*March 11, 1986, Mumbai, India*
The moon hung low over Mumbai like a watchful eye, casting silvery glints on the restless Arabian Sea. In the shadowed outskirts of Navi Mumbai, where warehouses loomed like forgotten giants, Arjun Das moved like a specter through the night. His black tactical gear blended with the darkness, his Kalaripayattu-trained body silent as he led four handpicked men—ex-army misfits he'd scouted from Mumbai's underbelly—toward Chota Rajan's hidden guest house. The intel from Raj Mehra burned in his mind: 10 crore in black money stashed in reinforced safes, guarded by five low-level thugs. Arjun's sniper rifle was slung over his shoulder, but tonight was close-quarters work—knives, silenced pistols, and raw precision.
They crouched behind a rusted fence, the guest house—a squat, two-story bungalow with barred windows and floodlights—fifty meters ahead. Arjun signaled with a hand gesture, his voice a whisper sharper than a blade. "Listen up. Intel says five guards: two at the gate, one patrolling the perimeter, two inside with the cash. We hit silent—knives first, pistols if it goes south. No survivors, no alarms. Raj wants it clean, a message left. You, Vikram—flank left, take the patrol. Ramesh, right gate. I'll lead center with the rest. Questions?" These two are his trusted men trained with him in military he recruited them into Asur and he will recruit more mens in future and these two can help him in training.
Vikram, a wiry ex-commando with a scar across his cheek, nodded grimly. "Boss, what if there's more? Raj's intel's been gold, but..."
Arjun's eyes flashed in the dark, his tone low and unyielding. "Raj's intel hasn't failed yet. Mujibur at 3:20—exact. This is the same. Move like ghosts. For *Asur*—demons against demons. Go."
The team melted into the shadows. Arjun crept forward, heart steady, breaths measured. The gate guards laughed softly, sharing a cigarette, oblivious. Arjun signaled—Vikram's knife flashed from the left, silencing the patrol with a gurgle. Ramesh struck from the right, a chokehold turning to a snap. Arjun vaulted the fence, his men following. Inside the compound, the air reeked of stale smoke and fear.
They breached the door with a muffled kick. The two inside guards—one lounging on a cot, the other counting bundles of cash—jerked up. "Kya—" the first started, but Arjun's silenced pistol coughed twice, dropping them mid-sentence. Blood pooled on the concrete floor, rupees scattering like confetti.
"Clear," Arjun whispered, his team fanning out. They ripped open safes with crowbars—stacks of cash, gold bars, documents. "Load it all," Arjun ordered, his voice clipped. "Ten crore, as promised."
Ramesh whistled low, stuffing bundles into duffels. "Boss, this is a king's ransom. Raj's cut—9 crore? What's our play?"
Arjun paused, scrawling a message on the wall in red marker: *Chota Rajan, you took down my 20 men. I took your 10 crore. – Shetty.* He stepped back, admiring the taunt. "Our play? Chaos. This pins it on Shetty. They'll tear each other apart. Raj's vision—vacuums we fill with *Asur*."
Vikram zipped the last bag, his face grim. "Boss, if they trace this..."
"They won't," Arjun said, slinging a duffel. "We're ghosts. Move out."
They vanished into the night, the guest house silent but for the drip of blood—a spark to ignite Mumbai's underworld inferno.
*February 12, 1986 – Chota Rajan's Safehouse, Early Morning*
Dawn broke over Mumbai, but in Chota Rajan's fortified Andheri lair, the air was thick with rage. The black Ambassador pulled up, tires crunching gravel. Chota Rajan burst out, his face thunderous, flanked by Rahman and three enforcers. News of the raid had hit like a gut punch: his guest house hit, 10 crore vanished, five men slaughtered like cattle.
Inside, the scene was carnage—bodies sprawled, safes gutted, blood congealing on the floor. Chota Rajan kicked a overturned chair, his voice a roar. "Kya bakwaas hai yeh? Ten crore—gone! My men—butchered! Who? Who dares?"
Rahman, pale and sweating, pointed to the wall. "Bhai... look."
Chota Rajan's eyes locked on the message: *Chota Rajan, you took down my 20 men. I took your 10 crore. – Shetty.* His face twisted, veins bulging. "Shetty!" he bellowed, slamming his fist into the wall, cracking plaster. "That snake! First Mujibur, now this? He's mocking me—us! D-Company!"
One enforcer, a burly thug named Tony, stepped forward cautiously. "Bhai, it fits. Shetty's been probing our edges. The sniper on Mujibur—too pro for locals. And now this raid? Five down, clean hits. They're escalating."
Rahman nodded frantically. "Yes, bhai. We hit their bar last night—15 dead. This is payback. Bold, hitting your stash. They must have insiders."
Chota Rajan's laugh was bitter, a bark echoing in the bloodied room. "Insiders? Or traitors here? Tony, round up the survivors—question them hard. Break bones if needed. Rahman, rally the men. We don't lick wounds—we strike back. Shetty's warehouse in Vashi—tonight. Take 30, arm heavy. Make it rain blood."
Tony hesitated, his voice low. "Bhai, we're stretched—losses mounting. Mujibur gone, now five more. If it's not Shetty..."
"It is!" Chota Rajan snapped, grabbing Tony's collar. "Who else? Cops? Too clean. Rivals? Shetty's the only one with guts. We end this—now." He released Tony, storming out. "Move! For Mujibur, for the money—Shetty dies screaming."
*That Night – Shetty's Warehouse, Vashi*
The warehouse loomed in Vashi's industrial sprawl, crates of smuggled goods stacked like tombstones under flickering sodium lights. Shetty's men—25 strong—guarded it lazily, unaware of the hurricane approaching. Chota Rajan's crew struck at midnight: 30 men, fueled by vengeance, crashing through gates in stolen trucks.
Gunfire erupted like fireworks. "For Mujibur!" Rajan's men roared, mowing down sentries. Shetty's guards rallied, a hidden machine gun chattering, dropping five of Rajan's in the first volley. Chaos reigned: grenades exploding, crates splintering, men screaming as bullets tore flesh.
Chota Rajan ducked behind a forklift, pistol blazing. "Push! Take them all!"
Rahman, beside him, fired wildly. "Bhai, they're dug in—more than we thought!"
"Then dig 'em out!" Rajan snarled, lobbing a grenade that blasted a barricade, killing three. The fight dragged—knives in close quarters, blood slicking the floor. Fifteen Shetty men fell; Rajan lost seven. Finally, the warehouse fell silent, smoke curling from ruins.
Chota Rajan stood amid the bodies, chest heaving. "Burn it. Let Shetty smell his defeat."
*February 12, 1986 – Shetty's Lair, Juhu*
Morning light pierced Shetty's opulent Juhu villa, but the mood was funeral-black. Shetty—a hulking man in his 50s, with a mustache like twisted wire—slammed the newspaper down, headlines blaring: "WAREHOUSE MASSACRE: 15 DEAD IN GANG WAR." His face purpled with rage. "Chota Rajan!" he thundered, shattering a glass against the wall. "First the bar, now my warehouse? Twenty of my men—gone! That dog's gone mad!"
His lieutenant, a sly fox named Pinto, paced, phone in hand. "Boss, it's confirmed—Rajan's signature: precise hits, no loot taken, just destruction. Retaliation for their guest house raid. They think we're behind it."
Shetty's eyes bulged. "We? I didn't touch their stash! Mujibur? Not us! Someone's playing us like puppets—pitting D-Company against us."
Pinto nodded, his voice urgent. "Boss, losses are heavy—78% of our street muscle gone in weeks. Rajan's hurting too, but if we don't hit back..."
"We do!" Shetty roared, grabbing a revolver from his desk. "Tonight—their gambling den in Dadar. Thirty men, full arms. We'll gut them. No mercy."
Pinto hesitated. "Boss, the city's on edge—cops sniffing. Khan Baba called; wants a meet. Neutral ground."
Shetty waved it off. "Khan? That old peacemaker? Who has lot of connection in underworld and with politician also. It seems government don't want more blood but After we bleed Rajan dry. Move!"
*That Week – Mumbai's Bloody Streets*
Mumbai trembled under the gang war's grip. Fights erupted like brushfires: a shootout in Dadar claimed 20 of Rajan's men, Shetty's retaliation in a Colaba safehouse killed 18 more. Alley ambushes, drive-bys, bombings—260 dead in days, bodies piling in morgues, headlines screaming terror. Civilians huddled indoors, shops shuttered early, police sirens a constant wail. The city held its breath, fear thick as smog.
*February 18, 1986 – Khan Baba's Mansion, Dongri*
Khan Baba's sprawling Dongri mansion—neutral ground for decades—hosted the uneasy truce. Khan, a silver-haired patriarch in his 70s, with a voice like aged whiskey and eyes that had seen empires fall, sat at the head of a long teak table. Flanked by armed mediators, he watched Chota Rajan and Shetty enter from opposite doors, their entourages bristling with barely leashed violence.
Rajan stormed in first, slamming a fist on the table. "Shetty, you snake! Mujibur—sniped like a dog! My guest house—10 crore gone! Your message mocked me! Now 70% of my men dead? You'll pay!"
Shetty, red-faced, lunged forward, halted by Khan's guards. "My message? Liar! Your bar raid—15 of mine butchered! Warehouse torched! 78% losses—my empire bleeding! You started this, Rajan! I'll end you here!"
Khan Baba raised a hand, his voice calm but commanding. "Enough! Sit, both of you. This war's devouring Mumbai—260 dead, streets empty, cops circling like vultures. You're both fools if you think this ends in victory."
Rajan sat, glaring. "He killed Mujibur! Sniped at a chai stall—your style, Shetty, with foreign guns!"
Shetty snarled back. "Foreign? You're delusional! Your warehouse hit was payback? I didn't touch your stash! Someone's stirring the pot—third party!"
Khan leaned forward, eyes piercing. "Think, idiots. Mujibur sniped—clean, pro. Guest house raided—no trace but your 'message.' Bar torched, warehouse gutted. Patterns? Not your usual sloppy hits. Someone's playing you—letting you bleed each other dry."
Silence fell, heavy as guilt. Rajan rubbed his chin. "Third party? Who? Cops? Rivals like Arun Gawli?"
Shetty's eyes widened. "Gawli? Or that new player—whispers of a shadow org. But why us?"
Khan sighed. "Doesn't matter. You've lost too much—70% for you, Rajan; 78% for Shetty. Peace now, or the vacuum swallows you both. Truce? Share territories, no more blood."
Rajan and Shetty exchanged venomous glances, the drama peaking in grudging nods. "Truce," Rajan spat. "But we hunt this ghost together."
Shetty agreed. "Hunt and crush. For our dead."
Khan smiled faintly. "Wise. Now go—before more graves."
They left, uneasy allies, vowing to uncover the puppet master. But clues evaporated like mist—no leads, no whispers. Mumbai exhaled, the terror easing, but the wounds festered.
*Throughout the Month – Raj's Hidden Raids*
Amid the chaos, Raj profited like a shadow thief. With Arjun Das's raids on exposed hideouts—guided by the ROI system's 70% underworld intel penetration—Raj looted 50 crore total from D-Company and Shetty stashes. Arjun's teams struck surgically: a Thane bunker yielding 15 crore, a Goregaon den 12 crore, each hit clean, no traces. "Boss, another vault cracked," Arjun reported post-raid, duffels bulging. "Seventy percent losses for them—your plan's a blade."
Raj laughed, stashing his 45-crore share (after he gives Arjun's cuts for *Asur* training and other things ). "Let them bleed. My empire grows on their graves."
*Mehra Building – Raj's Office*
Raj sat amid files, the morning paper open to the truce news. His mouth twitched, then opened in a triumphant laugh. "Idiots—killing each other while I pocket the spoils." The system's projections glowed: D-Company at 70% loss, Shetty 78%, vacuums ripe for *Asur*.
Flipping pages, he read again that Reliance-Tata-Birla profits leaped out: 500–1000 crore. Raj's eyes gleamed. "They play empires; I play risks. I will create my empire. My system's my edge—laugh at the giants, for my ascent's swifter." He laughed, the sound echoing his audacity.
His mind turned to the football FIFA World Cup in May in Mexico . "Billions in gambling—my target: 100 crore."
The system's shop beckoned, but costs daunted.
Then: [*Road Creation Technique: 1 Crore*]. He bought it, knowledge flooding—efficient builds, cost cuts. Visions: tenders, profits, infrastructure dominance.
While the gang was at war with each other he was also working to build his empire.
First he had told Suraj to acquire a small road construction company,"
"Mid-sized, licenses intact, low debt."
Suraj has successfully acquired one in 2 weeks for 40 lakhs and Raj invest 60 lakhs to upgrade more equipments and increase workforce.
Raj had Named it Mehra Construction. Also Hired Vishal Singh as manager—he's sharp, and very good at management also he has no loyalty issue when checked the system.
Two weeks later, Vishal sat across Raj, dossier in hand. "Sahab, this technique—revolutionary. Tests confirm: stronger, faster, cheaper."
Raj smiled. "Bid on three tenders—1–3 lakhs under competitors. Win them."
Vishal grinned. "Done. 15-crore worth—7-crore profit projected."
"Scale up," Raj ordered. "Recruit talent, import machinery with profits. My empire builds roads to the future."
Vishal left, inspired.
Also Raj has put money in stocks: 2-crore investment yielded 2.5 crore total (0.5-crore profit) in 3 weeks
Total assets: 40 crore post-costs. After alsi cost cutting. He arranged 20 crore offshore via a middleman, Vikram—a sly banker in a dimly lit Colaba cafe.
"Vikram, 20 crore cash," Raj said, sliding a briefcase.
Vikram counted, nodding. "19 crore to your Cayman account—1 crore fee. Official channels? Taxes eat 3 crore, delays months."
Raj laughed. "Efficiency wins."
Back in his office, Raj reviewed files, the city's hum a backdrop to his laughter. Empires rose on calculated chaos—his, unbreakable.