The room was dark and foreboding, its ancient stone walls hiding secrets from ages long forgotten. Rough and damp, the cold stones radiated a chill that filled the air like a curse. Fire torches, placed in the roofless corners, cast a reddish-orange glow that barely cut through the gloom. Shadows flickered against the walls—twisting, writhing—like red-eyed phantoms dancing in silence, deepening the room's ominous atmosphere.
In each corner stood a guard, alert and silent, clad in intimidating armor, weapons in hand. Their presence reeked of authority—and menace.
At the center of the room stood a lone figure. Silent. Watchful. He seemed almost out of place, and yet completely at home within this eerie realm.
Several chained figures surrounded him, kneeling in agony, pleading for their lives. Their faces told a tale of exhaustion and terror, as though they'd been caged for far too long.
The figure at the center opened his eyes.
The moment he did, the guards moved without hesitation, descending upon the prisoners. Screams erupted, then were drowned in blood as bones cracked and flesh tore. The chained were crushed without mercy, and the blood sprayed freely, soaking the silent figure at the center.
But he did not flinch.
He stood still, calm in the chaos, untouched by morality. In this room, even the shadows seemed less dark than he was.
Eventually, silence fell. One guard approached and began an Abhishek, pouring milk over the blood-soaked man. The liquid cascaded over him, mixing with crimson, a twisted act of purification. Then, another came forward and washed him with water, rinsing away the blood as if readying him for some unholy ritual.
The man stepped forward, his voice cold and emotionless.
"Clean this mess."
The guards bowed and began to devour the remains—ripping, gnawing, consuming what was left with grim discipline.
---
Throne Room
The mysterious figure now sat upon his throne, listening to his advisor, Kshatrignesh.
> "In this world," Kshatrignesh began, "the Trimurti stand above all. From them, creation begins. They shape the countless universes. Each bears a role:
Brahma, though mortal, dies with the universe he creates. He writes fate and holds the power to birth anything.
Vishnu, the guardian of the cosmos, descends time and again in many avatars to protect what he loves.
And then, there is the Supreme—Shiva.
The origin and end of Shiva remain beyond even Brahma and Vishnu. From him was born Rudra—a force uncontrollable, limitless, and terrifying."
He paused.
> "Your name, Rudra, is merely a name. You are not him. And you seek to challenge one of Vishnu's avatars? That's nothing short of madness."
The man on the throne—Rudra—remained calm, but his cracking ego flashed in his eyes. He rose slowly, voice firm with rage and pride.
"This is Pātāl Lok. Serpents, Asuras, Dānavas, ghosts, and entities that could rival gods—they all live here. This is their home. And yet, they obey me. All of them."
He shouted, voice thundering through the hall.
"Because I AM Rudra—the son of Mahakāli. And I WILL rule this coming era!"
Kshatrignesh sighed, rubbing his temples.
> "Being your advisor is a curse. Fine. First, we need to find them. Where are they?"
Rudra stepped down from the throne.
"Deploy the Uncanny Valley agents. One of them is missing. The other... is yet to be born."
Kshatrignesh raised a brow.
"And where are you going?"
"Don't worry," Rudra said, smirking. "I'm going to show them. When actions begin to speak, words fall silent."
Kshatrignesh groaned.
"You're a real pain in the neck."
---
Somewhere in the Human World
A man walked down a deserted street at midnight.
The world was asleep. Not a soul in sight. The only sound was the wind whispering through the silence. The moon, half-concealed by drifting clouds, cast a pale glow on the road. Houses stood still in slumber, their lights off. Streetlamps flickered, throwing unstable shadows.
Faded posters peeled from gray walls. As the man walked, his eyes caught a glimpse of someone—standing by the wall.
A girl.
She wore a light pink frock—cute, but with an oddly seductive charm. Her skin glowed pale under the streetlight. Long, silky black hair flowed with the breeze. Her black, marble-like eyes shimmered under long lashes, demanding attention.
The man slowed his pace, eyes fixed on her.
"You're... beautiful," he whispered.
The girl tilted her head, her lips curling beneath her mask.
"I can't talk to strangers," she said with a playful smile. "But you seem like a nice man. My name is Onna."
Her voice was sweet—innocent and teasing. She leaned toward him, brushing her hand against his cheek. Her body pressed lightly against his.
The man trembled, then grabbed her shoulders.
"I'm Takashi," he muttered, breath heavy with desire, leaning in to kiss her.
His lips met the cloth of her mask.
Onna gently pushed him back. Standing on tiptoes, she whispered close, her voice dripping with syrupy seduction.
"Hunting minors at night, are we? Naughty."
She giggled.
"You need to be punished. But first... let me take a little bite, big man."
Takashi's heart pounded. Her fingers traced down, cold as ice. He tilted his head back, breath hitching.
"Hurry up," he growled, grabbing her head. "I can't wait anymore."
Onna sighed, pouting.
"So impatient. Let me enjoy the moment," she said, like a sulking child.
Slowly, she removed her mask.
She was stunning.
Takashi's eyes widened in awe—then terror.
Her lips split open—not like a human's, but like a nightmare. A gaping, circular maw lined with razor-sharp, arrow-shaped teeth.
She bit down.
Takashi screamed, the sound sharp and primal. Blood erupted from him. He tried to push her away, but she held on tight. His legs collapsed. He fell.
Onna crouched over him, hair dripping with blood, her beauty twisted into something monstrous.
He crawled. She grabbed his leg. Flipped him.
Straddling him, her weight light—but inescapable.
"Please!" he cried. "Let me go! I'll do anything!"
Onna giggled, childlike and cruel.
"But you've been a bad, bad boy..."
She leaned down.
And bit into his face.
Blood sprayed. His screams faded.
When it was over, Onna stood. Her frock soaked in red. Her smile playful.
"Child predators," she giggled. "Always so eager to fill my mouth. How sweet."
Her phone buzzed.
She answered, voice respectful—but wary.
"Yes, sir?"
A cold, commanding voice replied:
"Where are you?"
"Japan, sir. What are your orders?"
"Come to India. It's time."
Her eyes widened.
"The God's chosen one... is about to emerge?"
The line cut.
She smiled.
And vanished into the shadows.