The sun was a fading ember in the bruised sky, casting a golden sheen over the Gurudwara Sahib's pristine white marble and shimmering golden dome. The sacred Nishan Sahib fluttered gently atop its tall pole, its orange fabric stained with dust but still a proud symbol of resilience and faith.
A hushed crowd had gathered in the courtyard — survivors of all castes, creeds, and origins, their faces marked by exhaustion, hope, and an aching hunger for truth. Mothers clutched trembling children, the elderly leaned on makeshift canes, and a few cautious foreigners stood quietly at the fringes. Every eye was fixed on the central altar where the fake saint stood, his saffron robes immaculate, but his smile a brittle mask that betrayed the coldness behind his gaze.
Arjun's footsteps were quiet but resolute as he approached with Varun and Dhani flanking him. The weight of the crumpled letters in his jacket pocket felt heavier than the battered rifle slung on his back. These letters weren't just paper—they were the last voices of those broken beneath the fake saint's reign.
"You wear the robes of a servant of Waheguru," Arjun's voice broke the tense silence, clear and unwavering, "but your hands are stained with betrayal and cruelty."
The crowd shifted, a ripple of whispers weaving through the air. The fake saint's expression hardened, a shadow crossing his face. "Blasphemy," he spat. "You defile this sanctuary with lies."
Arjun drew the letters from his pocket, holding them high for all to see.
"These are the silent screams of those you starved, those you chained in darkness, those you punished for refusing your twisted rule," he declared, voice rising with righteous anger.
Varun stepped forward, eyes blazing. "You have exploited faith to imprison and control. But faith is freedom — it is the very breath of life. It cannot be wielded as a weapon."
Behind them, Dhani's fingers flickered, weaving a subtle dance of ethereal blue flames that licked the air without burning — a quiet testament to his system blessing, an elemental power granted by divine grace.
The crowd's murmurs grew louder, a complex mixture of shock, doubt, and awakening stirring in their hearts.
Among the crowd, a few followers of the fake saint exchanged uneasy glances, their confident fronts beginning to crack under the weight of truth.
The fake saint's lips curled into a bitter sneer. "You dare accuse a servant of Waheguru? You sow discord and chaos in a place of peace."
As his voice thundered, a sudden gust swept through the courtyard, swirling dust and scattering loose leaves. The Nishan Sahib flared in the breeze, its orange fabric brightening like a beacon of divine will.
The golden dome above shimmered, radiating a warm, holy light that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the earth itself. It was as if Waheguru Himself was watching — judging.
Arjun's gaze swept over the crowd, locking eyes with many. "This Gurudwara is a sanctuary — not a prison. It should shelter hope, not breed fear. No one here should suffer in silence, shackled by tyranny disguised as holiness."
He turned back to the fake saint, his voice now colder, sharper.
"You have lost the path."
Varun's stance tightened, every muscle coiled for the inevitable clash, while Dhani's elemental aura flickered brighter, signaling readiness for whatever dark sorcery might come.
The fake saint's eyes blazed with fury, his calm façade shattered. "Then you choose rebellion. You challenge the very order I have built. So be it."
The tension was a living thing — a taut thread stretched over a precipice. The crowd held its breath as the false saint stepped forward, his followers drawing makeshift weapons, whispers of dark incantations rising like venom in the air.
Arjun felt the surge of adrenaline sharpen every sense. This was no longer just a fight for survival — it was a battle for the soul of this sacred place, for every broken spirit who had prayed for salvation and found only chains.
The golden dome gleamed brighter still, a divine spotlight on the unfolding battle between shadow and light, faith and deceit.
In the midst of this sacred courtyard, the mask would finally fall.