I Got My System Late, But I'll Become Beastgod-Chapter 72: Ashes of the Past

I was fourteen when I became the deadliest second-gen assassin alive.

Not feared. Not respected.

Just used.

My hands were trained to kill without tremble, my feet to move without sound. I didn’t leave behind wounded cries or lingering breaths—only silence.

Cold, clinical silence.

The kind that lingers even after blood dries.

Some whispered I was stronger than First Gens. But it meant nothing.

Not in the Singhaniya family.

To them, I was still a stain. A shadow in the corner of their perfect legacy.

"Look at your father," my uncle once spat, his fingers brushing my cheek like an insult pretending to be affection. "The greatest assassin to ever live. And you? You’re a cracked, useless blade."

His breath had reeked of sandalwood and whisky. I remembered the way the room smelled—metallic, like sweat and sharpened steel. The way his gaze cut deeper than any dagger.

But no one dared say it again.

Not to my face.

Not after the fifth mission.

Fear has a sound—it’s silence when you walk into the room.

I learned to master my curse, the NeeraKshetra Eyes.

Others could wield all their abilities at once. I couldn’t.

So I adapted.

I became faster. Sharper.

I learned to switch between each power mid-blink, mid-strike. Like gears clicking in my bloodstream, fluid and deadly.

"You’ll surpass your father by the time you’re eighteen," Rudra used to say, polishing his weapon without ever looking at me.

But I didn’t want that.

I didn’t want to be like him. Hollow. A ghost wearing flesh.

Killing without reason.

Then came the Kaksha mission.

Three sanctuaries under their control. Their head—a man not as strong as my father, but still formidable.

A devout killer. Calm. Devoted to silence.

We were sent to end him.

Not just me—my two siblings were assigned too.

Arjun and Siya. Skilled. Obedient. Unquestioning.

We hadn’t trained together in years, but I still remembered the rhythm of their steps, the way Arjun always clenched his jaw before a fight, how Siya twirled her dagger absentmindedly when nervous.

They weren’t just teammates. They were fragments of the same broken mirror I’d been pieced from.

That night, under a blue-misted moon, I found Rudra in the courtyard.

He sat cross-legged beneath the Bodhi tree, sharpening a blade that caught the moonlight like it craved blood. Sparks flared and faded, dancing briefly in the shadows.

The stone scraped against steel in a steady rhythm. Shink. Shink. Shink.

"Something on your mind, kid?" he asked without looking up.

The wind swirled leaves at our feet. I hesitated. Then spoke.

"I don’t want to do this, Master."

He paused. The scraping stopped. The silence grew heavy.

"Do what?" he asked, voice low.

"These missions. These killings. I don’t want this life."

Rudra looked up at me, his eyes tired—older than his face suggested. He studied me like a man who had heard these words in another life, from another mouth.

Then he smiled. Not like a teacher. Like a man.

"Then don’t," he said simply. "Forget your father. This is your life, Kunal. You’re not a tool. You’re a human being. Go live like one."

But those words rattled something inside me—something small, and flickering. Like a candle lit in a dark hallway.

What did living like a human even mean? I didn’t know. All I knew was how to kill and obey.

Still, as I walked away that night, something in me hoped he was right.

He held the blade out to the side and dropped it. The clang echoed like a final bell.

During the mission, we breached the Kaksha mansion under fog and moonlight.

Arjun moved like smoke. Siya moved like silence.

I didn’t feel the wind that night. Didn’t hear the birds. Even the forest held its breath.

We found the Head in the meditation hall. A grand chamber lined with incense and red-veined marble.

He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, bathed in golden light from a hanging lantern.

Alone.

I was meant to strike first.

The blade trembled in my palm—not from fear, but from doubt.

A crack in the perfect machine.

Then, I turned. Fast.

I struck Arjun and Siya before they could blink.

Non-lethal. A nerve pinch to Arjun’s neck. A joint lock to Siya’s spine.

No blood. No sound.

They collapsed, stunned.

I dragged them to a hidden grove near the outer wall.

Laid them on soft moss and whispered, "You’ll understand someday."

I stared at their faces—still, unconscious, peaceful in a cruel way.

For a moment, I wished they’d wake up. That Arjun would curse me, that Siya would strike back. Anything but this silence.

But they didn’t.

Then I vanished.

A ghost once more.

For a year, I lived in hiding.

Wandered nameless villages. Wore borrowed clothes. Ate bread from kind strangers.

I spent days walking until my feet bled through stolen sandals. Nights were colder than I ever imagined—not the temperature, but the emptiness.

Every time I saw my reflection in a river, I didn’t recognize him. I tried to forget my name.

No blood. No blades.

Books saved me.

Stories became my sanctuary.

At the Nalanda University library, beneath a dome of old stone and whispering pages, I made a vow.

I would never use my powers again.

Not for killing. Not for pride. Never again.

The fire crackled, sending sparks into the night.

Kunal sat cross-legged near the flames, a thin stick of roasted meat resting in his calloused hand.

The firelight danced across his jawline, catching the faint scar near his temple. His tired eyes shimmered with orange and gold, like molten memory.

The scent of burning wood mixed with meat and damp earth.

Across from him, Seenu sat frozen, his lips parted. He had just asked a question—softly, like a child scared of the answer.

"You... really used those eyes?"

Kunal didn’t look up immediately. He took a slow bite, the meat warm and slightly charred, the salt sitting heavy on his tongue.

He chewed, the silence thick as smoke.

Then, finally:

"Do you still think I use them?"

His voice wasn’t cold.

Wasn’t angry.

It was... quiet.

Like ashes speaking after a fire’s end.

The trees rustled faintly, the leaves whispering above them. A wolf howled in the far distance, long and low.

Seenu looked down, then smiled faintly—relieved.

"Yes. But not like before. Because I remember what Rudra told you—you’re not a tool."

Aamir, lying on his side with one hand stretched toward the flames, rolled over with a grin.

"Just because you were born into that family doesn’t mean you’re their weapon," he said. "That power belongs to you, Kunal."

He poked the fire with a stick, sending a flurry of sparks upward.

"And if you do anything wrong with it now," Aamir added, mock-serious, "I’ll smack you into next week. We’ve got your back."

Kunal stared at them—his friends, his new world.

His chest felt heavy, like it hadn’t known warmth in years and didn’t know what to do with it now.

Then he laughed. Soft. Real.

It slipped past his lips like sunlight breaking through mist.

"Alright... I believe you guys."

They smiled.

The five of them sat together under a starlit sky, the canopy of Vedangiri forest spreading above like a tapestry of ink and silver.

Seenu threw a twig at Aamir. "If you hit him, I’m recording it."

Aamir snorted. "Good. Proof of my heroism."

Riya, half-asleep, murmured, "You’re all idiots."

Kunal smiled, letting their bickering wrap around him like a blanket.

This... this was what peace looked like.

The fire warmed their small circle, the crackling sounds merging with the night chorus of insects and rustling branches.

For a moment, everything felt still. Safe.

Far above them, hidden in the folds of the sky, a lone figure watched.

A man—appearing in his fifties—stood effortlessly on thin air, his presence as unreal as a forgotten god.

His robes shimmered like starlight woven into royal cloth, both ancient and regal. Wind didn’t touch him. Light bent slightly around him.

His eyes—silver like polished steel—held the weight of lifetimes. And something colder.

Colder than death. Older than time.

He smiled, the expression soft... but unreadable.

"So, he refused to kill. Fascinating.

The boy walks a line none of the others dared touch. That makes him dangerous... or divine."

He tilted his head as if listening to some distant voice.

"These youngsters never fail to amaze me..." he muttered, "no matter how much I saw them struggle."

His voice didn’t echo. It simply was, existing like a thought spoken aloud.

No one felt him.

No one sensed the energy that shimmered like ripples beneath the surface of reality.

"Well... time to head back," the man whispered to himself, glancing once more at the fire below.

His gaze lingered not on Kunal, but on the fire. On the scar it lit.

"You’re not ready yet," he murmured. "But you will be. The storm’s coming, kids. Let’s see if your fire holds."

And then, like mist parting under moonlight, he vanished.

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