JaP Asabaddha

Nolan sits in his workshop, marking out the final enchantment on the rose-shaped hairpin. His hands are steady. But the mana in the air vibrates—with restraint. In the dark room of his workshop, Nolan is focusing on golden rose hairpin on the table, mana circling around him, slowly getting sucked by pen, his hands move the pen on hairpin, very thin lines of mana engravings appearing with each move, with each marking memories flash in his mind.  There were less memories of love, care and smiles, and more memories of hard, ruthless, nonstop training. In those memories there was a smiling face, one of the shining pieces of his memory.  it was the smile he thought he was going to see for his whole life, but hour ago, the same smiling face was in front of him with many expressions: fear, anxiety, stubbornness, guilt. and told him that she loves someone else. His hands kept moving and with each line of engraving, his emotion turmoil was creating waves in his heart, with each stroke ...

The evening sky glowed a deep orange. The setting sun painted the world in a fleeting beauty — a picture of warmth before night devoured it whole. And beneath that dying light, a lone figure sat beneath a tree. Blood soaked his body. His arms and legs were shattered, twisted at impossible angles. His face — half crushed. Only one eye remained open, staring calmly at the countless mages surrounding him. A thin layer of a translucent shield flickered around him — the only thing holding back hundreds of furious mages, all thirsting for his blood. “Hello, my friends,” he said. His mouth curved into a smile, leaking blood and broken teeth. “I know you all wanted to meet me.” He shifted slightly — the motion barely visible. “But it seems this big shield is stopping me from greeting you properly.” A chorus of teeth grinding filled the air. “You coward!” someone shouted from the crowd. “Remove your shield and fight like a man!” Edal turned his head toward the voice. A tall, broad-shouldered ma...

Sometimes, we don’t wake up to a new day. Sometimes, we wake up into the same one — over and over. This is a story, but it’s also a reality. A fictional form of a very real feeling: what it’s like to fade, to forget yourself, to become a ghost in your own life. He woke up again. Not because he felt rested. But because it was time. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe there was no time anymore. He checked his phone — Tuesday. But the word meant nothing. It could’ve been Monday. Or last week. Or last year. It didn’t matter. Each morning, he rose from sleep like a character stepping out from a frozen screen, only to realize the movie hadn’t changed. The room was the same. The clothes. The rhythm. The day. He’d slept, but time hadn’t passed. There was no “gap” between the yesterdays and today. Just one long, stretched-out breath of existence. He wandered through the day — brushed his teeth, walked to work, responded when people spoke to him. He could hold a conversation, even crack a joke. People tho...