" What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
-T.S. Eliot
In the enigmatic town of Kshaya lurks a figure shrouded in infamy: SHAITAN, the most wanted criminal whose true id...
Ashwath had finally reached the heart of Kshaya-the city's grand bungalow, a sprawling palace where power thrived and justice rotted. It was here that the rulers of the city convened, where the dark dealings of Faraib were plotted and sanctioned behind closed doors. This was not just a building-it was the brain of a corrupt empire, pulsing with malice.
Ashwath knew Bhairava would be inside. But today, he hadn't come just for Bhairava. No. Today, Ashwath had come for every last one of them. Every hand that had signed death warrants with a smile. Every voice that had whispered orders soaked in blood. Every eye that had watched injustice unfold and done nothing. Today was retribution.
He stood before the massive gates of the bungalow, the late summer sun glaring overhead, baking the earth beneath his feet. The field that lay between him and the palace was parched, cracked with heat, and stretched wide like a dried-up riverbed. It was here the public once gathered to plead their cases-to beg for mercy, for fairness, for a shred of decency. Today, it would be a battleground.
The bungalow itself loomed like a ghostly monolith-its pristine white walls almost blinding in the sunlight, a mocking contrast to the darkness that reigned inside. Its gates were jet black, towering and menacing, each bar ending in a cruel, sharpened tip that looked thirsty for blood.
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Ashwath's gaze scanned the distance beyond the gate. There, far across the scorched field, stood Bhairava-motionless, waiting. Behind him surged a wave of bodies. Men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, an army of loyal executioners. In their hands, glinted every instrument of death: rusted swords, blood-drenched sickles, serrated knives, metal rods, and a few clutching battered shotguns, eyes cold and unreadable.
Ashwath didn't flinch. His grip tightened around the small scalpel in his hand-the same blade that had once saved lives, now primed to end them. The white doctor's coat he wore flared in the dry breeze, smeared with streaks of red paint that looked too much like blood. His muscles were taut, his jaw clenched, his eyes steady. A storm was brewing inside him, years of rage now condensed into perfect silence.
He took a deep breath, feeling the heat rise from the ground, the weight of the moment pressing on his shoulders.
"This is it," he muttered to himself, voice low and razor sharp. "No turning back."
With a sudden roar of fury, Ashwath surged forward and slammed his foot into the iron gate. The lock shattered with a metallic crack, and the great black gates groaned open, their creaking echo rolling like thunder across the silent field.
Still, no one moved. Not yet.
Ashwath stepped through the opening, the sun catching the gleam of the scalpel in his hand. Silence held the moment in its jaws, waiting for the first scream, the first strike, the first drop of blood-or paint-to fall.
And then, with the precision of a surgeon and the fury of a man reborn, Ashwath walked forward.
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