aerial Villain redento che muore...
Ho inventato anche storia su questo.
Più avanti il ragazzino esprimerà un desiderio molto particolare vedendo stella cadente.
Title: "Shadow of the Sacred Blade"
The cinema was packed, the scent of buttery popcorn mingling with the faint tang of soda in the air. Eight-year-old Ethan perched on the edge of his red velvet seat, his legs swinging in restless excitement. His parents, Laura and Michael, sat on either side of him, exchanging amused glances as their son clutched a jumbo-sized soda he was far too small to finish.
On the enormous screen before them, the climactic final act of Shadow of the Sacred Blade unfolded. The adventurer-hero, Captain Rohan Devlin, a rugged man with a knack for smirking in the face of danger, swung across a crumbling temple ruin. At his side was the brilliant and fearless Dr. Amara Kaul, an archaeologist with a sharp wit and even sharper tongue. And in their path, as always, was the villainous high priest Indrajit, a loyal servant of Kali, whose menacing presence had dominated the film.
Ethan loved Indrajit.
Maybe he wasn’t supposed to, but something about the villain’s sardonic humor and booming voice captivated him. Indrajit wasn’t like the usual bad guys—he wasn’t just evil for the sake of being evil. He was funny, clever, and had this dramatic flair that made Ethan grin every time he appeared.
The pivotal twist hit like a lightning bolt.
Rohan and Amara stood before the golden altar of Kali, desperately trying to dismantle the cursed blade that could summon the goddess herself. Indrajit, of course, was there to stop them, flanked by his monstrous servants. But as the scene unfolded, the camera lingered on Amara’s face—her fiery determination, her defiance—and then flicked to Indrajit’s. For a fleeting second, his expression softened, and Ethan’s sharp eyes caught it.
And then came the moment.
Amara, with frustration crackling in her voice, yelled, “You can’t stop us, Indrajit! I’m not afraid of you!”
Indrajit, in his deep, rumbling voice, shot back: “You should be. Fear is wisdom.” But as he stepped closer, something in his posture faltered.
“Wait a minute…” Ethan whispered, leaning forward.
Amara and Indrajit locked eyes. And then, as though time slowed, they spoke the next line in unison:
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
It was meant to be menacing, a clash of wills—but the perfect synchronization of their words turned it into an unexpected gag. Both characters paused, surprised, and then snapped at each other.
“Don’t finish my sentences!” Amara barked.
“Don’t finish my sentences!” Indrajit retorted, his dramatic menace slipping into incredulous frustration.
The audience erupted into laughter. Ethan’s giggle joined the chorus, his mind racing. They were too alike—too similar. The way they moved, the way they spoke. And now, the shocking truth was revealed: Amara wasn’t just an obstacle in Indrajit’s grand plan. She was his daughter.
Ethan’s eyes widened as the scene played out. Through fragmented flashbacks and whispered monologues, the movie stitched together a tragic backstory. Indrajit, a once-respected scholar, had lost his wife and infant daughter in a fire decades ago—or so he thought. Now, faced with Amara, alive and unbroken, his villainous façade began to crumble.
The adventure morphed into something deeper. Rohan and Amara continued their quest to save the world, but Indrajit’s motives shifted. The high priest, once unwavering in his devotion to Kali, seemed torn, his booming threats laced with hesitation.
Then came the creature.
A monstrous avatar of Kali—a hulking beast with a necklace of glowing skulls—rose from the shadows, poised to strike Rohan from behind. Ethan gasped, gripping his soda so tightly it nearly spilled.
Indrajit’s roar echoed through the temple. “No!”
In a flash of movement, he lunged at the beast, his ceremonial dagger gleaming as it plunged into the monster’s hide. The creature shrieked, spinning to face its attacker. Indrajit stood tall, his bloodstained robes whipping in the wind, and for a moment, he looked every bit the hero Ethan had secretly believed him to be.
Ethan’s small hands clenched the armrests as the battle unfolded. Indrajit fought valiantly, driving the creature back toward the altar. But the cost was clear.
Amara screamed, “Father, no!” Her voice cracked with emotion—a rawness that made Ethan’s throat tighten.
Indrajit turned, his face softened by a rare smile. “I never thought I’d hear you call me that.”
The altar glowed, the cursed blade pulsating with energy. Indrajit reached for it, his movements deliberate and unyielding. The temple quaked as the high priest lifted the blade high, channeling its destructive power into himself.
The creature lunged. The blade struck. And with one final, earth-shattering explosion, Indrajit and the beast vanished in a blinding light.
Ethan cried.
Silent tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared at the screen, his heart aching. Indrajit was gone. The villain who wasn’t really a villain had sacrificed himself to save the world—and to save his daughter. The film ended with Rohan and Amara walking out of the ruined temple, victorious yet grieving.
As the credits rolled, Ethan turned to his parents. “It’s not fair,” he sniffled. “He didn’t deserve to die.”
Laura handed him a tissue, smiling gently. “It’s just a movie, sweetheart.”
“But it’s not fair,” Ethan insisted, his voice trembling. “He was the best part!”
Michael ruffled his son’s hair. “He was a great character, wasn’t he?”
Ethan nodded fiercely. “The best.”
That night, Ethan lay awake, replaying the film in his mind. He thought about the subtle hints he’d missed—the way Amara had shared Indrajit’s quick wit, their eerily similar mannerisms, and that unforgettable gag where they finished each other’s sentences. It all made sense now.
And though his parents’ reassurances echoed in his ears—it’s just a movie—Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that Indrajit’s sacrifice mattered. Somewhere, somehow, it had to.
