" 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 stood alone-his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, his body painted in a thousand shades of red. The scalpel trembled slightly in his blood-slicked grip, not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him, muscles screaming from the unrelenting slaughter. The once-bright field was now a hellscape-bodies strewn like discarded rags, weapons broken, limbs twisted, faces frozen mid-scream.
And yet, they came.
From beyond the smoke and death, a fresh wave surged forward-a monstrous tide of bloodthirsty men with blades, clubs, and guns. The sound of their war cries grew into a thunderous roar. Dozens of them, all converging upon the lone figure standing amidst a graveyard of their comrades.
Ashwath gritted his teeth. His knees bent slightly, eyes locked on the flood of death rushing toward him. He knew. He knew this was it.
His arm rose-not in surrender, but defiance. The scalpel gleamed one final time in the sun.
And then-
A metallic whine.
A thunderclap of gunfire ripped through the air from behind.
In a blink, the enemies in front of Ashwath exploded backward-ripped apart mid-charge as bullets tore through flesh and bone like paper. Blood burst in the air like fireworks. Limbs flew. Men screamed and fell like dominoes.
More thunder followed-louder, faster, relentless.
The sky above darkened-not from clouds, but from the swarm of drones cutting through the smoke like vultures. Sleek, mechanical, vicious. They weren't ordinary drones. These were engineered for destruction-sleek black bodies with machine guns slung beneath their bellies, rotating with deadly precision.
The drones danced through the chaos like reapers. Their guns spun with a mechanical hum, raining bullets into the oncoming horde. Every shot struck with surgical cruelty. Heads snapped back. Chests burst open. Blood sprayed in arcs across the dead land.
Ashwath turned, heart hammering, breath caught in his throat.
Through the haze of dust and death stood a lone figure.
Unmoving.
Commanding.
It was Robert.
His bald head caught the sun like a mirror, glinting with quiet menace. The wind tugged at his white doctor's coat, flaring it behind him like a cape. His hands gripped a massive drone controller, his fingers moving with exacting precision. His eyes, sharp and cold behind his tinted glasses, scanned the battlefield like a general overseeing his masterpiece. His shirt-immaculately white-remained untouched by blood, a haunting contrast to the carnage he commanded.
His French beard framed a jaw that clenched with calm intensity. The chaos swirled around him, but Robert stood still, godlike in his control of death from the skies.
The field had changed.
It was no longer Ashwath's lonely grave.
It had become Robert's kill zone.
And the reaping had just begun.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
