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They say light reveals truth.
Indra knows better. Light — real light, the kind that tears through fate itself — doesn't reveal anything.
It erases it.
He was born in a world where every soul carries a Fate Mark. A line written before your first breath. Your death. Your purpose. Your limits. All of it — predetermined, sealed, untouchable.
Except his mark... shattered.
Not broken. Not missing. Shattered — like someone tried to write his destiny and the pen exploded in their hand.
Now Indra walks a world that can't read him. Can't predict him. Can't control him. And the forces that run this world — the ones who've been writing fate for ten thousand years — they've noticed.
They're not curious.
They're afraid THE FRACTURED LIGHT
In a world built on fate — he is the only unwritten thing.
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