The moment they stepped back into the Vault, something had changed.
The air moved now.
Not with wind—but with breath.
The once-floating Vanara souls—those flickering lights suspended in the void—were no longer whispering.
They were chanting.
Slow.
Unified.
Low like a drumbeat in a battlefield heart:
“Makar… Makar… Makar…”
Makardvach looked up at them.
And they looked back.
Not as ghosts.
Not as echoes.
As soldiers, awaiting orders.
Lanka stepped forward, his voice low. “I’ve fought these spirits. Crushed them in raids. I never thought I’d see them stand.”
Rishabh closed his eyes, overwhelmed. “It’s happening. The pact is loosening. They remember him now. You.”
Makardvach turned to the center of the Vault—toward the broken altar of the pact.
He walked forward.
The staff in his right hand pulsed with Marut’s dormant fire.
The gada in his left glowed gold.
He raised them both.
And the chanting grew louder.
The lights spun.
They began to move—whirling together, forming spirals, forming shape.
Then—bodies.
Translucent.
But real.
For the first time in centuries, Vanara warriors stood upright again.
Eyes burning with unfinished vows.
Megha gasped. “They’re… they’re reforming. Their energy’s returning. This could be the start of a full-scale resurrection—”
She didn’t finish.
The Vault exploded with heat.
The ceiling cracked open.
Molten rock spilled inward.
From the rift above descended a meteor of flame.
It landed on its feet.
Armor of black iron.
Body carved in runes.
Eyes burning with unending fire.
Krodha.
The Infernal General.
Kalnemi’s wrath.
He didn’t roar.
He didn’t threaten.
He simply raised his massive blade of charred obsidian—
And charged.
Makardvach didn’t wait.
He ran forward.
They collided like ancient gods at the end of time.
The shockwave rattled the Vault.
The blast flung debris and burning mantra-ink across the chamber.
Makardvach rolled with the force, dug his heels in, and thrust the staff toward Krodha’s chest.
It struck—
But barely moved him.
Krodha grinned.
Steam hissed between blackened teeth.
He brought the obsidian blade down.
Makardvach blocked with the gada.
Clang.
Not metal.
A spiritual note.
It rippled through the bones of every living thing.
Even the souls flinched.
Even the reborn Vanara wavered.
Krodha pressed down.
Corruption began.
Where his blade met the gada, golden metal blackened.
Veins of darkness pulsed into Makardvach’s arm, his chest, his throat.
He gritted his teeth, vision blurring.
Rishabh shouted, “It’s Kalnemi’s aura—embedded in the sword! Don’t let it touch your heart!”
Makardvach chanted.
The glyphs on the gada blazed and pushed the blackness back.
But only a little.
This wasn’t a duel.
It was an infection.
Krodha swung again—faster than something that large should move.
Makardvach ducked.
Countered.
Spun.
The staff end struck Krodha’s leg.
The gada slammed his ribs.
He staggered—then stepped back, laughing.
“You think devotion can defeat wrath?”
“I am not rage. I am what remains after forgiveness fails.”
The floor fractured.
Lava seeped in.
Krodha raised his free hand.
Fire responded.
It climbed his arm.
Poured from his eyes.
He roared.
The Vault’s heat surged.
The Vanara spirits dimmed.
One collapsed.
Gone.
Megha screamed, “He’s dissolving them! The aura’s burning their essence!”
Makardvach trembled.
He whispered—
“Vayu…
let me move faster than the fire.”
He vanished.
Reappeared.
Behind. Above. Around.
A golden blur.
Each strike faster, heavier, cleaner.
He dropped from above—drove the gada into Krodha’s back—sent him crashing into the altar.
Then he slammed the staff into the floor.
Chanted:
“Om Rakshaya Vanaraya Swaha.”
The spirits rose.
Their light pushed outward.
The blackened Vault recoiled.
Krodha staggered.
But he wasn’t finished.
From the floor’s cracks came figures.
Not demons.
Not spirits.
Fused horrors.
Twisted remnants of souls and lava, armored in hate.
Kalnemi’s backups.
Krodha pointed at Makardvach.
“Burn with them.”
And charged again.
The air thickened—not with heat, but intention.
Makardvach braced.
Behind him, the Vanara souls sang.
A war chant.
“We are the wind in the leaves.
We are the silence between roars.
We are the fists of those forgotten.”
Soul-beasts clawed their way up.
But the Vanara rose.
Not fully formed—just enough.
They locked arms.
Swung ghost-gadas.
Held the line.
It wasn’t enough.
Makardvach fought Krodha—dodged, struck, burned.
His breath frayed.
His arms failed.
The corruption returned.
Megha and Akshay tried to hold back the aura.
Rishabh chanted until his voice cracked.
Lanka fought with blades of light and desperation.
Krodha laughed.
“You wield your ancestors like lanterns.
But I drink mine like wine!”
He struck.
Makardvach blocked.
But fell to a knee.
Then—
A hand caught the next blow.
Not his.
Not Krodha’s.
Marut’s.
He rose from light.
Fully formed.
Armor storm-forged.
Eyes lit with ancient fire.
He smiled.
“You picked the wrong brother to forget.”
He punched Krodha.
The floor broke.
Makardvach stared. “Marut…”
“I remembered.”
He raised his weapon.
“Let’s finish what Kalnemi started—
and what we were born to end.”
They fought as one.
Makardvach struck low.
Marut swept high.
Gada and staff.
Storm and flame.
Krodha dropped his blade.
Spread his arms.
Roared.
Lava erupted.
Glyphs peeled from his skin.
And he changed.
Fifteen feet tall.
Head wreathed in black fire.
Eyes like screaming suns.
“This is what wrath becomes when memory fails and mercy dies.”
Rage Ascendant.
Even Marut stepped back.
Makardvach looked to him.
“I can’t hold him.”
“You won’t,” Marut said. “We will.”
They stepped forward.
And the gada split.
Not broken.
Shared.
Makardvach took the mace.
Marut took the storm-staff.
They fought through fire.
Each strike was lineage.
Each blow a hymn.
Around them, Vanara spirits chanted and held the collapsing Vault.
The team—Megha, Akshay, Rishabh, Lanka—channeled energy into the chant.
The light grew.
Each note cracked Krodha.
“You think lineage is strength?”
“It is weight.”
Makardvach bled.
Marut burned.
They drove the weapon forward.
“No,” Makardvach whispered.
“It’s fire carried forward.”
And Krodha shattered.
His molten form imploded.
Ash fell.
Silence.
Breath.
Brothers. Standing.
The air shivered.
The obsidian Vault cracked again.
Its etched mantras unraveled like veins in a dying god.
Megha’s hands shook. “The ritual seal—it’s collapsing.”
Rishabh nodded. “Then Kalnemi will know.”
Akshay cursed. “He already does.”
Miles deeper, Kalnemi opened his eyes.
“They’re remembering.”
The Vanara spirits began to glow brighter.
Some sobbed.
Some screamed.
Some simply stood.
One by one, they touched down.
Not just form.
Will.
Makardvach watched.
Then felt fear.
With each rebirth, energy surged.
Reality tilted.
Harmony cracked.
Marut put a hand on his shoulder. “We freed them.”
“But we didn’t guide them.”
Across the Vault, spirits turned toward them.
Eyes wild.
“Where are the gods?”
“Why was I left in the dark?”
“Why do you get to stand while we fell?”
The pact frayed.
Rishabh’s chanting faltered.
Lanka raised his blades. “We need to bind them.”
“Bind them again?” Megha asked, horrified.
“No,” Makardvach said.
“We need to anchor them.”
He raised the gada.
Marut raised the staff.
They slammed both into the floor.
A ring of light erupted.
Not divine.
Not mantric.
Inherited.
The Vanara blood pulsed outward.
The spirits stilled.
Turned.
Listened.
Makardvach spoke:
“You are not forgotten.
You are not weapons.
You are what remains.
And I stand because you carried me here.”
The wind stilled.
The echoes calmed.
The pact held.
Not by chains.
But by choice.
For now.
