TUSHAR Vyas
ABOUT ME
ABOUT ME
STORY BY TUSHAR Vyas
PROLOGUE: THE ANCIENT CURSE
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The Quest for the Shattered CrownPrologue: The Ancient CurseLong ago, in the mystical land of Eldara, a mighty king ruled over a prosperous realm. King Valen was renowned for his wisdom and bravery, and his crown, the Shattered Crown of Aether, was a symbol of unity and strength. Forged from celestial metals, it granted the wearer unmatched power to protect the kingdom. But envy is a shadow that lurks in every corner. A dark sorcerer named Malgrin coveted the crown and, in his fury, cast a curse upon it. The crown shattered into five pieces, scattering across the realm, plunging Eldara into chaos.Chapter 1: The Call to AdventureCenturies later, Eldara remains fractured, its people yearning for peace. You are Kaelen, a young adventurer with a mysterious past and a burning desire to bring harmony to the land. One fateful night, a vision appears in your dreams: an ancient spirit urges you to seek the Shattered Crown’s fragments and restore the realm. You awaken in your village, Orindale, to find a strange artifact on your bedside table—a map marked with cryptic symbols. This is the start of your journey.Chapter 2: Allies and AdversariesYour journey takes you to the bustling city of Larkhaven, where you encounter potential allies: Mira, a skilled mage with a sharp wit, and Thalos, a stoic warrior haunted by his past. Each has their reasons for joining your quest. Along the way, you face challenges: bandits in the wilderness, puzzles guarding ancient ruins, and whispers of Malgrin’s shadow returning.But it is not only Malgrin you must contend with. Rival factions and treasure hunters seek the crown’s power for themselves. Trust becomes a rare commodity as alliances shift and betrayals cut deep.Chapter 3: The First FragmentThe first fragment lies in the Sunken Temple, a perilous ruin submerged in the Marshes of Gloom. Battling venomous creatures and solving intricate water-based puzzles, you and your allies retrieve the fragment. As you hold it, a surge of power courses through you, and a faint memory from your past resurfaces—a clue to your true heritage.Chapter 4: Secrets of the PastAs the journey continues, the fragments you collect reveal glimpses of a hidden truth. You are not just an ordinary adventurer; your bloodline is tied to King Valen himself. The spirit guiding you is none other than Valen’s essence, preserved to guide the chosen one. This revelation strengthens your resolve but also attracts Malgrin’s attention. His minions grow bolder, and his influence corrupts the land.Chapter 5: The Final ShowdownThe final fragment rests in the heart of Malgrin’s fortress, the Obsidian Spire. With your allies, you infiltrate the stronghold, facing waves of dark magic and cunning traps. The final battle against Malgrin is fierce, testing every skill you’ve honed and every bond you’ve forged. As you reunite the fragments, the Shattered Crown’s light banishes the sorcerer’s darkness.Epilogue: A New DawnWith the crown restored, peace returns to Eldara. You are offered the throne but choose instead to be its guardian, ensuring that the crown’s power is never misused again. Mira and Thalos remain by your side, their loyalty unshaken. The land flourishes, and your legend becomes a tale of hope, whispered by campfires and sung in grand halls.But as the sun sets on Eldara’s newfound peace, you can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning of a greater adventure.
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WHISPERS IN THE WALLS
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**Whispers in the Walls**The first time Lydia heard the whispers, she thought it was her imagination. It was a late autumn evening, and the air was thick with the scent of decaying leaves and the faint chill of approaching winter. She had just moved into the old Victorian house on Sycamore Lane, a towering structure with ivy-covered walls and windows that seemed to stare like hollow eyes. The house was a fixer-upper, an inheritance from a distant aunt she had never met.Lydia stood in the kitchen, unpacking boxes, when she heard it: a soft, indistinct murmuring. She paused, her hands clutching a stack of plates, and tilted her head. It sounded like voices, low and distant, as if coming from deep within the walls. She shook her head and laughed nervously. “It’s just the wind,” she muttered to herself, though the night outside was still.As the days turned into weeks, the whispers grew louder. Lydia tried to rationalize it—old houses made noises, after all. Pipes groaned, floors creaked, and walls settled. But these whispers were different. They had a cadence, a rhythm, like a conversation just beyond her grasp.One evening, as she sat in the dimly lit living room, sipping a glass of wine, the whispers came again. This time, they were unmistakable. She froze, the glass halfway to her lips, and strained to listen. The voices were clearer now, though the words remained elusive. They seemed to echo from the walls themselves, surrounding her in a cocoon of sound.“Who’s there?” Lydia called, her voice trembling. The whispers stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stood and approached the nearest wall. Tentatively, she placed her ear against the cold plaster. Nothing. Just as she was about to pull away, a single word pierced the silence.“Lydia.”She stumbled back, her breath hitching. The voice was soft, almost tender, but it sent a chill racing down her spine. She spent the rest of the night wide awake, lights blazing in every room.The next morning, she decided to investigate. Armed with a flashlight and a hammer, she ventured into the basement. The air was damp and musty, the faint scent of mildew clinging to the stone walls. She searched for any signs of rodents or structural issues that might explain the sounds, but everything appeared normal. Still, the feeling of being watched was inescapable.That night, the whispers returned with a vengeance. They were louder, more insistent, and now unmistakably angry. Lydia’s name was repeated over and over, mingled with other words she couldn’t quite make out. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block out the noise, but it only seemed to grow louder.Desperate for answers, she reached out to a local historian who specialized in the area’s old homes. A wiry man with thick glasses and an air of quiet curiosity, Mr. Pritchard arrived the following afternoon. He listened patiently as Lydia recounted her experiences, his brow furrowing deeper with each word.“This house has a dark history,” he said finally, his voice low. “It was built in the late 1800s by a man named Edward Grayson. He was a recluse, obsessed with spiritualism and the occult. Local legends suggest he conducted rituals in the basement, trying to communicate with the dead.”“Did he succeed?” Lydia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.Mr. Pritchard hesitated. “No one knows for sure. What we do know is that he vanished without a trace. Some say he was consumed by the very forces he sought to control.”That night, armed with this new knowledge, Lydia decided to confront the whispers. She sat in the living room, a single candle flickering on the coffee table, and spoke aloud. “Who are you? What do you want?”The whispers surged, a cacophony of voices overlapping, each vying for dominance. Among the chaos, one voice broke through, clear and commanding.“Help us.”Lydia’s breath caught. “Help you? How?”The voice didn’t answer, but the whispers began to coalesce, forming a single phrase repeated over and over: “The basement. The basement.”With trembling hands, Lydia grabbed her flashlight and descended the creaking stairs to the basement. The air was colder than before, her breath visible in the dim beam of light. She scanned the room, her heart pounding, until her eyes fell on a section of the wall that seemed… different. The bricks were newer, the mortar less worn.Summoning her courage, Lydia retrieved a crowbar and began prying away the bricks. The task was grueling, but determination drove her forward. Finally, she broke through to a hidden chamber. The air that rushed out was stale and oppressive, carrying with it the faint stench of decay.Inside, she found a small, cramped room. In the center lay a pile of bones, human remains long forgotten. A chill ran through her as she realized what she had uncovered. Among the bones was a small, leather-bound journal. She opened it with shaking hands and found page after page of Ed
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THE DRAGON SLAYER
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When the doctor first told me about this thing I tried to argue with him, ended up being quite offensive. I phoned him up afterwards and apologized of course. It was a ridiculous attitude to adopt, as if it were his fault.I tried to force him to tell me how long I had left. You hear all these stories about people who were given three months and are still there years later. It's almost a cliché. But he wouldn't give me a figure like that. All he would say was months rather than years. And that I would probably continue to feel reasonably well until close to the end. Not an exact science, he said.He and I were the only ones who knew about it for the first few weeks. Unless some of my friends guessed. There was one time when I caught myself telling someone that I live on a slope leading down to a cemetery. Such a powerful image, but I said it completely unconsciously. It stopped me in my tracks, reduced me to total silence.The first few days were the worst, as you might expect. I didn’t sleep very much at the beginning. But in fairness to myself I don't think that I coped with it too badly. I didn't crack up. I didn't break down and cry or rush off to find a counsellor. I didn't run amok and smash everything. I just sat very quietly in my darkened room and did a great deal of thinking.The Company owed me quite a bit of annual leave so I took it, stayed at home in the cottage. I lay there when I couldn't sleep and fantasized about what I should do with those remaining months, however long it was going to be.My ideas became very grandiose. I thought about what might have happened if someone had walked up to Adolph Hitler in 1935 or 1936 and blown his brains out. Would the world have been a better place? Would that have been the best thing anyone could have done with an expendable life? Who knows? Hitler wasn't the only Nazi. Somebody else would have come to power. But it's hard to believe that whoever it was could have been quite such a monster. Maybe there are turning points like that in human history where one man can make a difference. Before I knew about my condition, such thoughts would have seemed like madness. But now they seemed to make sense. I had been given a kind of gift, a chance to do something worthwhile with the time left to me. It didn't have to be dramatic, but there had to be something that would give meaning to it all - to all those pointless years of sucking up to the boss and people being promoted over my head, trying to be the perfect husband and the perfect father and ending up alone in that little cottage with a rotten divorce settlement and children I never saw, who didn’t want to talk to me any more - never getting anything in return but kicks in the teeth. I suppose it hadn’t struck me so powerfully before because I had always told myself that things would get better, that there was time to change it all. Now I knew that there wasn’t.But maybe I wasn’t destined to be a nonentity after all. Maybe there was something I could do in the world, some mighty task that would make them all turn around and say, “You know, we misjudged him. There was more to him than we ever knew…”I started to buy four morning newspapers and to subscribe to all the news channels on satellite TV. I bought lots of writing paper and a few big loose-leaf binders and I started to take notes on what was going on in all the trouble spots of the world. Tin-pot dictators manufacturing biological weapons and hydrogen bombs. Arab suicide bombers blowing themselves up in crowded restaurants. South American drug barons with private armies and more income than the annual budgets of the countries they lived in. White slave traders smuggling women and young girls out of central Europe and the Far East to live lives of misery and exploitation in the hidden brothels of the rich West. African villagers cutting one another to pieces with machetes and burning each other alive in locked churches. Women and children starving to death because some war lord wanted to use their destruction as a weapon in his fight for power.I began to wonder which of us was ill, me or the world out there. The trouble was there was only one of me. It wasn't enough. There seemed to be so little that I could actually do. In the fairytale world there was always just one dragon to slay and one knight to do the slaying; in the real world there were a million dragons but the knight was still on his own. I would have to change the scale of my operation.I started subscribing to the local newspapers covering the villages within about twenty miles of where I lived. Stories about agricultural shows and new supermarkets and young girls competing for the title of Queen of the May. I seemed to have gone from one extreme to the other. That wasn't where I was going to find my dragon.I had become a bit fixated on the idea that there had to be a dragon, an enemy of some kind to slay. Maybe that was the wrong model. Who had really made a difference ---
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A LOVE BEYOND TIME
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---A Love Beyond TimeIn the quiet village of Evendale, nestled between rolling hills and a serene lake, there lived a young woman named Clara. She was known for her vivid imagination, often found lost in books about knights, castles, and eternal love. Her days were simple but fulfilling, working at the town’s tiny library and watching sunsets from her favorite hill.One evening, as Clara was closing up the library, a thunderstorm rolled in, bringing with it an unexpected visitor. A man, soaked to the bone, rushed inside, seeking refuge. His name was Elias, a traveling historian researching ancient legends. His warm smile and tales of faraway places immediately captivated Clara.As the storm raged outside, they talked for hours. Elias shared stories of forgotten kingdoms and star-crossed lovers, and Clara showed him her favorite passages from her treasured books. By the time the storm subsided, it felt as if they’d known each other forever.Elias decided to stay in Evendale for a while, drawn not only by his research but by Clara’s charm. Days turned into weeks as they explored the countryside together, often sitting by the lake where Elias would sketch and Clara would read aloud. They discovered they shared a deep love for history and a belief in soulmates.One day, while exploring an old chapel on the outskirts of the village, Elias uncovered a hidden journal beneath the floorboards. It was centuries old, written by a woman named Eleanor, who had fallen in love with a wandering artist named Aiden. Their love story mirrored Clara and Elias’s in uncanny ways—right down to a favorite lakeside spot.The journal ended abruptly, with Eleanor writing about waiting for Aiden to return from a distant journey. Clara and Elias felt an inexplicable connection to the tale, as if the universe had brought them together to finish what Eleanor and Aiden couldn’t.On a crisp autumn evening, under a canopy of stars, Elias confessed his feelings to Clara by the lake. “I don’t know if fate brought us together or if we’re writing our own story, but I know one thing—I don’t want it to end.”Clara, her heart full, replied, “Perhaps we’re not just finishing their story. Perhaps we’re starting our own.”From that night on, they were inseparable. Elias eventually moved to Evendale, and together, they restored the old chapel, turning it into a place where stories of love and history could be celebrated. In its walls, they displayed Eleanor and Aiden’s journal, honoring the love that had somehow brought them together.Years later, as they stood hand in hand watching the sunset from their favorite hill, Clara whispered, “Do you think love can transcend time?”Elias smiled, his eyes full of affection. “If it brought us together, anything is possible.”---
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THE LAST CIPHER
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---The Last CipherThe city of Norhaven was shrouded in the haze of late afternoon, the skyline jagged and dark against the bleeding orange of the setting sun. Beneath the surface of its sleek, polished buildings lay a world of hidden agendas, secret organizations, and a constant struggle for power.Max Carter had always operated in the shadows. Once a top agent in the global intelligence agency, he had vanished after a failed mission that left his entire team dead. For years, he had lived off the grid, a ghost in a world that never forgave. But when an encrypted message reached him, everything changed."Max, they're coming for you. You don't know who you can trust anymore."The message had no signature, no sender—only a set of coordinates. The clock ticked down as Max hurried through the crowded streets, the weight of the past creeping up behind him. He had learned long ago that there was no such thing as coincidence in this game.The coordinates led him to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Norhaven, a place he knew all too well. Inside, he found a lone figure standing under a dim light—a woman in tactical gear, her face hidden by a black mask."You're late," she said, her voice low and controlled.Max took a cautious step forward, eyes scanning for traps. "Who are you?""Does it matter?" The woman shrugged, her hand subtly reaching for something at her waist. "They're coming. You're being hunted, Max. By everyone."A sudden explosion shook the building, sending debris flying. The woman grabbed Max’s arm and yanked him toward the exit. "Move!"They dashed through the dim corridors, the sound of boots pounding against concrete echoing in the distance. Max’s mind raced. Who was she? Who was hunting him? And why now, after all these years?As they reached the back door, a sleek black SUV skidded to a halt outside, blocking their escape. A man stepped out, his silhouette unmistakable. Alex Voss—the man who had betrayed Max years ago. The man who had orchestrated the mission that had ruined his life."Max," Voss called, his voice smooth but cold. "You didn’t think you could just disappear, did you?"Max’s muscles tensed, his instincts kicking in. The woman beside him didn’t hesitate. She drew two pistols from her holsters and fired at Voss’s men as they emerged from the SUV. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete, but Voss was already retreating behind his vehicle, out of range.Max turned to the woman. "Who the hell are you?""I'm your only chance of getting out of this alive," she said with a grim smile, before disappearing into the shadows.Max followed instinctively, his mind working in overdrive. They ran through alleyways, weaving between buildings as they heard the unmistakable sounds of pursuit. Every turn, every corner seemed to bring more enemies closing in.Finally, they reached a dead-end alley. Max’s heart raced as he realized they were cornered. The woman glanced at him, her eyes calculating. "I hope you’re ready for this," she said, just before pulling out a small device and tossing it to the ground.The alley was instantly bathed in a blinding light as the device detonated. A shockwave rippled through the air, knocking Max off his feet. The woman dragged him up and pushed him into a nearby sewer grate."Get in," she ordered, her tone no-nonsense.Max barely had time to register what was happening. They descended into the darkness, the only sound the distant rush of water. The woman led him through a labyrinth of tunnels, their pace frantic. Max’s chest tightened as they turned a corner, only to come face to face with more of Voss’s men.The woman didn’t hesitate. She fired a single shot, taking down two of them with deadly precision. Max followed suit, drawing his own weapon and covering her as they moved forward. The fight was fast and brutal—no time for hesitation.As they reached the next chamber, Max’s heart dropped. Standing in front of them was a massive steel door, its surface etched with an intricate pattern. The woman approached the door, pulling out a small device that hummed to life in her hand."This is where it ends, Max," she said, her fingers dancing over the device."What is this?" Max asked, his voice strained."The last cipher," she said. "The key to everything. You thought you were being hunted for nothing, but this... this is what they wanted. It’s all connected. You’re the final piece."Max felt a chill run down his spine. Was he being used? The door slid open, revealing a room filled with screens and computers—files, data, everything they had been fighting for. And at the center of it all was a single document.The woman moved toward the document, her fingers hovering over it. "This is it, Max. The truth."Suddenly, a shot rang out from the shadows, and the woman collapsed, her eyes wide with shock.Max spun around, his hand going for his gun, but it was too late. Voss stood in the doorway
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THE MIDNIGHT WATCHER
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The Midnight WatcherLila had always loved houses with history, and the 19th-century Victorian mansion she inherited from her great-aunt was no exception. With its creaky wooden floors, antique furnishings, and shadowy corridors, it was a place of undeniable charm—and eerie unease.Lila moved in during late autumn, when the days were getting shorter and the nights longer. At first, the strange occurrences were minor: faint whispers in empty rooms, the sensation of being watched, and cold drafts even when the windows were sealed tight. She brushed them off, blaming her overactive imagination.But one night, everything changed.Lila woke up at exactly 3:03 a.m. to the sound of her bedroom door creaking open. Groggy, she squinted into the darkness but saw nothing unusual. She decided it was the wind and tried to fall back asleep.Then she heard it—a soft, deliberate tapping coming from the hallway."Who's there?" she called out, her voice trembling.No answer.Gathering her courage, Lila grabbed her phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam illuminated the long, narrow hallway outside her bedroom. At first, it appeared empty. But then she saw it—a dark silhouette standing at the far end of the corridor.It didn’t move.“Hello?” she called out again, her voice cracking.The figure stepped closer, slowly, deliberately. It was tall, its face obscured by shadows, but its eyes—its eyes glowed faintly, an unnatural, sickly yellow.Lila backed into her room and slammed the door shut, locking it. Her heart raced as she fumbled to call the police, but the signal kept cutting out. The tapping started again, this time on her bedroom door.She screamed, "Go away!"The tapping stopped.For a moment, silence.Then a low, guttural voice whispered from the other side of the door, "You shouldn’t be here."Lila froze. Her phone buzzed in her hand—a text from an unknown number. It read:"Look outside."Against her better judgment, she approached the window and peeked through the curtains. The garden below was bathed in moonlight, and standing in the middle of it was the same shadowy figure, staring up at her.Its mouth moved as if it were speaking, but no sound reached her ears. Then it pointed upward.Lila turned slowly toward the ceiling. That’s when she heard it—a faint scraping noise, as if something—or someone—was crawling in the attic.She bolted out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door, not stopping until she reached her car. She drove straight to a hotel and didn’t return until morning, accompanied by two friends.When they searched the house, everything seemed normal. The attic was empty, the garden undisturbed. But Lila’s bedroom door bore deep scratches, as if made by long, clawed fingers.She never spent another night in the house.A few months later, she sold the property to a historian, who told her something that chilled her to the bone: the mansion’s original owner had vanished under mysterious circumstances in 1897. Witnesses claimed he’d been "dragged away by shadows."No one had lived in the house peacefully since.
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