was beginning to understand: raw power was useless if you didn't know how to make it "stick."

  In the subterranean halls of the Vampire Council, Tharag knelt before the high throne, his voice trembling as he delivered his report.

  "My King... the losses are too great. Nearly thirty of our kind have been slaughtered in the last six months by a single Vessel. The scouts are terrified; they refuse to even reach the surface."

  King Janaga, a towering figure of ancient malice, leaned forward. The temperature in the chamber plummeted. He turned his crimson gaze toward a silent figure standing in the shadows of a jagged pillar.

  "Daggu," the King rumbled. "Will you go to the surface and silence this pest?"

  Daggu stepped into the dim light. Unlike the feral, frenzied vampires Surya had faced, Daggu carried himself with the poise of a general. He shook his head calmly. "No. Those Vessels are incompetent. I seek a fair duel, Janaga."

  Janaga’s lip curled in disgust. "You always disappoint me with your 'principles,' Daggu." The King turned to the opposite side of the hall. "Heera... what of you?"

  A pale vampire with a needle-thin frame stepped forward, a cruel, jagged smile stretching across his face. "I won't disappoint you, my King. I will bring you the head of that Vessel before the week is out."

  "I expected nothing less from you, Heera!" Janaga barked.

  As Heera turned to leave, his eyes met Daggu’s. For a brief second, the past flickered between them—a memory of a time when the student still looked up to the master. Years ago, Daggu had stood over a young Heera, teaching him the art of the blade.

  "To kill the weak or win through trickery is the path of a coward," Daggu had told him then, looking down at a wounded, inferior vampire they had cornered. "In a fight, the way you combat defines your soul."

  Heera had only spat on the ground in response. "In a fight, the world remembers the winner, not the method. The winner is the one honored, regardless of the blood on his hands."

  Daggu inhales a deep breath.

  "If you wish to continue your path, do so," Daggu had replied, his voice a grim prophecy. "But it will pay you one day. That is not a curse, Heera—it is a fact."

  The memory faded as the present-day Heera walked out of the Council chambers. He wasn't looking for a duel; he was looking for a slaughter.

  The scene cuts as Heera ascends toward the surface, the moonlight catching his obsidian claws. His destination was clear: Munnar.

  Pure-blood vampires are the elite—the direct descendants of the ancient vampire ancestry. Born from two vampire parents, they possess immense power and refined abilities. However, their lineage is fragile; a pure-blood pair can give birth only once in their lifetime. This biological limitation has led to a steady decline in their population, making each pure-blood a precious, albeit arrogant, asset to the throne.

  To bolster their numbers and maintain their grip on the world, the ancients created the Mixed-bloods. These are the offspring of vampires who mate with humans or other mythics like goblins and witches. While more numerous, they are treated as nothing more than high-ranking servants. Their sole purpose is to serve as the "harvesters"—the front-line soldiers tasked with collecting human souls to feed the insatiable hunger of the Demon King, Bhavirana.

  Thanks for reading!