✦THE LAST STAND ✦
They rode headlong into the mouth of hell.
The village square had become a drowning pool of chaos. Tongues of orange flame licked the midnight sky from collapsing rooftops, and the air was a thick, suffocating soup of charcoal and terror. The very bedrock trembled beneath the rhythmic, thunderous footfalls of things that did not belong to this world. Villagers fled in a blind, hysterical swarm—mothers shielding infants with their own bodies, men dragging the wounded through the mire—their collective screams shattering against the night like shards of falling glass.
Verman did not wait for the motorcycle to lose its momentum. He vaulted from the seat, his boots striking the earth with the heavy finality of a judge's gavel.
To his left, a shadow detached itself from the smoke. A demon, its maw dripping with hunger, lunged toward a huddle of fleeing children. Verman was a blur of motion. Steel sang a lethal, high-pitched note as the Sword of Mercy carved through the creature's neck in a single, merciless arc. A geyser of black ichor painted the dirt, and the beast's carcass hit the ground mid-stride, dead before it knew it had been hunted.
Above the square, the sky was a churning mess of leathery wings and soot.
"Reload!" Arjun's voice hoarse.
Gopi's fingers were slick with sweat and grime, He packed the ash-coated rounds into the chamber with frantic precision. Arjun shouldered the rifle, his eyes narrowed to slits of cold fire. He fired, and fired again—the reports echoing like claps of thunder. Each shot found its mark, ripping the winged monstrosities from the sky and sending them spiraling into the streets below like dying stars. The atmosphere grew thick with the cloying, contradictory scents of burning flesh and sacred sandalwood.
Then, from the far end of the square, the true nightmare emerged.
A towering Asura, a mountain of corded muscle and ancient malice, charged through the wreckage. Spikes of jagged bone protruded from its spine, and its roar was a physical force that vibrated in the marrow of their bones.
Verman didn't flinch. He sprinted toward the behemoth, his silhouette a lone spark of defiance against the dark.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to decelerate into a crawl.
Verman launched himself into the air—a leap that defied law of human physics. He brought the glowing blade down with the concentrated fury. The sword cleaved the demon from the crown of its skull down through its abdomen, a vertical line of white light following the blade. The massive corpse split apart, crashing into the earth with a thunderous impact that sent a shockwave rippling through the very foundations of the village.
A sudden, ringing silence followed the kill, broken only by the crackle of the dying fires.
The villagers stopped running. Slowly, cautiously, they gathered. Their eyes widened as they stared at the man standing amid fallen demons, sword dripping with dark blood, chest rising steadily as if he had merely finished a routine duty.
Verman raised his voice, steady and commanding.
"If you wish to live, go now—to the temple hill. Seek refuge within its sacred walls. These demons cannot cross that ground."
Fear still lingered, but something else rose beside it—hope.
The villagers stopped running. Slowly, cautiously, they gathered. Their eyes widened as they stared at the man standing amid fallen demons, sword dripping with dark blood, chest rising steadily as if he had merely finished a routine duty.
Verman raised his voice, steady and commanding.
"If you wish to live, go now—to the temple hill. Seek refuge within its sacred walls. These demons cannot cross that ground."
Fear still lingered, but something else rose beside it—hope.
A trembling voice, thin and fragile as spun glass. "How?" the man whispered. "How can we hope to survive the open road? They are everywhere."
Verman answered without a flicker of hesitation. "Gather the sandalwood. Strip it from the prayer altars, the carvings, the sacred chests. Burn it. Carry the ash like a shield. Its scent is a toxin to these beasts, a wall they cannot breach. My sons will hold the high ground; they will cover your path from afar."
The village, which had been a graveyard of paralyzed souls moments ago, stirred to life with a desperate, unified purpose. Elderly men tore sandalwood planks from ancient altars; women clutched smoldering incense sticks like daggers; children pressed ash-filled cloths to their chests. A procession began to form—not an army of soldiers, but a phalanx of survivors, fueled by the primal instinct to reach the light.
When the column was ready, Verman turned to the boys.
"The path to the hill is open—for now," he said, his eyes locking onto Arjun's. "You must lead them. Guide them from the front, while I remain here to hold the threshold. I will slay every shadow that attempts to follow."
Arjun stepped forward, his resolve splintering for a brief, agonizing second. "Papa…" his voice broke, thick with the realization of what his father was asking. "Come with us. Please."
Verman smiled—a quiet, unshakable expression that seemed to radiate a warmth. He placed a heavy, grounding hand on Arjun's shoulder.
"My duty does not end with this village, son. This is but one theater in a much larger war. From every direction, the broken and the terrified will flee toward this sanctuary. Refugees from across the town—injured, hunted, and hopeless—will come seeking the temple's shadow. Someone must stand between them and the dark. Someone must ensure the gate remains open."
Arjun's chest tightened. "But why you? Why must it be you alone?"
"Because I wear this uniform and Am the only one here who could fight these other world creatures," Verman replied softly, glancing at the brass buttons of his constable's jacket. "And because one day, you will understand that a man is measured not by what he gains, but by what he protects."
The villagers bowed their heads, whispering fragments of prayers as if standing before a living guardian of old. Then Verman spoke one last time, his voice carrying a sudden, solemn fire.
"Do you remember, Arjun? Do you remember what a soldier says before the first step onto the field of honor?"
Arjun wiped the tears from his soot-stained cheeks and straightened his spine. He raised his hand in a salute, his small frame suddenly imbued with an iron strength.
"Veer bhogya vasundhara," he declared. The Brave shall claim the earth.
Verman returned the salute, his eyes gleaming with a fierce, quiet pride. "Veer bhogya vasundhara."
The words spread like a tidal wave through the ranks of the survivors. The villagers took up the chant, their voices rising in a rhythmic, defiant roar that drowned out the crackle of the flames. Fear was burned away, replaced by a cold, crystalline resolve.
Torches flared. The cloying, sweet smoke of sandalwood curled into the sky like a protective shroud.
The march began.
Arjun, Gopi, and the procession moved toward the looming silhouette of the hill, step by agonizing step, carrying the flickering flame of hope through a world of ash.
Halfway up the ascent, Arjun gopi and many others paused. They looked back down into the valley of fire.
Below, in the center of the ruined square, Verman stood alone.
Sword in hand.
Shoulders squared against the horizon.
His smile remained unwavering.
He raised his free hand and waved—a slow, deliberate gesture that felt like a farewell not just to his son, but to the very world he had sworn to save.
The darkness of the hill swallowed the procession, and behind them, a lone warrior turned his back on safety to face the oncoming storm.
✦ THE CONFRONTATION ✦
The refugees surged toward the village outskirts like a flood shattering a rotted dam. They came in frantic, overlapping waves—the hollowed remains of Arjun's village joined by a tide of terrified survivors from the neighboring settlements. It was a mosaic of human misery: men staggering under the weight of the wounded, barefoot women clutching wailing infants, and the elderly driven by a primal, desperate adrenaline. Their collective screams merged, a wall of sound born from the raw marrow of survival.
Verman stood at the vortex of the madness.
He straightened his spine, the familiar iron in his posture returning, and tightened his white-knuckled grip on the Sword of Mercy.
The weapon's hum steadying his pulse even as the atmosphere around him dissolved into hysterics. His instincts, screamed a singular warning: They are here.
As the villagers poured onto the open grounds, terror threatened to scatter them into the waiting maws of the dark. Verman moved among them like a living bulwark. He was a pillar of direction in a sea of chaos, his hands gripping shoulders to steady the falling, his voice a commanding roar that pierced the din. He pointed toward the ancient temple—a stoic, stone silhouette crowning the hill against the hemorrhaging sky.
"Move! Do not let the rhythm break!" he barked, The hill is your life! Keep moving!"
His blade became a streak of silver light, carving open corridors of escape where fear had choked the path. Demons lunged from the roiling smoke, their talons mere inches from fleeing backs, only to be met by Verman's steel. He absorbed the danger, positioning himself at the precise point where the darkness was thickest, acting as a lightning rod for the village's agony.
Each step backward was a calculated. Each strike was a measured economy of death. He was not retreating; he was the rearguard of humanity's last hope.
Then—something twisted deep within the hollow of his chest.
His blade slowed, its lethal arc faltering for a microsecond. His gaze lifted, drawn upward by a pressure that felt like the weight of a mountain. For a single, agonizing breath, he paused.
High above the ruins, parting the curtains of fire and soot, a figure descended. It did not fall; it commanded the air. It was a presence of absolute, merciless gravity, radiating a powerful dark demeanor.
Verman's eyes widened, the breath hitching in his throat. His heart slammed violently against his ribs—not with fear, but with the shock of a ghost returned to life.
"Mihir Kul."
The name was a bitter, jagged thing, clawing its way up from a past he had buried beneath years of silence. The world dimmed around him. Memories surged unbidden: blood-soaked battlefields, and a promise broken by the tides of fate. His fingers trembled—just once—around the hilt of his sword.
What is he doing here?
The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow. His suspicions hadn't been paranoia; they had been prophecy.
"As I had always expected he finally came for the Avatar today. He came for Arjun".
Verman's jaw tightened until his teeth ached. A leaden heaviness settled in his lungs. The game of shadows was over; the hunt had reached its climax. There was no more hiding—not in this village, not in this world.
High above, the temple bells began to ring—a soft, sonorous, and ancient vibration. One by one, the villagers crossed the threshold of the sacred boundary, collapsing in sobbing relief as the temple's sanctified aura pushed the shadows back. Verman watched them pass, each life a silent, final farewell.
Near the heavy iron gates, Arjun and Gopi struggled to hold their ground against the surging crowd. Smita found them in the crush, her fear igniting into a sharp, protective fury as she seized Arjun's shoulders.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "Why are you lingering at the precipice?"
Arjun tried to break her grip, his eyes fixed on the burning valley below. "I have to go back! He's alone—I have to help him!"
Smita's expression hardened. "There is only death waiting beyond those gates, Arjun,"
she said, her voice dropped with grim truth that chilled the air.
When Arjun insisted, speaking of the demons he had already slain, Smita's gaze turned somber. "The things you faced were carrion-eaters," she said softly. "The shadows standing outside now are the true Asuras. Some of them possess a darkness so profound that even the Devas hesitate to face them."
Below the hill, the song of steel rose again.
Verman moved with a fluid, desperate grace. He cut down one demon, then another, his strikes fueled by a resolve that had been sharpened to a razor's edge. He guided the last stragglers upward, his body an instinctive shield between the hunt and the prey.
He never once looked back.
...