The stillness of the night was thick, broken only by the rhythmic, distant hum of the city recovering from the "Sage's" descent. In the small, shared bedroom at xxxxx, the air was cool, smelling faintly of the lavender detergent Kaelen insisted on using to mask the scent of city smog. Harish lay on the bottom tier of their custom-built ladder bed, staring at the slats of the upper bunk where Kaelen's steady breathing signaled a rare, deep sleep.
Thirst, sharp and persistent, pulled him from the edge of unconsciousness. He slid out from under the covers, his feet hitting the cold floor without a sound—a habit of a man who moved between the gaps of reality, his weight distributed so perfectly that not even the ancient floorboards dared to groan.
As he padded toward the kitchen for a glass of water, a sliver of light from the cracked living room door stopped him. The yellow glow was dim, filtered through a haze of dust and the lingering ash of the Agnihotri fire. Then, the voices drifted through—hollow, strained, and stripped of the "strong parent" facade they wore during the day.
Harish stood in the shadows of the hallway, the cold glass in his hand forgotten.
"It's over, Sarita. I went to the claims office today," Ravi said, his voice sounding like dry parchment rubbing together. "They laughed at me. I sat in that plastic chair for four hours, and when the adjuster finally saw me, he didn't even look at the photos of the charred inventory. They called the Agnihotri flames a 'Class-A Supernatural Event.' Apparently, our policy has a tiny sub-clause on page fifty-four—you need a literal microscope to read it—that excludes 'inter-dimensional collateral damage.' The shop isn't just a pile of ash; it's a legal void. It's like we never existed to them. And then... then they showed up at the ruins today. The 'Iron Ledger' group. They didn't come in cars; they came in armored transports that looked like they belonged in a war zone. The man leading them wore a suit that probably cost more than our entire stock of premium basmati, and he smiled at me while he handed me the notice. A hundred million, Sarita. One hundred million dollars. That's the 'restructuring debt' they say we owe because the shop sat on a 'Ley-Line Node' that was damaged during the fight. They claim our 'negligent maintenance' of the spiritual pipes led to the mountain's collapse. It's a loan shark operation disguised as a recovery firm, and they have the Alliance's legal backing. I looked at the notice and I couldn't breathe. The air just... left my lungs. We don't just lose the shop; we lose the house. We lose the dirt we're standing on. We lose everything. I've spent my life trying to give Harish and Kaelen a foundation, a place where they wouldn't have to look at the sky and wonder when it was going to fall, and now I'm handing them a grave. I saw Harish today, trying to fix a broken shelf with a piece of twine, and I almost broke down right there. He's so quiet, so content with just helping out, and it breaks my heart. He should be at a university, arguing about philosophy or engineering, not worrying if we have enough rice for next week. And Kaelen... she has the mind of a CEO, but she's going to spend her best years fighting off debt collectors for a debt that isn't even ours. I'm scared, Sarita. For the first time in my life, I don't see a tomorrow for them. I just see a long, dark tunnel with no exit."
"Shh, Ravi. Lower your voice. The children... they don't need to carry this yet," Sarita replied, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to Ravi's jagged despair. "They are sleeping. Let them have this one night of peace before the world breaks in. We will find a way. We've survived lean years before—remember the flood of '18? We lived on lentils and hope for six months. We are a family of survivors. We will sell what we can. Maybe the Agnihotri scrap metal is worth something? Or those 'fancy paperweights' Harish found? We don't need a hundred million; we just need a foothold. You think too much of the future and not enough of the strength of your own blood. Harish is stronger than he looks, and Kaelen... well, you know Kaelen. She'd bite a debt collector's hand off before she let them take her ledger. Don't let them see you like this. If the foundation shakes, the house falls. You are our foundation, Ravi. Drink your tea. It's still warm. Tomorrow, we will go to the temple, and then we will go back to the shop. We will sweep the ash, we will stack the cans, and we will wait. The universe owes us a turn of luck after what happened to the sky. Don't give up on the morning before the sun has even had a chance to rise."
Harish leaned against the wall, his knuckles white against the glass. The "Demon King" within him, the one that had casually erased a Patriarch's limb, felt a surge of cold, analytical fury. He wasn't angry at the flames or the "Sage" myth he had created—he was angry at the vultures circling his father's grief.
"My father is mourning a pile of bricks while lions are at the door," Harish whispered to the darkness. "One hundred million? To these 'Iron Ledger' people, it's a fortune. To me, it's the price of a single page of my memory. They want to steal my sister's future and my father's dignity? They think because the shop is gone, the 'Power' is gone."
He didn't go back to bed. He went to the ruins of the storage room, the air still tasting of burnt cinnamon.
He pulled out a burner phone he had swiped from an Agnihotri guard and dialed a number that shouldn't have existed on any public network.
"Vikramaditya," Harish said when the line picked up. "The park. Ten minutes. If you're late, I'll delete your other hand."
The park was a desolate stretch of parched grass and rusted swings in xxxxxxxxxxx. Vikramaditya, now known only as "Four," was waiting, his stumps tucked into his oversized, singed hoodie. He looked like a broken man, but the moment Harish stepped into the moonlight, the former Patriarch fell to his knees.
"Master," Vikramaditya rasped. "You summoned me?"
"The world is a greedy place, Four," Harish said, pacing the perimeter of a sandbox. "Tell me about the 'Iron Ledger.' Tell me why they think they can charge my father a hundred million for a mountain they couldn't even keep in the air."
"The Iron Ledger is not just a bank, Master," Vikramaditya explained, his head bowed. "They are the scavengers of the supernatural world. When a Great Clan falls, they move in to 'audit' the remains. They trade in debt, but their real currency is power—specifically, martial arts manuals. The world is starving for techniques. Ever since the 'Sage' appeared, the demand for Shadow-type and Void-type arts has reached a fever pitch. The Global Security Council and the Ledger are in a bidding war for anything that can explain how you... how the 'Sage' moved. They want to weaponize the darkness. They think if they can buy enough manuals, they can train an army to hunt you."
"They want to buy the darkness?" Harish laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Then I should sell it to them. It would be rude not to provide a product when there's such a clear market demand."
Harish reached out and placed a hand on Vikramaditya's shoulder. A surge of Abyssal energy flowed into the man. The Patriarch screamed as his meridians—shattered during the fight—were not just repaired, but rebuilt with a darker, more resilient material. Two new arms, formed from solidified shadow and violet mist, manifested from his stumps.
"I'm placing a Blood Oath on you, Four," Harish said. "You will be the 'Shadow Knight' of my father's shop. You will protect that dirt with your life. But first, you are going to help me write some fiction."
Next morning, Harish was in Vikramaditya's cramped apartment, sitting at a scarred wooden table. He had a stack of high-quality vellum and a fountain pen. He began to write with a speed that defied the human eye.
"Listen to me, Four," Harish said as the pen began to smoke against the paper. "This first one is Shadow Demon Breathing, or Mugen-Kokyu. It's a 'Ghost' frequency technique. You don't breathe air; you breathe the silence between the atoms. It shifts your vibration so you become physically intangible to spiritual detection. To a scouter, you'll look like a static error in the environment. It's perfect for people who want to hide from the law—or from me. Not that it will work on me, but they don't know that."
"It's... it's beautiful," Vikramaditya whispered, staring at the complex lung diagrams Harish was drawing. "It defies every law of the Rudra Flame. It's the antithesis of light."
"And this," Harish continued, his pen flying across the page, "is the Shadow Demon Sword Art. Specifically, the Kage-Nui—Shadow Stitching. The blade doesn't move through the air; it moves through the target's shadow. In-Satsu. Dark Murder. If you cut the shadow of a man's heart, his physical heart ceases to beat. It's a denial of the target's right to exist in the light. It's clean, it's efficient, and it's going to cost the Iron Ledger exactly seven hundred million dollars."
"Master, why seven hundred million?" Vikramaditya asked, confused. "The debt is only one hundred."
"Because," Harish said, blowing on the ink to dry it, "I want them to be so poor they can't afford to buy a coffee, let alone a hitman. I want them to empty their war chests. I want them to bet their entire future on a manual they will never be able to master, because only someone with an Abyssal Core can truly activate the 'Ghost Frequency.' They're buying a ticket to their own funeral, and they're going to thank me for the privilege."
Harish uploaded the "Shadow Demon Codex" to the Underworld portal under the pseudonym The Inventory Manager. Within minutes, the auction went viral. The bidding was a bloodbath.
"Look at them scramble," Harish muttered, staring at the screen of his burner phone. "The Global Security Council bid five-fifty. Now the Iron Ledger has counter-bid seven hundred. They think they've found the secret to the 'Sage.' They think they can use this to take over the world."
"They are fools," Vikramaditya said, his shadow-arms flexing. "They are buying a shadow, not the source."
The sun rose over the ruins of xxxxx. Harish sat in the kitchen, casually eating a bowl of soggy cereal, his face the picture of mundane boredom.
In the living room, Ravi was shaking, his hands fumbling with his spectacles as he looked at the clock. "They'll be here in ten minutes, Sarita. Hide the kids in the back. The Iron Ledger... they don't leave survivors when a debt is this large. I saw their enforcers. They have S-Rank mercenaries with 'Mana-Amplifier' rigs. We can't fight them. Maybe... maybe if I beg..."
"Dad," Harish called out, his voice calm and terrifyingly normal. "I think the cleaner, Four, found something in the rubble this morning. Something valuable. A hidden cache or something. Don't worry about the debt. Just let him handle the door. He's actually quite good with people."
"Harish, stay back!" Ravi yelled, his voice cracking. "This isn't a game! These people are monsters!"
Outside, four black armored SUVs screeched to a halt in the driveway, kicking up a cloud of ash. A man in a tailored, charcoal-grey suit—the Head Collector of the Iron Ledger—stepped out. He held a tablet that displayed his recent $700 million purchase. He felt the power of the "Shadow Demon" manual—or at least, the promise of it—coursing through his ego. He felt invincible.
"Ravi!" the Collector bellowed, his voice amplified by a throat-mic. "Time is up! Give us the deeds, or we start with your son's fingers!"
He didn't notice the "Janitor" leaning against the charred entrance. Vikramaditya was holding a simple, dirt-stained broom. His eyes were no longer human; they were two pits of absolute darkness that seemed to pull the sunlight right out of the air.
"The Master says the shop is closed for auditing," Vikramaditya said, his voice a low, resonant growl that made the armored glass of the SUVs spiderweb. "And the Master says your debt... is paid in full. In fact, you owe us for the disturbance."
The Collector laughed. "You? A one-armed janitor? Kill him."
As the mercenaries stepped out, their mana-rigs humming, Vikramaditya didn't move his feet. He simply moved his broom through the shadow of the lead SUV.
A sound like a giant pair of scissors cutting through silk echoed through the street. The armored vehicle, a ten-ton beast of steel and mana-shielding, was suddenly sliced in half—not physically, but through its shadow. It fell apart in two perfect, clean pieces, the engine sputtering and dying instantly.
"What... what was that?" the Collector screamed, dropping his tablet.
"That," Vikramaditya whispered, stepping into the light as his shadow-arms manifested in full, terrifying glory, "was the first lesson in Shadow Stitching. Would you like to see the second?"
Inside the kitchen, Harish took another bite of cereal and checked his phone. The notification popped up: Transaction Complete. $700,000,000 USD transferred to 'The Inventory Manager'.
"Dad," Harish yelled over the sound of screaming mercenaries outside. "I think Four is doing a great job. We should probably give him a bonus."