The eastern corridor of Paatal Lok didn’t shake.
It bled.
The walls wept crimson tears. The stone underfoot turned slick. From the arches overhead, strings of pulsing, vein-like fluid began to hang—swinging like pendulums of flesh.
The air smelled not of iron, but of sugar and rot.
Raktanjali’s calling card.
Megha gagged. Akshay stumbled. Even Rishabh faltered.
Only Lanka stood perfectly still.
“She’s close,” he muttered. “Too close. And too fast.”
Ahead, the corridor opened—
And the river came.
Not like water.
Like vengeance.
A wall of churning, levitating blood surged forward. Within it—shapes. Arms. Fingers. Half-formed faces. Each one screaming. Not aloud. Through the blood.
Makardvach stepped forward.
Vānaprakāśa pulsed in his hands.
He stabbed the staff into the ground.
The blood stopped—hesitating for a moment, like it recognized him.
Then it parted. Just slightly.
To let her through.
Raktanjali emerged from the tide.
Floating an inch above the blood, her skin crimson and silk-smooth, her eyes stitched closed with mantras that bled ink. She smiled with her entire face.
“Anjaneya’s remnant. I thought you’d be taller.”
Makardvach raised his weapon.
“You’re polluting the pact.”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m finishing it.”
She raised her hand. The blood behind her convulsed—and the souls inside it screamed. One of them—a Vanara child. The same one from his dream.
He hesitated.
She smiled wider.
“You cannot save all the past.
Some of it wants to drown.”
She gestured.
The blood surged forward again.
Not mindless.
Targeted.
Makardvach met it head-on.
Vānaprakāśa ignited, spinning in his hands—wind swirling one end, mantra-lightning crackling on the other.
“Hold the corridor!” he shouted. “I’ll cut a path!”
Rishabh chanted. Megha opened scrolls. Lanka drew blades. Akshay tapped a glyph on his wrist—deploying a pulse barrier behind them.
The battle began.
In red.
Makardvach stepped into the flood.
Not swimming.
Walking.
The blood pushed, but Vānaprakāśa pushed back—light against memory.
This river didn’t flow with force.
It flowed with guilt.
Each ripple whispered:
“You let them die.”
“You arrived too late.”
“You were never chosen. You just survived.”
He walked harder.
Then—
The first face appeared.
His own.
Younger.
Expression blank.
The night his village burned.
“You forgot them.”
He raised the weapon.
“Not for a moment.”
He struck. It shattered.
But the scream remained.
The next shift brought a hallway.
His childhood home.
Beads. Firelight. His father.
Alive in shape.
Dead in truth.
“I begged the gods. They never answered. Why do they answer you?”
Makardvach lowered his voice.
“I don’t know. I still ask that every day.”
The figure faded.
The blood began to accept him.
It wasn’t fighting.
It was judging.
Then came the heart of the current.
A pillar of bone.
Atop it—Raktanjali.
Eyes still sewn shut.
But smiling wide.
“You made it through.
Are you ready to drown for real?”
“No.”
“Then you’re not ready to live either.”
She opened her arms.
And the river rose.
The blood spiraled like a summoned god.
Raktanjali unraveled.
Veins for skin.
Mirrors for eyes.
Voices in her breath.
She was more than demon now.
She was the Shivnadi’s voice.
“This isn’t about Hanuman’s blood,” she said.
“It’s about all of them… the ones who were promised peace. And got prisons.”
She waved a hand.
The blood parted.
Faces stared from its depths.
Infants.
Elders.
Vanara warriors.
“They died nameless,” she said. “That is the true sin.”
Makardvach hesitated.
And she struck.
Blades of blood formed midair—slicing toward him.
He deflected.
Dodged.
One nicked his side.
One whispered:
“You are a crown placed on the wrong head.”
He roared.
Drove the wind-end of his staff into the tide.
It parted.
He leapt—
And slammed the gada-end into her chest.
She laughed.
“You can’t kill a river by cutting its surface.”
He stepped forward.
Lowered the weapon.
“I’m not here to kill the river.”
He met her gaze.
“I’m here to find your name.”
She flinched.
For the first time.
A whisper rose from within her—
“Nayana…”
He touched the staff gently to her chest.
The weapon glowed.
“Jeevan. Yaad. Naam. Moksha.”
Life. Memory. Name. Release.
The blood exploded in light.
And she vanished.
Only a single drop remained.
Clear water.
The Shivnadi stopped.
It hadn’t dried.
It had withdrawn.
The corridor was silent.
Makardvach stood at its edge.
Vānaprakāśa dimmed.
Megha collected the clear drop in her palm.
“It’s not of this realm,” she whispered.
Rishabh nodded.
“The Shivnadi’s truth.
Before it was cursed.”
They moved deeper.
The trench winded.
Twisted.
Fossils lined the floor.
Murals lined the walls—depicting gods and demons drinking from the river.
One panel stopped them cold.
Hanuman.
Pressing his hands to the river.
Not sealing it.
Begging it.
Makardvach paused.
“This wasn’t a prison,” he said.
“It was a being.”
They reached the end.
A stone platform.
Flat.
Empty.
Except for a crack.
No wider than a breath.
But deep.
A wind rose from it.
Whispering.
The team formed a circle.
Makardvach knelt.
“I do not come to seal,” he whispered.
“I come to understand.”
The wind surged.
The light snapped.
And the trench shook—
As if something stirred.
And opened one eye.
The crack widened.
Makardvach leapt back as the stone split.
A gust of wind poured out—freezing.
Not hostile.
Just aware.
A voice rose:
“So long…
We waited for a vessel.”
It wasn’t Kalnemi.
But it wasn’t not Kalnemi.
It was between.
Akshay paled.
“The voice… it’s syncing with your heartbeat.”
Makardvach felt it.
Every beat echoed from the trench.
Each pulse mirrored by something in the deep.
Then came Kalnemi’s voice—
Everywhere.
“You passed the trials.
You found the forge.
You made yourself worthy.
And now… you bring the final piece to me.”
Makardvach shouted:
“I’ve seen what the Shivnadi can do. I won’t let you wear it like a crown.”
Kalnemi laughed.
“Crown?
No.
I seek to become the river itself.”
A vast shadow moved below.
Not beast.
Not god.
A mouth of glyphs.
A heart of bones.
The Shivnadi stirred.
Kalnemi would climb inside.
Makardvach turned to the others.
“We seal the breach now—or he becomes unstoppable.”
Rishabh looked grim.
“Sealing it will cut your link to the Shivnadi.”
Makardvach lifted Vānaprakāśa.
“Then I’d better make this final connection count.”