In the heart of the Satpura Range, the underground "cube" thrummed with disciplined energy. Rajan, the grizzled commander of the 1000 fighters, stood on a raised platform in the cavernous training arena, his voice echoing through the soundproofed rock walls. His elite force—men and women clad in tactical gear, their faces etched with unwavering loyalty—stood in tight formation, eyes fixed on him. Above, the village supplied food, water, and cover, their contracted villagers blending seamlessly with the secret army.
"Warriors!" Rajan's voice boomed, laced with the subtle vibration of The Man's Sound influence. "Our Master faces a dire enemy—the God of Darkness. He slips traps, wields shadows, threatens our empire. In one week, we strike. He'll be lured to this range. Snipers on the ridges, assault teams in ravines, Sound pulses to shatter his darkness. Train harder—martial arts for close combat, suppressed rifles for stealth, jungle tactics for precision. Pair up! Drill until you're flawless!"
A young fighter, lean and battle-scarred, raised a hand. "Sir, how do we draw him here? What's the plan?"
Rajan's eyes gleamed. "The Master's bait is set. Three ministers, corrupt and desperate, will come to our village, thinking it's a haven. The God will follow, sensing his target. Villagers above will scout, provide cover. Now move—spar, shoot, prepare!"
The arena erupted in muffled activity: fighters grappling in jiu-jitsu, practicing knife strikes, firing silenced rifles at targets. In side chambers, teams tested Sound-disruption devices—low-frequency hums designed to scatter shadows. "Feel the pulse!" a trainer barked. "It'll break his darkness!" The 1000 moved as one, a silent symphony honed for generations, their vibrations undetectable to Amar's shadows.
Deep within the cube's spartan office, The Man—Aryan Kapoor, the richest man in India—sat at a sleek console, holographic screens flickering with encrypted feeds. His bearded face was calm, his sharp eyes calculating. The committee's three-month ultimatum burned in his mind, but his plan was a masterpiece of deception. He initiated a secure call to three corrupt ministers: Gupta (Finance), Singh (Health), and Reddy (Home Affairs). Their holographic faces appeared, nervous, sweat beading despite the cool rooms.
"Gentlemen," Kapoor began, his voice a smooth, resonant hum, laced with Sound's subtle command. "You've served me well—bribes, policies, secrets. But the God of Darkness hunts us. He's exposed allies, forced confessions. I'm stepping out of the shadows to protect you."
Gupta's eyes widened, his voice shaky. "You're… Aryan Kapoor? The billionaire? You've been giving us orders all this time?"
Kapoor's smile was warm, disarming. "Indeed. My wealth, my influence—it's all to build a better order. You've been loyal, and now I offer salvation. Come to my secure village in the Satpura Range in one week. There, I'll shield you from the God of Darkness. My resources—my power—will keep you safe."
Singh, in his Delhi penthouse, leaned forward. "Safe? You mean your… private forces? We've heard rumors of your reach."
"More than rumors," Kapoor said, his voice vibrating with assurance. "My enclave is a fortress. In one week, you'll receive further instructions there—plans to end this threat. Will you come?"
Reddy nodded slowly. "If Aryan Kapoor himself guarantees safety, I'm in. The God's terrorizing us."
"Agreed," Gupta said, relief in his voice. "One week, Satpura. We'll be there."
Kapoor's eyes glinted as the call ended. He turned to Vikrant, his assistant, waiting in the shadows. "Now, the leak. Spread through back channels—not the ministers—that Gupta, Singh, and Reddy are meeting Aryan Kapoor in Satpura next week. Use our contacts in the media, low-level aides. Ensure it reaches Rathore's task force. The God of Darkness will hear, and he'll come."
Vikrant hesitated. "Sir, the ministers don't know they're bait?"
Kapoor's smile was cold. "They don't need to. They trust my name, my power. They'll walk into the trap, and so will he."
Meanwhile, in Pune, Amar's shadows clung to Gupta's office, catching a late-night call to an aide: "Kapoor's meeting us in Satpura next week—protection from the God. Keep it quiet." The shadow relayed it to Amar, who sat in his Koregaon Park apartment, golden eyes narrowing. "Aryan Kapoor," he murmured. "The richest man in India, pulling their strings. He's The Man."
He reached out telepathically to Ria and Rathore. Kapoor's calling ministers to Satpura in a week. It's a trap, but he's there. I'll ambush him.
Rathore's voice was grim. Kapoor's been on my list—too influential to probe deeply. I'll feed false leads to cover you.
Ria's tone burned. Chaos King, be careful. Kapoor's untouchable—money, power, everything. This feels big.
Amar nodded to the empty room. "He's on my list now. One week, we end this." Shadows swirled, his chaotic heart alight. Kapoor was a name he'd seen—always too distant among countless corrupt figures to prioritize. Now, the richest man in India was in his sights, and Amar planned to strike.