It stood still now. Silent. Shapeless arms twitching in the heat, twitching like ropes about to tighten.
Smoke still drifted from its back. Blood hissed where Kovida's blade had pierced it earlier — but the wound didn't bleed. It breathed pain. It didn't end.
Koushik spat in the dust.
"You done playing shadow puppets?" he growled, leveling his gun. "Let's wrap this."
Then it spoke.
Not with illusion.
Not through grief projections.
But clearly.
Its voice cracked like wood burning.
"My name is Suren.
Suren, who burned… for his wife's lie."
That name hit like a sword across the chest.
I don't know why. I'd heard demons speak before. I'd even heard some whisper their names — echoes from the people they used to be.
But this one…
This one meant it.
I lowered my blades. Not dropped — just lowered. My body froze,standing beside koushik
"Suren…" I whispered.
He looked at me — no eyes, just darkness where the sockets should've been. And still I could feel it watching me.
"You believe this thing?" I snapped.
Kovida didn't answer.
"Stop listening. It's bait."
Still no answer.
Damn it.
He was trying to speak. Not with his mouth. With his pain. I could feel it rising like heat off his flesh.
My instincts screamed against it.
My training warned me.
But I didn't listen.
I stepped forward. Just once.
"I want to see," I said aloud. "I want to know who you were."
"Bad idea," I said. "Very bad idea."
She looked back. Her eyes — not fear. Just… something heavy.
"This won't change the job," she said.
It would.
But I didn't stop her.
Let her learn.
Let her hurt.
Maybe then she'll stop acting like demons can be saved.
"Come in, then," I whispered.
"See the fire that made me."
Kovida stepped forward, touching the hilt of her blade to the base of Suren's neck — a sacred martial link-point between the psychic layer and physical form.
She inhaled. Her eyes fluttered.
And then…
She fell inside.
Not physically.
But deep into memory.
Into pain.
It started as a flicker —
A burning field, night sky, and a house made of straw and silence.
Then the smell.
Then the screaming.
And I was there.
Not watching. Living it.
His name was Suren, a village healer in a small forest settlement outside Kalinga.
He was gentle. Quiet. He touched wounds like they were prayers. Fed widows. Shared rice with the untouchables.
He had no power.
Only kindness.
And he loved her.
Padmita.
Hair like night. Voice like soft bells. Laughter like rain.
She'd once called him "her moon."
I saw them.
Sitting under a fig tree.
His hand on hers. Her eyes on the stars.
"I'll always protect you," he said.
She kissed his palm and whispered, "I won't let the world take you."
They lied to each other with hope.
Then came the rumor.
A traveler accused Suren of poisoning a noble's son. No proof. No logic. Just a whisper.
Fear spreads faster than fire.
Jealous neighbors fanned the flame. Old women with cold eyes stirred it. Men who'd been healed by him two dozen times spat on his name.
And Padmita?
She said nothing.
That's what hurt him the most.
Not a slap. Not a scream.
Silence.
They came for him at night.
Dragged him from his bed. Beat him in the village square.
Tied him to a wooden post with rope and shame.
And she lit the torch.
I screamed — but not with my mouth.
Inside.
My soul cracked.
Why? Why did she do it?
Why didn't she stop them?
He looked at her while he burned.
Even as fire kissed his ribs. Even as flesh peeled like bark.
He looked at her and whispered:
"It's okay... I forgive you…"
And then he screamed.
Not from pain.
From hope shattering.
The fire burned for seven hours.
The Vetala that came after didn't crawl in through evil.
It came in through grief. Through betrayal. Through a love that died alone.
When Suren's soul slipped loose, it didn't rise.
It collapsed.
I fell out of the memory like I was thrown from a cliff.
Back in the desert. Back in my body.
I collapsed to my knees.
My hands shook. My breath refused to steady.
And then I screamed.
Not for him.
For everything.
It ripped out of me like it had been hiding there for years.
I hated him. I loved him. I pitied him. I was him.
She screamed like something inside her broke.
Loud. Raw. Real.
I didn't flinch.
She chose to see it.
She walked into a demon's heart expecting peace?
Fool.
I couldn't stop crying.
Not small tears. Not silent grief.
I cried like the earth was splitting under me — like the pain that filled him had poured into me and my body couldn't hold it.
I clutched the sand. My fingers dug into it like it might bring him back.
"Suren…," I whispered. "You didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve any of it."
I looked up at Koushik.
"Wait," I said.
I didn't move.
I just looked down at him — the demon, the Vetala, Suren — kneeling in the sand like a half-formed apology.
He wasn't fighting back anymore. That should've made it easier.
But it made it irritating.
Kovida's voice cracked.
"He doesn't need to die like this."
I tilted my head. "He's a demon."
"He was a man."
"He's a corpse with powers. And you're crying over it like he's your brother."
She stood between me and the kill.
"You don't have to do this," she said. "We can trap him. We can seal him. Give him peace."
I looked at her like she'd just asked me to sell my gun for a book of prayers.
"You want to seal him?" I said. "Buy a scroll. Start a temple. Light incense. Cry on your own time."
She flinched.
"Move."
"No."
I exhaled through my nose.
Then I stepped forward.
She didn't swing at me. She didn't raise a blade.
She trusted me not to.
Mistake.
I drew the Khanda in one clean motion.
Steel sang once.
Blood sprayed high.
The blade entered between Suren's shoulders and exited through the base of his spine.
No scream. No roar.
Just… stillness.
Like even the pain had finally gone quiet.
I screamed again — not from the demon.
From him.
From Koushik.
"You bastard!" I shouted.
I slapped him.
Hard.
His head turned slightly.
That's all.
No reaction. No regret.
He looked at me with that same dead, hollow expression.
She hit me.
That's fine.
It's not the first time someone slapped me for doing what needed to be done.
The difference is, I never stopped swinging.
I wiped the blade on my coat.
Didn't look back at the corpse. Or at her.
Just muttered:
"Mercy's a luxury. And we're not rich."
Then I walked.
We walked in silence.
The desert wind blew dust in spirals around our feet. The sun had gone down hours ago, but the heat still clung to everything — my armor, my skin, the grief in my lungs.
I followed him.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I needed to understand.
"Koushik," I said.
He didn't turn around.
I jogged up beside him. Matched his pace. Looked him straight in the face.
"You didn't even hesitate."
He kept walking.
"You knew I was still inside his mind. You knew I was still connected—"
"You got out."
"That's not the point."
He finally stopped.
The look in her eyes. Like I'd shot a child.
She didn't get it. She still didn't get it.
"You want me to apologize?" I asked.
"No," she snapped. "I want you to admit it meant something."
I tilted my head.
"It did."
She blinked. For a second, hope.
I leaned in, just slightly.
"It meant he was wasting oxygen."
I almost punched him.
But I didn't.
Because even now, some part of me hoped there was a person under that ice.
But all I saw was a machine. A machine that bled, that smoked, that smiled only when others suffered.
"You're not a hunter," I whispered.
He shrugged.
"I'm not a priest either."
"You're a monster."
He didn't blink.
I leaned closer. Close enough to see the reflection of the stars in her pupils.
"Maybe," I said.
Then I smiled.
Not friendly. Not nice.
Just… slow. Crooked. Dark.
A smile like rot under gold.
A smile that says: I know I'm the villain. And I sleep just fine.
"You still walk beside me," I said.
Her jaw tightened.
I walked past her.
And I knew the silence behind me was heavier than any shout.
One day, I'll leave him.
But not today.
Because monsters fight monsters best.
And part of me still thinks…
There's a man inside the wreckage.
Somewhere.
Shaan and the 8 survivors. United. Focused. The demon still stands — but they're ready to bring it down together.
The wind moved slowly through the dead trees. The demon hadn't attacked again. Yet.
Shaan stood ahead of the others, eyes forward, hands trembling just slightly.
The other eight stood behind him, watching, unsure. Their hearts still raced from the deaths they'd only just undone.
The Vetala tilted its head, as if it were waiting.
Everyone thinks I'm calm.
I'm not.
I'm just quiet because I've already lived most conversations five different ways before they start. I've already seen what happens if I talk too much. Or not at all. Or lie. Or stay honest.
They think I'm boring.
They don't see the war behind my eyes.
Shaan was six.
He sat on a cracked marble floor in a temple filled with shattered mirrors. The monks of the Yatra Clan whispered around him. Old men with gold rings in their eyes. Women with scars down their forearms from the rites of foresight.
One of them bent low to speak to him.
"Your bloodline is a curse," the old man said. "We see everything. But act on nothing."
Shaan stared at his own reflection.
"So what do I do?" he asked.
The monk paused.
"You live through it. Until something makes you move."
They never trained me for leadership.
They trained me to endure things others couldn't.
I wasn't the strongest. I wasn't the fastest.
But I was the one who wouldn't run.
And that's the only thing that matters now.
The others whispered.
"Why is it just… standing there?"
"What the hell even happened?"
"Did he… bring us back?"
Shaan didn't answer.
He was too busy watching the lines.
Every movement the Vetala might make. Every blade path. Every heartbeat.
So many futures. So many deaths.
And just a few… where they lived.
I saw it.
A thread. Thin. Tight.
One single line where we win.
Not me. Not alone.
All of us. Together.
I turned around.
Met every eye.
And said quietly:
"No more dying today."
Shaan's voice didn't shake.
That's when I knew.
We could do this.
He wasn't a leader.
He was a lighthouse.
I lifted my blade.
"Come on," I said. "Let's finish this."
"They adapt… faster than they should."
"I will enjoy breaking them again."