The air shimmered above the cracked road like it was trying to escape.
Ash clung to the wind, drifting sideways in slow spirals. The land behind them was nothing but dust and ruin—Sector 3A long buried in the horizon, its remnants now little more than shadows burned into their memory.
Ahead, a jagged metal sign leaned sideways, half-swallowed by vines and rust. The words were barely readable under soot and scratches.
Uttar Pradesh Border Checkpoint.
Crossed out. Beneath it, scrawled in red charcoal: Northern Wasteland Ends Here.
Gaurav tilted his head at it, eyebrows raised. "Guess even hell has its exits."
Their pace slowed as the terrain dipped. Below them, nestled between blackened hills and fossilized tree stumps, was a river—or what was left of one. Thick, slow-moving water bubbled against its own decay, a toxic blend of slush and chemical residue. And yet, the air around it carried a whisper of coolness. Not clean, not fresh. But bearable.
The beast lumbered forward, grunting as it reached the riverbank. Its tongue lolled, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the water but didn't drink.
Swayam patted its coarse neck. "Take a break, The Guy."
Gaurav blinked. "The Guy? That's what you're calling him?"
Rachit snorted from the other side of the campfire pit he was clearing. "You named a war-beast 'The Guy'?"
Swayam shrugged, pulling out a folded tarp. "It suits him."
"He carried half our supplies through demon territory and broke a death ward with his skull. 'The Guy' makes him sound like someone who forgot his wallet," Gaurav muttered, smirking.
"Better than naming him after food," Swayam replied.
The beast gave a low snort and collapsed beside the fire pit with a thud that shook the ground slightly. It curled its massive limbs inward, letting its load-bearing harness clink softly as the tension eased.
Sunset bled into the sky with bruised colors—copper, violet, rust. Shadows stretched long and silent across the ground as Rachit lit the first flame. The fire hissed, fought back, and then gave in.
Swayam unpacked a small clay pot, filled it with filtered river water, and added a few fistfuls of washed rice. Gaurav, squatting beside him, dug through a sack for pigeon pulse wrapped in demon-cloth and tossed it in.
No words passed between them for a while. The sound of bubbling grain, the crackle of firewood, the occasional rustle from the beast—these filled the space better than conversation.
Finally, Gaurav leaned back, chewing a dried root. His gaze followed the lines of the hills across the river, then dipped to the map Rachit had just unrolled.
"That's tomorrow's land?" he asked.
Rachit nodded, tapping a thick curve drawn in faded green ink. "That ridge marks the border. Beyond it... different state."
"Looks like it's actually alive," Gaurav muttered, tracing the tree symbols with one finger. "You see this? Trees. Grass. Real water. I haven't seen anything green since we broke out of Kanpur."
Swayam stirred the pot with a metal spoon, steam brushing his face. "Most of the trash got dumped in our zone," he said quietly. "Demons kept the south cleaner. Sector-6O was an exception. Needed for trade."
Gaurav made a bitter sound in his throat. "So we grew up choking so their elite could throw feasts."
Rachit didn't answer. He kept studying the map, his fingers lingering on a faded glyph that resembled twisted roots spiraling outward.
Dinner was simple—rice and pulse, salted with crushed ash-herbs and demon-dried rock flakes that gave it a smoky flavor. Before they ate, Swayam scooped a portion into a flat stone bowl and placed it in front of the beast.
The creature blinked slowly, then ate, tongue curling over the grains with strange care. Gaurav watched, then grinned. "He eats better than we did our first year free."
"We were still learning," Swayam replied, handing him a portion.
They sat on flattened packs, bowls cradled between tired hands, eating without hurry. Their eyes scanned the fire, the river, the map, the beast—everything but each other.
The air was cooler now. Not by much. But enough to remember what peace used to feel like.
"You realize," Gaurav said between mouthfuls, "we've never been this far before. Ever."
Swayam nodded, slow and thoughtful. "Tomorrow's land isn't ours. But it might be what we were meant for."
Rachit folded the map and slipped it into his jacket. "One step at a time."
Later, they lay side by side under the tarp, the beast curled a few paces behind them like a wall of breathing warmth. Gaurav snored within minutes, his breath heavy but steady. Swayam shifted occasionally but didn't speak. Sleep came hard for them both, even now.
Rachit sat apart, arms around his knees, staring at the stars through a rip in the tarp above. He didn't blink often. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the scripture hidden in his side pouch.
He whispered something. A name, maybe. A memory.
The river didn't flow, but it pulsed softly beside them like it remembered what life used to be.
The sun didn't rise. It crept.
Light spread over the horizon like an exhausted sigh, peeling across the ash-blasted sky in dull streaks of orange. The river beside their camp didn't flow, but it shivered in place, disturbed by the breeze or maybe its own polluted dreams.
Rachit was already moving. Always was.
He pivoted on his palms and slammed both legs into the air—one-handed pushups that transitioned into squats, then a low crouch. His breath puffed faintly in the cold. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his back, turning his worn shirt darker across the spine. The beast watched him from a few paces away, chewing something invisible and unimpressed.
"Come on," Rachit said, standing upright and tapping the side of his thigh. "You're not just a wagon. Move."
The Guy snorted.
Then charged.
Rachit barely dodged, laughing under his breath as the beast stomped around the campsite like a bored titan, trying to mock-charge him without actually hitting anything. The ground shook a little with every thud, dust swirling in protest. He dodged left, slapped its haunch. Dodged right, ducked under a swing of its head. Training or playing—it was hard to tell.
By the time Swayam stirred beneath the tarp, the smell of damp dust and beast sweat had already replaced the chill.
He sat up slowly, hair a mess of static strands. He didn't speak—just blinked, watching Rachit sprint up a collapsed boulder, leap off, and roll past The Guy like it was routine.
"Still not human," Swayam murmured to himself.
Gaurav groaned awake beside him, rolling over with a grunt. "Is it illegal to punch someone that motivated in the morning?"
"No one's stopping you," Swayam said, rubbing his face. "Just don't miss."
"Ugh. My luck, he'll vibrate through my fist."
They got to work.
No grand breakfast—just survival pressed into dough. Swayam ground the last of their Bengal gram into flour, mixing it with water in a dented steel bowl. Onions, sliced fine, were added with careful hands.
"Not for me," Gaurav said, holding up a hand. "I'm not ruining good gram with that stink."
"Suit yourself," Swayam replied, splitting the mix into three clumps.
The makeshift stove was a flat stone, still warm from the fading fire. He pressed the dough into small patties and placed them with care, letting the heat sizzle them into shape.
By the time Rachit returned—shirt damp, hair clinging to his temples—the food was nearly done. The Guy was still trotting around, content and huffing steam from its nostrils.
"Here," Swayam said, placing a chunk of flatbread into a carved-out metal pan. He walked over to the beast, tapped its flank, and set the portion down.
"Once we hit the green zone, you'll be spoiled," he said, patting the beast's neck. "Grass. Actual grass."
The Guy tilted its massive head. Then—almost too human—it gave a single nod.
"Did... did he just agree?" Gaurav asked, half a grin forming.
"Don't question the genius of The Guy," Swayam said with mock-seriousness.
The beast snorted again.
They sat in a half-circle near the fire, chewing silently. The food was bland, but it sat well in the stomach. The heat helped. The silence didn't last long.
Rachit reached into his coat and pulled the map free. Unfolded it slowly. The corners crackled from the dried-out creases.
"Listen up," he said, kneeling and pinning the corners with rocks. "Something doesn't sit right with me."
Gaurav squinted over the map while still chewing. "You worried about another mutant badger ambush?"
"No." Rachit tapped a green-tinted area marked beyond the hills. "This."
Swayam leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"That looks like... forest," he muttered.
"Exactly. Real green. Vegetation that's still breathing. And we've been through enough to know that anything still breathing, in this world, is usually owned."
Gaurav lowered his food. "Demons."
"They're not mindless," Rachit said. "We've seen it. Sector-6O wasn't chaos—it was civilization. Organized. Structured. Efficient. Just... built on us."
"They have families. Schools. Even markets," Swayam added. "It's everything we had. Just twisted."
"Exactly," Rachit said. "So this place—what used to be Madhya Pradesh—it's not just green. It's claimed. Renamed."
He pointed at a scrawled label etched in faded ink. Malakour.
"Probably after the demon lord running it. For the last 150 years, that's what it's been called. If we walk in blind, we're not explorers. We're meat."
The fire cracked.
The Guy flicked its tail, watching them like it understood every word.
"We need a plan," Rachit said. "A real one. Not just hiding and hoping."
Gaurav scratched the side of his jaw. "Actually... I might have one."
Rachit blinked. "Huh. Look at that, Swayam. Knuckleheads can think."
"Miracles happen," Swayam deadpanned.
Gaurav flipped them both off with a lazy grin, then pointed to the map.
"We've seen how their society works. They've got merchants, soldiers, nobles. Right? So we don't sneak through—we walk in."
Rachit raised an eyebrow. "With a song and a welcome mat?"
"No. With roles. One of us goes in as a demon traveler. The other two as slaves. That way, we blend. No hiding. No ducking. Just part of the crowd."
Swayam leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. "That would let us walk through checkpoints. Explore markets. Get info."
"And demons love hierarchy," Gaurav said. "They don't question authority. Especially not when it's stomping around with a beast like this."
He pointed at The Guy, who immediately let out a proud grunt and wagged his heavy tail like a banner.
Rachit folded his arms. "It's risky."
"Everything is," Gaurav replied. "But we've already lost a week just sneaking. We've got half a year to reach Gandamadana—and less if we hit any more radiation zones. This way, we move faster."
There was silence again, broken only by the wind dragging ash across the stone.
"Alright," Swayam said. "So who plays the demon?"
As if on cue, Rachit and Gaurav slowly turned toward him.
Even The Guy gave a slight head tilt and stared.
Swayam blinked. "...Why me?"
"You've already got the hair," Rachit said, nodding at the silver-grey mess.
"And that stare," Gaurav added. "You glare like you own death itself."
Swayam groaned. "This is going to suck."
The Guy let out a soft snort—almost like it was laughing.
Swayam knelt near the firepit's ashes, fiddling with a strip of blackened metal and old wire. His fingers moved without pause, molding, bending, twisting. Bits of rust cracked off as he shaped the scrap into a jagged-edged half-mask. It covered the right side of his face—angular and rough, with a crude curve around the eye slit. A piece of scorched leather was strapped to the side with twisted cord, anchoring it to his head.
"Not bad," Gaurav muttered, crouching nearby. "If you were going for 'haunted crowbar.'"
"It's supposed to be ugly," Swayam said, adjusting the fit. "Demons don't use mirrors."
From a wrapped cloth sack, he pulled out the cloak.
Stolen two years ago during a demon patrol ambush—it was still intact. The fabric was a dense weave of deep maroon and purple, patterned with faded sigils shaped like claw marks. The cloak shimmered subtly when it moved, not with magic, but menace. Its collar was high, stiffened with something bone-like, and a cracked iron clasp in the shape of a talon held it together.
Swayam threw it over his shoulders, fastened the clasp, and pulled up the hood.
With the silver streaks in his hair, the worn mask, and the stiff gait of someone used to command, he didn't look like Swayam anymore. He looked like something else. The cloak swallowed his outline. Only the soft blue flicker in his eyes, barely visible beneath the mask, hinted at anything human.
Behind him, Gaurav tugged on his black T-shirt, flexing his arms to stretch it. His cargo pants were patched and dirty, but tough. Functional. His arms bore old scars and a clear burn brand near the wrist—circular, faded, but unmistakable: a slave's mark.
Rachit pulled on a blue tank top, his lean muscles more defined than bulky. His grey harem pants tucked into old combat sandals, giving him a loose, quick silhouette. His forearms bore similar marks—one scarred over, the other still raised.
He didn't cover them.
"Ready?" Swayam asked, voice muffled under the mask.
"No," Gaurav said. "Let's go."
They walked.
The Guy followed behind, burdened with packs tied tight: food sacks, folded cloaks, salvaged weapons, and a hidden compartment stuffed with stolen runes from Sector-6O. The beast moved slower now—cautious, as if it knew they weren't just walking into another slum.
By noon, the horizon shifted.
A wall emerged from the heat haze—titanic and seamless, carved from obsidian-black stone. It soared at least two hundred meters into the sky and ran sideways until it vanished into the curve of the Earth. The land here was lush—green brush, thick vines, and wild trees crept right up to the wall's edge.
Rachit stopped first. "That's not just a wall."
"No," Swayam said, eyes narrowing. "That's a line between two worlds."
The gate was open—massive steel ribs wide enough for carts and carriages. Two demon guards flanked it, each armored in curved plates that shimmered like insect shells. Their spears hissed faintly—coated in something not meant for wounds, but obliteration.
The trio slowed.
Swayam took the lead, back straight, arms folded behind his back in measured disdain. Gaurav and Rachit followed three steps behind, heads bowed, hands clasped like those used to chains. The Guy grunted but didn't resist.
One of the guards raised a hand.
"Name?"
Swayam's voice dropped low. Raspy. "Krotha."
Even Rachit flinched at the name.
The guard's brow furrowed. "Region?"
Swayam paused half a second too long. "Northern Wastes. Passing through."
"Demon kind?"
He didn't hesitate this time. "Frost."
The other guard turned his head slightly. "Caste?"
Swayam let the silence breathe, then said, "Scourge-class. Hunting lineage. You can verify by scars if needed."
The guards exchanged a glance. One stepped forward and walked toward the beast, yanking open a side pack.
Inside—sacks of rice, dried root, sharpened knives, clean cloth, even a rusted demon emblem sewn into a leather square. Rachit had added that at the last second—just in case.
The guard dug further, pulled out a rune. He sniffed it. Held it to the light.
"Where did you get this?" he asked sharply.
Swayam tilted his head. "Spoils. Sector-6O. You'll find nothing cursed."
The guard turned to Rachit. "You. Slave. What are you carrying?"
Rachit's voice was just above a whisper. "My lord's provisions."
The demon turned to Gaurav. "And you?"
Gaurav kept his tone flat. "What I'm told."
The guard stepped back. "Proceed. Do not stray. If you're questioned inside, speak only to caste equals. If you don't belong—you'll be removed."
"Duly noted," Swayam said.
They passed through.
Inside was wrong in all the right ways.
The air didn't sting. It smelled of clean stone, fresh leaves, and spices. Fountains gurgled along side-streets. Bridges arched over actual rivers—clear, sparkling, alive. Buildings were shaped from a mix of stone and grown crystal, curved like natural formations. There were homes, plazas, merchant squares. No towering spires—just a city that stretched outward like a breathing organism.
Demons moved through the streets in silence, their garments flowing, faces marked with glowing inks, their children trailing behind them with wide eyes and sharp teeth.
It wasn't chaos.
It was a world that had replaced another. Beautiful. Functioning. Built atop bones.
Rachit's eyes darted. He memorized the signs, the colors of merchant banners, the river's direction, the subtle way sentries scanned the crowd from rooftops.
Gaurav tugged his shirt sleeve to half-cover the brand on his arm. "This place... it's not a city. It's a lie that worked."
Swayam adjusted his mask. Underneath, sweat prickled at his skin. The scar on his chest—once a brand, now covered by an escape wound—itched faintly beneath the cloak. The mark had burned when he was a slave, but now the scar had made it disappear, like the past had been overwritten by fire and pain.
Rachit leaned in. "Keep walking. We need a place to think."
They vanished into the crowd.
Three ghosts in a city of predators.
And not a soul noticed.
Malakour breathed like a living creature.
The streets coiled like veins, paved in black stone that shimmered with soft pulses underfoot. Shops stretched along curved lanes, crafted from hollowed coralwood, boneglass, and repurposed stone. Water flowed in open streams between buildings, and manicured trees wept glowing blue blossoms.
Swayam sat astride The Guy, reins slack in one hand, his other resting on his thigh with measured grace. The beast walked in slow, powerful strides, its weight drawing attention but never suspicion. With his jagged mask, high-collared cloak, and practiced stillness, he passed for exactly what he pretended to be—Krotha, a demon of quiet authority, dispassionate and cold.
Behind him, Gaurav and Rachit walked at slave-distance: two paces behind, eyes lowered, arms relaxed but silent.
"Keep alert," Swayam said under his breath, modulating his voice into a low, gravelly tone. "We don't speak unless I speak to you."
Rachit offered a slight nod, barely visible. Gaurav gave nothing.
The city moved around them—effortlessly alive.
Demon children ran laughing through the courtyards, chasing whirling crystal orbs, giggling as they leapt across rune-lined stones that lit up beneath their feet. Parents watched from stone benches, talking over fresh fruits, clean robes fluttering in the breeze. There was no fear in their eyes. No hunger. No cages.
Gaurav slowed slightly.
A girl, maybe seven, squealed as a demon boy tossed her a carved toy shaped like a serpent. She caught it midair and grinned—a bright, toothy thing—and rushed to show her mother, who knelt to clap gently.
Gaurav's breath caught. "They... they're just kids."
Swayam didn't reply.
Not far ahead, another group played in a small pool fed by one of the city's rivers—splashing, shrieking, alive. Not hiding. Not starving. Not fearing who might come through the door next.
He remembered Sector 3A. The children under rusted sheets, learning to be silent before they learned to speak.
What if everything they knew had been only half the truth?
Rachit didn't look at the children. His gaze passed over them like wind over stones, but something behind his eyes flickered—too quick to name. A chill that didn't match the sunlit street. The kind of silence you don't notice until it's already part of you.
Not grief.
Not envy.
Something older.
He didn't speak. He didn't blink more than necessary.
And he didn't let himself feel it.
As they moved deeper, the market expanded like a heart—a circular plaza layered in terraced platforms. Stalls lined every step, draped in colorful fabric and studded with sigil-lanterns. Shouts echoed through the air—not desperate, but cheerful. Barkers hawked salted sky-fish, ghostfruit, obsidian mirrors, rune-pins, and perfumes bottled from captured whispers.
Rachit peeled off slightly, his steps precise. No wasted motion.
He drifted toward a coin-exchange booth shaped like a coiled serpent. His eyes scanned the boards—prices, colors, how platinum was stacked in single pieces while silver was counted in bundles. A subtle caste-color system. Platinum coins etched with a sigil of royalty. Silver marked with tier rings. Gold traded by weight.
He watched transactions. Noted how low-tier demons always overpaid in silver. How merchants handed small rune tokens instead of change. A controlled system. Unforgiving.
He memorized faster than he understood.
Behind him, no one noticed his presence.
Even he pretended not to.
Swayam remained atop The Guy, motionless but ever-watchful. His eyes tracked patterns—guards on rooftops, routes between buildings, areas where slaves weren't allowed.
Then a voice broke the stillness.
"Scourge-class?"
A merchant stood at the corner of a stall draped in velvet and bone. He was tall, horned, his robe slick with color-shifting dyes. Gold rings dangled from his tusks. His smile was warm, polite.
"I see you favor strong breeds."
Swayam said nothing. He tilted his head slightly—the perfect demon response to a statement not yet worth answering.
The merchant's eyes moved to Gaurav, then to Rachit.
"Three silvers," he said lightly, gesturing to Gaurav. "For that one. I'd enjoy a meal with some weight."
Rachit stopped breathing.
The smile didn't fade.
"I'll even serve you a cut—rare, blood-bound, marinated in soul ash. You may find it nostalgic."
Swayam didn't twitch. But he felt it—Rachit's intent flaring beside him like a blade unsheathed in silence. Cold, perfect murder. Not in movement, not in breath—but in presence.
The kind of violence that doesn't scream.
Swayam acted fast.
He raised his hand slowly and pointed two fingers toward Rachit. "Control your hate. You shame me."
Rachit didn't move. But the flicker of light in his eye dimmed, just slightly. Enough.
Swayam turned his gaze to the merchant.
"You value flesh," he rasped, voice low and metallic through the mask. "But not its owner."
He leaned slightly forward. The Guy let out a low growl—perfectly timed. Not trained. Just instinct.
"Three silvers," Swayam continued, "wouldn't pay for a toenail of my hound. Let alone my property."
The merchant's smile widened. "Ah. I offended. That one... he must be your favorite."
Swayam's gaze sharpened. "No. Just... not yours."
A beat passed.
Then the merchant bowed. "Understood."
Swayam nudged The Guy forward. The beast obeyed, stomping once with a snort before moving.
Rachit walked again without looking back.
Gaurav glanced up briefly, his jaw tight, but his eyes betrayed nothing.
They blended into the crowd once more.
And behind them, no one noticed the storm that almost broke loose in the middle of a paradise.
The market's noise faded behind them as they reached the northern fringe of Malakour.
Fields stretched in wild symmetry—untouched, unburned, green. The grass swayed with the breeze like it was breathing. Tall reeds near a stream rippled, catching sunlight that wasn't choked by ash. The wind tasted like rivers, not rust.
The Guy dropped to his haunches with a satisfied grunt, rolling onto his side and letting out a low snore that made the grass tremble.
The trio didn't speak at first. Not because they didn't want to. But because there was too much to say—and no idea where to start.
Swayam sat cross-legged in the grass, still half-cloaked, mask pushed up to rest over his brow like a cracked crown. He breathed deep, chest rising slowly. The burn of Sector 3A's sulfur-tinted air still clung to his memory. This breeze felt like fiction.
Gaurav stretched out on his back, arms behind his head, staring up at the sky. "It's actually blue," he murmured. "Never thought I'd see it without a red filter."
"I didn't think I'd ever see kids laugh like that," Swayam added.
"They weren't just surviving," Gaurav said. "They were living."
The words carried weight. And shame.
Neither said it—but the truth hovered between them.
Everything they'd believed about the demon world… was incomplete. Yes, demons were violent. Cruel. They'd seen that up close. But here, there was something more. Structure. Culture. Peace—however twisted.
Rachit sat apart from them, knees drawn up, elbows resting casually. He stared at a coin in his palm—spinning it once, then twice. A low-grade silver piece. Worth almost nothing. But it had meaning now.
"The currency runs on caste," he said quietly. "Not just value. The coin's engraving shows your social tier. The higher your caste, the less you pay for the same thing. Even the runes are tagged."
Swayam looked at him. "You're thinking of ways to use that."
"Always," Rachit replied. "Also... coins carry trace spells. Some merchants track them."
"We need clean money," Gaurav said.
"We need any money," Swayam replied. "I'm playing a frost-born scourge-class hunter. They expect me to walk into a stone hotel, hand over platinum, and not blink."
"And if Krotha camps outside in the dirt with his slaves?" Rachit raised an eyebrow. "They'll know something's off."
"Then we're screwed," Gaurav muttered. "Because we don't even have enough copper to buy firewood."
A pause.
Then Rachit looked up. His lips curled—not quite a smile, but something close.
"Let's host a show."
Swayam narrowed his eyes. "A what?"
"An arm-wrestling match," Rachit said simply. "You, Krotha, challenge a crowd of locals. Let Gaurav be the opponent. Bet's simple—if we lose, the winner gets a platinum coin. If we win, the loser owes three gold coins."
"Half a platinum in return?" Gaurav grinned. "Smart."
"They'll see his height, his size, and assume weakness," Rachit said. "They won't know he can bend stone with his knuckles."
Gaurav rolled his shoulders. "I like this plan."
Swayam didn't look convinced. "And if we lose?"
"Then we sell you," Gaurav smirked. "Call it even."
Swayam didn't respond.
But The Guy snorted from where he lay. A dry, rumbling sound that almost sounded like laughter.
Later that afternoon, they found an open space in a smaller plaza near the worker's district. It wasn't as regal as the merchant core—more rough edges, fewer guards, more noise. A perfect place for Krotha to make a scene.
Swayam mounted The Guy again, hood pulled low, mask re-fastened. His posture was proud, regal, and distant. Krotha had returned.
Behind him, Gaurav walked bare-armed now, scars and slave-mark in full view. His boots slammed with each step. His presence was brute force, wrapped in charm.
Rachit followed with slow, deliberate steps, carrying a thick wooden table they'd "borrowed" from an empty stall.
They set it in the plaza's center.
The crowd gathered fast.
Demon workers, half-breeds, street merchants—all eager for a distraction. Swayam dismounted slowly, each movement rehearsed and sharp.
"I offer challenge," he said, voice gravel dragged across iron. "Wager: one platinum to best my slave in contest of arms. Failure costs you three gold."
They didn't need more bait.
A tall demon with six arms stepped forward first, cracking his knuckles. "Easy win," he chuckled, eyeing Gaurav's height.
Gaurav rolled his neck and sat.
His forearms flexed.
They locked hands.
The six-armed brute roared and pushed.
Gaurav's arm didn't move.
The crowd leaned in.
Gaurav blinked once. Then pressed.
With a crack, the demon's wrist slammed to the table.
Cheers exploded.
Money changed hands. More challengers stepped forward.
Over the next hour, Gaurav defeated seven more opponents—each one louder, stronger, larger. Some laughed as they lost. Some stormed off swearing. But every single one paid.
Rachit collected coin silently, slipping them into pouches with practiced hands. Swayam never moved. He stood beside The Guy, arms crossed, presence coiled tight like he didn't care about the outcome.
But inside?
He was watching every face in the crowd.
Measuring risk.
Counting eyes.
By sundown, they had five gold coins. One silver. Two platinum tokens—each stamped with a crest they didn't recognize.
Enough to survive. For now.
That evening, Swayam walked into the stone-walled hotel near the inner ring.
Polished stone. Private guards. Courtyard fountains.
He handed over a platinum token with quiet disdain.
"I will stable my beast," he growled. "And submit my slaves for holding. I expect them returned in full condition."
The attendant bowed, not looking directly at him. "Of course, Scourge Krotha. We'll stable your mount and house your property with utmost care."
Gaurav and Rachit bowed deeply.
They were led down separate halls.
Swayam stood in the marble foyer, watching his reflection flicker in the pool at his feet. His mask stared back.
But beneath it… he wasn't sure whose eyes he saw anymore.
The stone hallway gleamed.
It wasn't just clean—it shone, like it had never tasted dust. Crimson runes glowed faintly on each wall, pulsing as Swayam—no, Krotha—passed by. His cloak swayed behind him with a whisper. Not footsteps. Not echo. Just presence.
He didn't look back.
The guards bowed as he passed, one reaching out to guide the beast to the stables, the others gesturing for Gaurav and Rachit to follow into the designated "holding halls" for servant caste.
Swayam paused near the entrance to the grand staircase that led to the guest suites. He didn't turn—he just spoke, voice cold as stone dipped in pride.
"Ensure they are cared for."
The nearest guard straightened. "Of course, Scourge Krotha."
"They are rare-bred. The beast is frost-tempered. The slaves—conditioned. You damage either, I collect you in pieces."
He didn't wait for acknowledgment.
He ascended.
The room was shaped like a half-moon, with tall windows of smoked glass and a view that spilled over Malakour's glowing towers and ribbon rivers. The bed was more of a platform—slab-stone base, covered in black fur and silk linen. Two lanterns swayed with warm blue fire from hanging hooks.
Swayam stripped the mask from his face, slowly.
Set it on the table.
He exhaled.
Finally.
The cloak slid from his shoulders, folding itself against the breeze sneaking in through the cracked balcony.
He stood at the window, elbows resting against cold stone. Below, laughter. Children again—playing near the base of a willow-like tree whose vines shimmered with pollen.
His fingers curled around the edge of the windowsill.
What would they do?
The children of Sector 3A.
Would they run through that grass without caution? Without fear? Would they stop to touch the vines, dip their hands in fountains, chase light that didn't come from fire?
He imagined the orphan girl with the torn shawl, the boy with the twisted ankle who still tried to race every morning.
Would they believe this was real?
Would they forgive him for not showing them this sooner?
Down below, through a different corridor, Rachit walked barefoot across obsidian tiles. Each one lit faintly under pressure—like he was being tracked with every step. The hall was narrow, high-ceilinged, lined with archways of bone-white marble.
Two demon attendants guided him wordlessly into a bathing room.
No chains.
No commands.
Just water—clean, warm, perfumed with something sharp and herbal. He didn't bathe immediately. He stood over the basin, watching steam curl into the air. His eyes traced the scars on his forearm.
The water called.
He answered.
He sat in silence, submerged to the waist, arms resting on the basin's edge, watching the ripples. One of the attendants placed a bowl beside him. Cooked lentils. Thin-sliced fruit in clear oil. A metal cup of mineral water.
He didn't eat at first.
Not out of distrust.
But because it reminded him too much of what was missing.
Gaurav was led into a larger room—not luxurious, but clean. He eyed every shadow, every corner, expecting chains. Instead, a young demon servant handed him a clean cloth wrap, nodded once, and left.
He stared at the door for a full minute after it shut.
No lock.
He changed.
The mirror near the basin caught his reflection—lean muscles, jagged scar over the collarbone, burn mark still vivid near his wrist.
He flexed once.
Muscle memory kicked in. He stepped toward the water basin and dunked his head first. No ceremony. Just a need to rinse everything off—dust, heat, deception, memory.
He didn't speak, but his stomach did.
The tray of fruits and pulses wasn't lavish, but it was fresh. Real.
He sat cross-legged on the cushion and tore into it in silence, each bite reminding him of all the meals he'd stolen, all the nights he'd given his share to a kid crying in the dark.
This felt... wrong.
But he didn't stop eating.
The Guy was a different story.
He was taken down a ramp that spiraled into a warm, earth-scented cavern. The demon stable was unlike any human equivalent. The walls were alive—vines grew fruit, and water dripped from mineral-stone ceilings into channels that led to shallow basins.
The beast was guided gently by two handlers—one old, the other missing an arm. Both moved with respect. Not fear. Not submission. Just practiced care.
They brushed his fur with enchanted bristles. Removed his packs. Repaired one of the straps that had frayed near his belly.
He snorted in approval and dropped his head onto the hay.
Then he did what no one expected.
He purred.
Night came quietly in Malakour.
In a stone room above it all, a boy in a demon's mask watched the stars, wondering if hope still existed back home.
In two halls below, a pair of slaves bathed in silence, both pretending they weren't remembering the same scream from five years ago.
And in a cavern stable, a beast dreamed—for the first time—not of escape.
But of staying.
Morning draped itself across Malakour in gold and lavender, spilling through the arches of its wide streets like a secret whispered across stone.
Mist clung to the lower rooftops. Birds—not crows, not vultures, but shimmering, winged things—glided past banners that fluttered with house sigils. Beneath it all, the city moved slowly, like it had the luxury to stretch before it conquered the day.
At the hotel's stone portico, Krotha stood tall.
The demon cloak clung to Swayam's shoulders like a shadow made physical, the cracked half-mask once again hiding everything human. His stance was rigid, posture perfect—the slight tilt of the head, the coldness in his stillness. A noble frost-blood demon who knew his name made weaker things tremble.
A stable servant led The Guy forward.
The beast looked clean—fur brushed, hooves polished with balm, a wreath of blue-threaded cloth tied around his horn like a badge of favor. He snorted once, gently, then dipped his head toward Swayam.
From another corridor, Rachit and Gaurav were escorted—barefoot, arms behind their backs in practiced servitude.
Rachit walked without tension, eyes low but alert. Gaurav was chewing something. Loudly.
An apple.
The moment it crunched between his teeth, every guard around the plaza stopped moving.
One even half-reached for his weapon—reflex.
Servants didn't eat in public.
Gaurav blinked, mid-chew, then turned to Krotha with that lazy grin that didn't care for rules.
He extended the apple forward, palm open.
"You didn't eat last night," he said, voice casual. "Here. It's sweet."
Silence.
A gust of wind tugged at banners. The stable servant shifted his weight. One of the guards clenched his jaw, eye twitching. The closest demon gave a breathless noise—somewhere between a scoff and a gasp.
No one offered a demon food.
The wrong word now could shatter everything.
Swayam didn't flinch.
He stepped forward slowly, letting his cloak ripple like a curtain of dusk. One step. Another. His eyes locked on Gaurav's—not with panic, but judgment.
Then, in a voice low enough to make stone crawl, he said, "Aren't you too loyal and caring?"
Another step.
The guards froze in place.
He took the apple.
Bit into it.
Chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring the offering of a pet that had tried to imitate kindness.
The tension broke.
No laughter. No praise.
Just a return to breath.
They turned and walked.
Once past the plaza, out of earshot and down a quiet slope of wild grass lining the city's outer ring, the mask came off.
Swayam let it hang loose around his neck, chewing what remained of the apple with a tired sigh. "Next time, don't feed the act," he muttered.
Gaurav wiped his mouth. "You didn't eat. Wasn't acting."
Rachit didn't comment. He was walking slightly ahead, one hand resting on the side pouch where the map was stored. His fingers tapped once every few steps.
"You were gone," Swayam said to him, quietly.
Rachit nodded, still walking. "Midnight. Snuck out."
"Risky," Gaurav said.
Rachit turned slightly. "Worth it."
He crouched and unrolled the map again, setting it against the flat of a rock just beyond the slope. The city of Malakour sprawled behind them like a jewel carved from ancient bone.
He pointed to a region marked in ink that had started to blur with age. "The city and state both go by the same name—Malakour. But their capital? It's here."
His finger tapped a blood-red symbol drawn like a blooming flower.
"Raktphul."
Swayam frowned. "How close?"
Rachit looked up. "Close enough to pass through on the way to the mountain. It's the administrative center. Military too. Records, artifacts, black-market scroll traders. If there's anything real about Ashvathha's legend, someone there knows it."
Swayam stood silent for a moment, then glanced back at the city gates now far behind them.
Rachit rolled the map back up.
The decision didn't need to be spoken.
They walked forward.
In the shadow of a rising sun, a demon, two slaves, and a beast walked toward the heart of the empire they should have feared.
But now?
They were something else entirely.
The city of Raktphul wasn't built to be seen.
It was built to be remembered.
Even from miles away, it rose like a fortress made of petals and war. The walls weren't just high—they were beautiful—streaked with carved veins of crimson quartz that caught the morning light and reflected it like blooming blood. A flower sculpted by soldiers. Domes and ridges layered the skyline, too fluid to be human, too intricate to be savage. This was not just the heart of Malakour—it was its face, its pride, and its promise.
The capital.
But first—clothes.
They found the market half a day before reaching Raktphul. Not the main square, but a district known for custom demonwear and weaponry, tucked under a terrace of redstone bridges with steam vents and rune posts carved into every bench.
Krotha, mounted on The Guy, made heads turn without a word. His new mask—a gleaming metal design edged with frozen-blue grooves and horn-like ridges—gave his face an emotionless, godlike air. The maroon cloak still flowed from his shoulders, but now paired with plated greaves and layered black robes beneath. He looked untouchable.
Behind him, Gaurav and Rachit stood straighter.
They wore their roles like second skin now. No more mismatched rags or stitched scraps. Gaurav wore matte black pants—loose at the ankle, built for movement—paired with armored sandals and a crimson sash. His new shirt was sleeveless, charcoal-colored, fitted tight to his torso. His fists were now adorned with a brutal, obsidian wagh nagh—a clawed weapon strapped to the knuckles and curved like a demon's grin.
He flexed it once. It clicked like teeth.
Rachit, as usual, stood tall and quiet. His harem pants flowed like smoke, grey with cobalt thread stitched along the seam. A sleeveless blue tank top stretched across his chest, revealing hardened arms and shoulders sculpted by survival. Twin rods of enchanted metal—each weighing ten kilograms—were strapped diagonally across his back. They shimmered faintly, runes etched in red spiraling from base to tip.
When he walked, they hummed like waiting storms.
The shopkeeper—a wrinkled demon with one glass eye—watched with twitching brows as the trio browsed his wares.
"To see a scourge-class frost hunter of royal caste..." he whispered under his breath, eyes darting between Krotha and the "slaves."
Rachit barely nodded at the weapons, testing the weight of the rods before slinging them over his back. Gaurav examined clawed gauntlets like he'd built them himself.
Swayam said nothing.
He picked a weapon last—a kusarigama, dark-handled, silver-chained, curved like the smile of someone who knew too much. He spun it once. The weight spoke to him. So did the silence it made when caught.
The old demon bowed without being asked.
Later, they passed a stall selling fruit—apples piled in neat pyramids, not bruised, not withered. Swayam reached for a few and placed them into their satchel without pause.
He didn't say it aloud, but Gaurav noticed.
He'd started picking apples a lot lately.
By morning, they reached the outer walls of Raktphul.
The checkpoint was nothing like the open gates of Malakour.
Here, demons in black armor stood on ridges overhead, crossbows aimed not outward—but inward. Six-legged beasts with crystal eyes patrolled the gate floor. Runes glowed underfoot with every passing step, scanning for spells or false magic.
They approached as rehearsed.
Krotha rode in front, chin high, the frost emblem on his chest plate etched in cracked steel. His beast, The Guy, walked with the calm pride of something pampered. Gaurav and Rachit, now clearly marked as armed but still 'slaves,' flanked either side at an obedient distance.
A guard stepped forward.
Helmeted, silver-plated, with one horn broken clean off.
He held up a gloved hand. "Name. Caste. Purpose."
Krotha's voice didn't falter. "Scourge-class frost hunter. Name: Krotha. In transit to Raktphul for acquisition."
"Acquisition of what?"
"Information. And bodies."
The guard twitched. Not fear—respect.
Another stepped forward to inspect The Guy. The beast narrowed its eyes and snorted, but didn't bite. When the demon touched the rune-bound saddle, The Guy gave a warning growl low enough to shake the gate's ground stone.
"That's frost-bred," the guard muttered.
"Yes," Krotha replied.
"And the... slaves?"
Rachit lifted his arms silently to reveal the old marks, still red beneath his new clothes. Gaurav said nothing—just offered his arm forward like an afterthought, eyes locked on the wall behind the guard like this was beneath him.
The guard narrowed his eyes at Gaurav's clawed hand.
"You arm your slaves?"
"I hunt," Krotha replied. "They clean what I catch."
After a beat of consideration, the gates began to part.
With a hiss of air and metal, Raktphul opened before them.
Inside, it was different.
Where Malakour was organized, Raktphul was designed. Fountains in the shape of serpents. Market lanes shaped like river spirals. Crystal spires that hummed music faintly when the wind passed through them. There were fewer crowds—more uniformity. Guards at every corner, eyes always moving.
But the beauty was undeniable.
Air thick with the scent of fire-bloom petals. Roads paved in dusk-colored glass that reflected the sky. Water ran in clear veins through the gutters, filtered and glowing.
And beneath it all—whispers.
Information. Trade. Knowledge. Black markets and secret temples. It was all here.
Swayam's mask reflected the city back at him.
He said nothing.
But they all knew—
This wasn't just a stop on the way to the mountain.
This was the place where secrets lived.
Raktphul's main market was alive with color and contradiction.
Silken banners fluttered over cobbled bridges. Traders barked behind stands of crimson fruit and glowing weapons. Slaves scrubbed statues beneath fountains pouring sapphire-blue water. Music hummed from lyre-demons whose strings were woven through their arms.
But beneath it all, tension pulsed—quiet and patient, like something waiting to snap.
Swayam—still cloaked as Krotha—steered The Guy with measured poise, head high, mask gleaming. Beside him, Rachit's steps were quiet, purposeful. Eyes flicking across the alley corners and shadowed doors. Both were scanning—looking for the underbelly of a city that wore perfume over its blood.
And then—
"HEY!"
Gaurav's voice cracked through the noise, sharp enough to snap attention like a whip. He was pointing.
A small demon child, no older than four. Red hair like dying embers. Orange eyes wide and innocent. Lost, weaving between the crowd.
Then—gone.
Snatched.
A blur of shadows. A carriage wheel. A hand over the kid's mouth.
"No—no—nope," Gaurav muttered, fists clenched.
He was already running.
"Meet you at the statue of Malakour!" he shouted without turning.
Swayam turned sharply—cloak flaring.
Rachit didn't wait.
"You know how to find me," he said, already leaping over a cart.
Swayam sighed under the mask, sliding down from The Guy in one smooth motion.
He turned to the nearest stable demon, a rail-thin figure with spiked armor and green eyes.
"Take care of him," Swayam said coldly, pointing to The Guy. "If anything happens to that beast…"
He leaned in. The mask gleamed inches from the demon's face.
"…I'll carve the debt from your bones."
The stablehand gulped and nodded.
Swayam vanished into the crowd, eyes scanning the walls—cracks. Light, jagged. Rachit's signal. Vibrations only Swayam would notice. He followed the trail.
Meanwhile…
Gaurav didn't run like a hero.
He sprinted like a storm.
His boots hammered stone, knocking over crates, brushing past confused demons. His arms were bare, muscles taut, the new wagh nagh claws glinting under the sun.
They thought he was a slave.
They had no idea he was a knucklehead with purpose.
He tracked the scent of burned ozone, followed the echoes of a rattling cart, then the faintest cries.
Then he saw it.
A warehouse. Rusted roof. Broken windows. Leaning against the edge of a slow-moving river.
He crouched behind a dead tree, eyes narrowing.
Twelve of them.
Demon thugs—scarred, lean, laughing in low voices. One of them slapped the child across the face for crying. They tied him to a stone pillar with soul-thread.
"He'll shut up once his daddy sees the blood," one demon growled.
Gaurav exhaled.
"Alright," he muttered. "I was having a good day."
He rolled his neck until it cracked.
Then—
BOOM.
The roof exploded inward.
Debris rained down like jagged hail as Gaurav came through the ceiling like falling fire. His body was wrapped in flame—shoulders blazing, hair lit from behind by an aura of elemental fury.
Twelve heads snapped up.
He didn't land on them.
Instead, he hit the ground in front of the kid, rolling to one knee.
One arm extended, forming a swirling air barrier around the child—safe. No noise. No cuts. Just protection.
He looked up.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "This is gonna suck."
The first two demons lunged—spears forward, aiming for his throat and spine.
He ducked.
Twisted between the strikes. Grabbed one spear shaft and broke it over his knee, then jabbed the splintered end straight into the demon's chest—not killing, but slamming him across the room.
Second demon came from the left.
Gaurav let his body fall back, hands slamming the ground.
A geyser of compressed wind burst from beneath him—launching him into the air.
WHAM!
Mid-flip, he drove both clawed fists down into the second demon's shoulders. The wagh nagh dug in like molten fangs, knocking the demon cold before he hit the floor.
"You two done?" Gaurav growled.
The other ten stood stunned, but their hands were going for weapons.
Then—whistling air.
A vibration tore down the ruined wall.
Rachit dropped through the same hole Gaurav made—spinning mid-air.
He landed in a crouch, arms raised, metal rods humming like they wanted blood.
"You started without me," he said dryly.
Gaurav grinned. "Thought you'd be late."
Behind them, the demon child blinked through the barrier, no longer crying—just wide-eyed and watching.
Twelve demons circled.
But they weren't facing two slaves.
They were staring down a walking inferno and a silent executioner.
The fight had just begun.
The warehouse walls bled dust and flame.
Twelve demons closed in—a half-moon of snarls, blades, and predator silence.
Gaurav cracked his knuckles, heat licking off his shoulders like whispers of a storm. Beside him, Rachit's metal rods hummed at a low frequency, the air twitching around him like it couldn't decide whether to shiver or scream.
Rachit side-eyed Gaurav. "You think you can take them all alone?"
Gaurav popped his neck. "In a fight? Sure. In a beauty contest against that eight-armed gargoyle?" He gestured at the largest one. "Nah. I'd lose hard."
Rachit didn't laugh. He just stepped back toward the bound child, placing himself between innocence and war.
Gaurav stepped forward.
And then—hell unfolded.
The first two demons came fast—double daggers, moving like synchronized shadows.
Gaurav didn't step back. He stepped into them.
He grabbed one by the arm mid-swing, turned his hips, and used the demon's momentum to hurl him like a sack of stones into the other. Their skulls met with a sickening crack.
Three more circled. Spears. Glaives. One with a whip made of bone chain.
They lunged.
Gaurav pivoted low, his left fist curling flames around the wagh nagh as he drove it up into the first demon's ribs—breaking bones, not hearts. He spun, kicked the glaive wielder's knee sideways, then ducked just as the whip lashed where his neck had been.
The third he met head-on.
His forehead collided with the demon's nose, breaking cartilage with a crunch. Gaurav headbutted again. And again.
No mercy. No death. Just dominance.
But he didn't kill. Not yet. That was the deal.
Meanwhile, Rachit knelt by the child.
The boy trembled, cheeks stained, eyes locked on the chaos behind Rachit. But the tall teen didn't flinch. He pressed a hand gently to the soul-thread binding the kid.
A faint thrummm escaped as he touched the knot and vibrated it out of existence. The bindings disintegrated into harmless fibers.
"Close your eyes," he said.
And that's when the pain hit.
Behind him—WHAM!
An eight-armed brute, muscles like tree roots, drove a punch straight into Rachit's back.
Rachit flew like a broken kite, slammed against a wall. Cracks spiraled behind him.
He didn't groan.
He didn't scream.
He just… stood up.
Through the settling dust, his shadow rose, slow and mechanical.
He turned his head. One vertebra at a time. The warehouse trembled—not from sound, but from presence.
And in a blink—he was on the eight-armed demon's chest.
No roar. No dramatic pose.
Just violence.
Rachit's first punch caved one cheekbone.
The second dislocated the jaw.
The third, fourth, fifth—punctuated like a drumbeat of punishment.
The demon twitched. Then stopped.
Even the other demons hesitated.
Gaurav turned for half a second—and that's when a blade slid into his chest.
The steel hissed through fabric, past flesh, grinding near the collarbone.
Gaurav caught it just in time, both hands locking around the blade.
Too late.
Blood bubbled from his mouth.
The world spun.
The demons swarmed him now—sensing weakness.
Three… four… six piling on.
He grit his teeth, slammed his boots down, then—
FLASH.
A wave of lightning exploded outward from his body.
Demons screamed as volts tore through their nerves.
Bodies flew. Metal sparked. Hair caught fire.
Ten fell.
Only two remained, crouching low, steam rising from their armor.
Base magic: lightning-resistant.
Perfect.
Gaurav, right arm limp, turned to one. "Left hand's still good," he muttered.
He charged.
The clash was messy—more street brawl than duel. Gaurav's punches came like weighted hammers, not elegant. He blocked a curved blade with his claw, pivoted his hips, and shoulder-bashed the demon into a pillar.
It cracked and fell on him.
Rachit took the other.
The vibration rod in his hand lit with sharp, buzzing red. He didn't wait.
The demon swung first—a spiked hook meant to dismember. Rachit let it scrape his side, then twisted inside the arc and drove the rod into the demon's shin.
He didn't stop vibrating.
Bones shattered. Tendons snapped. The demon collapsed, screaming.
Rachit crouched low, one hand pressing the rod to the other leg.
BRRRRZZZKKK.
The bones burst.
Then… silence.
The demon wheezed—barely conscious.
Rachit grabbed his face. Lifted him like a child. His fingers gripped tighter.
The vibration frequency rose.
High.
Higher.
Until—SPLAT.
The demon's skull exploded in a fine mist.
Then… boots.
Armored ones.
The warehouse door burst open—Raktphul military.
Ten… twenty soldiers in formation. Spears charged. Runeblades humming.
They didn't expect what they saw:
Gaurav, bleeding, shirt torn, chest soaked in red, standing over unconscious demons.A demon child alive, crying, arms around his legs.Rachit… staring blankly, breath slowing, blood-speckled fists clenched.
One soldier moved forward, lifting a runeblade.
The kid screamed and ran.
Straight into the arms of one of the captains.
"Daddy!!" he sobbed. "I was scared! If the smiling devil didn't come—"
He pointed a shaking finger.
At Gaurav.
The warehouse fell into stunned silence.
Swayam arrived last—still masked, still cloaked.
Krotha, the frost-class scourge hunter.
He looked at the carnage, then at the soldiers.
"They are mine," he said, voice like a glacier cracking. "Slaves. Claimed. Controlled."
The captain met his gaze.
Then nodded.
The soldiers stepped aside.
Rachit didn't speak.
He just dropped the remains of the demon's headless corpse at their feet.
Then raised his arms.
For once—not in defiance.
But in surrender.
chapter:3 end