A week slipped by in tense anticipation, the Satpura Range's hidden "cube" a hive of relentless preparation. The 1000 fighters drilled in muffled silence: suppressed rifles cracked in the arenas, martial arts forms flowed like deadly dances, Sound-disruption devices hummed in test chambers. Rajan oversaw it all, his commands sharp. "The God comes for our Master—ridges for snipers, ravines for flanks. Pulses to scatter his darkness!" Fighters nodded, loyalty burning. Above, villagers tended fields, herded goats, but their eyes scanned horizons, ready to blend or alert.
In his cube office, Aryan Kapoor—The Man—reviewed holograms of tactics, his bearded face calm, sharp eyes confident. "He's strong," he muttered to Vikrant via secure line. "But not invincible. Hundreds armed, my Sound on top—he'll break." Underestimating Amar, he saw him as a rival proxy, perhaps stronger, but not enough to withstand an army plus his full power. "This ends him."
The day arrived. In Pune, Amar sat cross-legged in his apartment, shadows swirling. He'd probed Satpura days ago—tendrils slipping through the village: farmers tilling, women fetching water, children playing. Normal, yet anomalous. "I can't pierce their shadows," he murmured. "No entry, no sense. They're contracted—all of them. The whole village is his."
He reached out telepathically to Rathore. Rathore, it's worse than we thought. The village in Satpura—it's a front. Every person's contracted to The Man. Shadows bounce off them like walls.
Rathore's voice echoed back, grave. Contracted? The whole place? Amar, that's a bloodbath waiting. If you go in, lives hang on every move. Your life too—Kapoor's no fool. He's luring you for a reason.
Amar's tone was firm. I know it's a trap. But I won't kill villagers. They're pawns, controlled like the soldiers. I'll slip in, confront him directly, end this without slaughter.
Rathore sighed mentally. Careful, shadow. One wrong step, and it's massacre. Keep me looped.
The link faded. Just then, a playful telepathic whisper intruded—light, teasing. Well, well, God of Darkness. Plotting your big showdown in Satpura? I hear The Man's rolled out the welcome mat.
Amar tensed, shadows flaring. Messenger. How do you know?
The voice laughed, warm and mischievous. Oh, I have my ways—whispers on the wind, secrets in the echoes. It's a trap, you know. He's baiting you with those ministers, hoping you bite.
Amar's reply was steady. I know. But I'm going. He's vulnerable there—I'll confront him, end his control.
A pause, then the Messenger's tone turned curious. Bold! But tell me, Amar—can you save the people? The villagers, the contracted? Snatch them from his grip and still slay the beast?
Amar hesitated. That's what I want. Free them without death. Is it possible?
The Messenger's voice softened, laced with gravity. Ah, the hero's dilemma. If a proxy dies, all their contracted perish with them—souls bound, essences tied. Even if you save everyone physically and kill The Man, his contracts snap. They die anyway. Unless… they're contracted to multiple proxies. Rare, but possible—divided loyalties, split essences. Survive one's fall.
Amar's chaotic heart sank. Multiple? How rare?
Very, the Messenger replied. Few primordials share. But it happens—alliances, overlaps. Ponder that, friend. Your storm might free… or flood with blood. The presence faded, leaving Amar reeling.
He reached out to Rathore and Ria simultaneously. Rathore, Ria—the Messenger contacted me. If I kill The Man, all his contracted die with him. The village, the soldiers, hundreds—gone. Even if I save them first, the bond kills them.
Rathore's voice was heavy. Damn. That's genocide, Amar. All those lives… for one man?
Ria's tone burned with concern. Chaos King, that's too much. You can't carry that weight. Is there another way? Break the contracts without killing him?
Amar's reply was grim. I don't know. The Messenger said multiple contracts might save some—rare cases. But for most… death.
Rathore pressed. Is there no way to save them? Extract the bond, something?
Amar sat in silence, shadows dimming. "No answer," he whispered aloud. The chapter closed on his dilemma, the weight of lives hanging in the balance, Satpura's trap looming.