The Cursed Blood-line

60 Years Ago: The Comet's Impact

With a blood-red line slicing across the skies, The sky turned dark, and an explosive streak flashed across it. A loud crash shook everything. The comet had hit.

As the comet approached, people everywhere watched in terror, and when it hit, everything was destroyed. Buildings fell, the ground trembled, and massive fires swept through cities. The ground shook beneath their feet, as smoke filled the air.

The world was no longer the same. As the Comet met the earth, most of the continents have sunk into the seas, and the green peninsula become a desert.

The comet’s impact caused huge explosions, fires, and a deadly cloud of ash and gas. Most people didn’t survive. Only 20% of the population remained.

The old world was gone. Now, only the toughest could survive in the wasteland.

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PRESENT :: 2028 AD

The charcoal dust and smoky ash was carried by the wind as it blew through the desolate landscape.

In the dust-choked air, a conflict took place on the buildings of an old, forgotten city. A group of individuals fought fiercely over the last oxygen tanks. They were fighting, scraping, slashing with ferocity over the last remaining stash of oxygen tanks.

Clean air was as precious in this new world as gold, which was rare on the contaminated wasteland. no-one know when the environment changes, making the air around them into a toxic gas that was produced by the clouds that were contaminated by the toxins of water and air.

people who were fighting were desperate. Drenched in blood and sweat, each person battled with the natural ferocity for the survival.

Amidst the tumultuous chaos, a man who was bleeding from his lower body stumbled forward, his gaze fixed on the rumpled bag. The valuable, life-sustaining tanks were within. Without them, the poisonous air that pervaded the country would suffocate them. It was a plain struggle for existence.

With her fingers gripping the bag, a woman with scars on her face sprang and knocked another man to the ground. But before she could reach for it, she was knocked away and sent falling by a tall, slender guy. Reaching for the oxygen, he smiled with his blood-stained teeth.

Mruga stood on top of the ruins of a building, visible from a distance. He looked through a pair of binoculars, absorving the scene below, with a smirk on his face. The sound of his laughter was in punk tone.

"Well, well, look at them," Mruga whispered, glancing over the fight. "A group of idiots fighting over what? Some leftovers in a container? How charming."

He focused on a man staggering backward, his face crying in pain, his arm cutted off, blood falling down from his arms. He wasn't giving up, though. With frantic eyes, he pushed forward once more and reached for the crate.

"Pathetic," Mruga said with a sad laugh. "You’d think they'd have figured it out by now. There is only death and dust, no treasure or saviour. Keep killing each other for your small gift, though. Very impressive."

Once more, he let out a loud, sarcastic laugh. After adjusting the binoculars, he focused on the woman who had a large cut on her forehead and was bleeding. As though the container were the last thing in the world, she continued to fight, her hands curled around it.

"Dude, I'm tired of seeing these things every day. Come on." Mruga turned away from the battlefield searching for something, Mruga muttered a smirk, "I need some new stuff."

Mruga smirked, rolling his eyes as he turned around.

But as he did, a person appeared behind him, moving with a strange silence. A person wearing a raven mask stood there, his presence almost strange. Mruga fell to the ground as the masked figure's fist struck his face before he could respond.

The force of the punch was enough to make Mruga's vision blur and he fell down. The surroundings around him darkened as he lost consciousness.

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[-Somewhere in a closed room-];

As Mruga sat at a metal table with his hands chained tightly behind them, the faint light flickered overhead. The room was cold, seemed like a place where the walls advancing towards him closer with every second.

A person worn a raven mask, stepped out of the darkness in front of him. The person positioned a small, worn box in front of Mruga and then a number of carefully placed objects. A traveling knife, an old frayed journal, and a tarnished ring all appeared eerily familiar but unknown.

The voice was quiet, almost calming, but it had a dark undertone. "Pick one." "Which one is yours?"

"What are you talking about, there's nothing mine" Mruga replied with a confused tone.

"Do you remember, Umbra. Or do you atleast know about that blade , a cursed blade Umbra?" the person waring a mask asked him consciously.

"No! I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about!" Mruga replied in a harsh tone filled with confusion and anger.

The person smirked behind the raven mask. 'The fight—you fought for the destiny that made for you. We met along the way in the mystical forest. A girl beside you asked me about the spirits, to free them."

"What the heck are you even talking about? Have you lost your screws?" Mruga sneered at him.

"You disappoint me," the person said in a low voice.

" I’m curious about you and your cursed swords," the person said, stepping closer, his voice cold and deliberate. "The consequences you’ve caused have begun pulling this world into darkness." He paused, eyes narrowing as he studied Mruga. "You have no idea what you have done."

"Pick one!" The person ordered Mruga.

Mruga started blabbering, "What the hell, man? There’s nothing mine!"

In the meantime, the person suddenly fired a bullet toward Mruga's ear, the sharp sound ringing in his ears. "Pick one!" he ordered coldly.

"Hey, hey, hey, what the hell?!" Mruga sneered, his voice shaky with fear.

"Hey, c'mon, man, I’m just the wrong guy in the wrong place," Mruga replied, trying to ease the tension.

As soon as Mruga's fingertips touched the small hunter's knife, a strange connection swelled inside him. His heart pounded with the screams he heard from the battlefield. As the world around him seemed to change and the air grew heavy with the smell of blood, he experienced a weird clarity.

visualising some of the visuals that seems to be from the past life. Then, the voices began.

“They call me cursed,” a low, guttural whisper echoed.

“A blade bound to darkness. Another voice hissed, as the words had been matched by a threatening smile: "A soul chained with regret."

"You think you can defeat us all, alone?" The tone was derisive, mocking him.

“You have no idea what you’re up against,” it continued, growing louder, more insistent.

"Kael Ashera," the name hissed like poison, causing a searing pain in his brain.

"You're worth more dead than alive, you know," said a different, cold and cunning voice. "We could make a fortune from your head."

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[937 AD : Norse period]
[Dublin]

With the exception of distant flames that gnawed at the remains of broken siege engines, the battlefield was quiet. Smoke twisted upward, casting shadows over the fading light and adding grey striations to the scarlet sunset. A graveyard of shattered weapons and lifeless bodies: soldiers and warriors, each with their own stories now silenced, The soil became darker as blood soaked into it.

Among the wreckage, Mruga remained motionless in a sea of death. Once shining silver, his ragged armour was now marred by dents, scrapes, and dried blood stains from innumerable battles.

He was holding a sword with the bright dark symbols carved on its obsidian blade appeared as blood dripped down. A black mist twisted around the sword, speaking softly in a language that no one could understand.

"You took a long, long break to understand the mistake," the blade snarled in a low, demonic voice, its tone brimming with bad will.

"This isn't me." Mruga voice wavered, but it wasn't his own voice that emerged. Years of conflict had toughened the voice, making it deep and rough.

As the armoured enemy drew closer, Kael held his position, his body studying them in controlled tension. His boots moved a little, settling down firmly on the uneven ground. The echoes of faraway screams were carried by the wind as it spoke through the smoke.

"What is this?" His voice was tremulous and harsh as he whispered.

However, there was no time to think.

One of the enemies charged toward Mruga, with a long axe gripped tightly in his left hand.

"I... I can't do this," Mruga thought, fear tightening its grip on his mind.

His body moved without his consent. Even he was shocked by the effortless precision with which his arm swung as his grasp tightened around the blade. With ruthless finality, the enormous sword's edge met flesh and bone as it slashed through the air. The person fell, his armour splattered with blood.

After a moment of hesitation, the others charged ahead. Mruga's body rotated and Fought as if he had done this innumerable times, and his hands moved without conscious thought.

Another enemy fell, then another. He moved with ease and delivered savagely effective blows. The blade's weight no longer felt strange; rather, it was an a part of his anger.

It wasn’t Mruga fighting anymore. Someone else did it. Someone who had previously done this.

The leader moved ahead as the remaining hunters collapsed to the ground, their blood seeping into the dirt.
his scarred face contorted into a self-assured sneer.

The leader stated "Kael Ashera," with a tone of dangerous confidence." "Your head is extremely valuable, regardless of whether it is cursed or not. Give it over quietly,"

The name resonated deeply with Mruga. "Ashera Kael". He had no idea why, but it a strange feeling.

After that, Mruga grinned.

but not actually him. It was not the face of a man who was scared and perplexed. This was the grin of a dangerous person who thrived as the curse of war. The one who is not concerned of killing, As he was the only lord of the battle field.

Mruga was no longer himself at that point. It was Kael Ashera's both mind and the face.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and laced with mocking laughter, “you should’ve brought more men.”

The words came out naturally, as if they had always belonged to him. His grin grew as he tightened his hold on the blade and took a measured step forward.

For a split second, the leader's confidence trembled. And then Mruga—no, Kael—moved forward.

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PRESENT :: 2028 AD
[-Somewhere in a closed room-];

Against the continuous hum of the room's dim lighting, the creak of the door was barely noticeable. A person entered, his robotic monkey mask's metallic sheen gleaming in the faint light like an ancient object but with a robotic touch. A modern fusion of tradition and technology, the mask had elaborate patterns that mirrored Sun Wukong's ferocious face, full with sharp lines.

Mruga was curled up on an old, ragged couch on the far side of the room. As if they were examining him, the masked person hesitated and raised his head slightly. He had a commanding presence that unnerved without cause. His breathing system hissed faintly, but it was drowned out by the background sounds.

Then, his gaze shifted. Slowly, firmly towards the person wharing a Raven mask.

"How long will it take?" He questioned firmly by Leant slightly forward, gazing towards the person waring a Raven mask.

The person with the Raven mask stood motionless, remaining normal. he cocked his head slightly, as if he was thinking about the question.“It will take time.” They took a step forward. “He needs to understand the mistakes he made. Now, those errors are dragging everything in the direction of doom! The curse is becoming worse. The people who were holding the Fragments of the cursed blades were unknown about the power they ware holding."

There was a long silence while the words took hold. As though the weight of the truth was greater than they had anticipated, the person in front of the Raven mask stumbled and took a tiny step back. There was a long period of stillness until they finally spoke again in a doubtful tone. “Do you think he can do it?”

The person in the Raven mask remained silent for a moment. he stood motionless, "Come on." the tone was low as he spoke with quiet trust. "He had that curse once. He managed to keep things under control. The only one who can stop it now is him. Hi has the bloodline of the ancestry and mainly he has the pure cursed blood-line of Ashera Kael."

"The curse knows him, even though it poses a threat. He had the blood linked to it, and I believe" The person hesitated, a change in posture, as though their thoughts had changed. “…I think it would like to meet its old friend again.”

The Sun Wukong mask-wearer moved forward, looking towards Raven mask with narrowed eyes questioned him, "What is the possibility?" With a sense of urgency.

The Raven-masked guy declared "It's a one in a million chance," in a low voice and continued. "At least one of the twelve fragments must accept him—only then we have 20% chance to stop the growing curse."

The person in the monkey mask, who had been standing off to the side, suddenly heated up and made a dramatic hand gesture, seemingly ignoring the upcommoing threat. "What? Just 20%?!" he said, smacking his forehead "Come on! Twenty percent? That's like... saying I have a one in five chance of getting a snack after I finish my training!" With a silly smile, he raised his palms in the air as if they had found a solution to the smallest of issues.

Then suddenly Monkey man sneers looking at Mruga, "You.......... Idiot......."

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In this world full of mysteries.
The greatest mystery is life itself, it's the most mysterious.
When something happens, we remember :
who did it, where it happened, and when it happened.
But no one truly knows why it happened.

Why are we born alongside another?
Why do we carry burdens together?
Why do we clash and fight?
Why are we loved by others?
The truth remains hidden in the threads of fate.
Only Karma knows the truth.
                        
                                        

// To Be Continued......