Echoes in the mountains

Arun's heart hammered against his ribs as he raced back to the village, fear for Maya morphing into a cold, simmering rage. He burst into the simple hut they shared, his voice raw with urgency. Their old neighbor, Dhana, a man with a weathered face and kind eyes, tended to Maya's wound.

"The well..." Arun gasped, breath ragged. "A snake... it attacked Maya."

Dhana's brow furrowed. "A snake at the spring? That's unheard of. Are you sure, lad?"

Relief washed over Arun, momentarily diluting the strange visions that clung to his mind. He recounted the encounter, the inexplicable surge of power a terrifying anomaly. Dhana listened patiently, his gaze flickering with a flicker of something akin to knowing.

"Sounds like you spooked a mountain spirit, Arun," Dhana said, his voice low. "Those caves hold ancient secrets, best left undisturbed."

Arun wasn't convinced. The images, the primal fury that coursed through him – they felt real. But how could they be? He pushed the questions aside, focusing on Maya's pale face.

The next morning, after Maya had woken, weak but unharmed, Arun sought out Dhanapati, the village chief. Dhanapati, a portly man with a booming voice, was known for his booming laugh and even grander stories. Arun found him amidst a group of villagers, regaling them with tales of a mythical hero.

"And then," Dhanapati boomed, his belly jiggling with mirth, "Indra, the rogue god, ripped the celestial elephant's trunk clean off with his bare hands!"

The villagers roared with laughter. Arun, however, felt a jolt course through him. The name, the imagery in Dhanapati's story – it mirrored the visions from the cave.

"Chief Dhanapati," Arun said, his voice barely a croak, "is that... a true story?"

The laughter died down. Dhanapati squinted at Arun, his smile fading. "What story, boy?"

"The one about Indra," Arun pressed, his heart pounding. "The one who fought the gods."

Dhanapati's gaze turned serious. He beckoned Arun closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Those are just bedtime stories, lad. Indra? A myth to scare children into behaving."

Arun felt a surge of disappointment, but a seed of doubt had been planted. He left Dhanapati, the visions swirling in his mind. He retreated to the seclusion of the forest, seeking solace in the whispering pines.

As he sat beneath a gnarled oak, the memories returned, vivid and horrifying. He saw himself, not as Arun, but as a towering figure with crimson eyes and skin like burnished bronze. He wielded a weapon of crackling energy, tearing through the celestial ranks with savage fury. The taste of blood, the roar of the battle – it was all terrifyingly real.

He gasped, clutching his head as the visions subsided. He was Arun, a simple farm boy. Yet, the echo of that other life, that boundless rage, resonated within him.

Suddenly, the forest floor trembled. A monstrous roar shattered the silence, and a creature of nightmare lumbered into view. It was a Rakshasa, a demon from ancient lore, its hulking form covered in black scales, its eyes burning embers.

Arun stared, frozen in terror. But then, a primal instinct roared to life within him. The anger, the power – it surged forth, a tidal wave of energy. The world slowed. He wasn't afraid anymore. He was... powerful.

With a roar that rivaled the demon's, Arun lunged. His fist, crackling with unseen energy, slammed into the Rakshasa's chest. The impact sent the demon staggering back, a look of shock contorting its hideous face.

The battle that ensued was a whirlwind of violence. Arun, fueled by a power he didn't understand, fought with a ferocity that belied his scrawny frame. He moved like a whirlwind, his blows landing with bone-crushing force. The Rakshasa, though powerful, was no match for the fury that burned within Arun.

The forest floor became slick with blood as Arun ripped through the demon's defenses. The Rakshasa roared in pain and fury, but its strikes landed harmlessly against Arun's shimmering aura.

Finally, with a earsplitting shriek, the Rakshasa crumpled, its massive form dissolving into a cloud of black mist. Arun stood panting, his body wracked with exertion, but a feral grin spread across his face. He had won.

He looked down at his bloodstained hands, a horrifying realization dawning. The power, the rage – it was the same as the warrior in the visions. The legend of Indra wasn't a legend