CHAPTER 8: A HERO NO MORE
Ajit had stopped answering his phone.
Rajesh had called. Padmini had called. Even his professors had tried reaching out, but he let them all go to voicemail.
Because Ajit wasn’t sure who would pick up if he answered.
The person they knew? The one they still believed in?
Or the one who had nearly killed a man two nights ago?
He sat alone in his rented apartment, the curtains drawn, the room cast in half-darkness. The only light came from the red digital glow of his alarm clock.
3:47 AM.
Had he slept?
He couldn’t remember.
His body wasn’t tired anymore.
He used to crave sleep, used to collapse onto his bed after a long night of fighting crime and wake up sore, exhausted but human.
Now?
His body never ached. His wounds never lingered. The black veins under his skin pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm, whispering a truth he was trying so hard to ignore.
“You don’t need them anymore.”
Ajit exhaled shakily, rubbing his hands over his face. He had to fix this.
Had to find a way to get rid of whatever was inside him.
Had to find a way to stop—
A knock at the door.
Ajit’s muscles tensed.
He moved without thinking, silent, predatory, stepping toward the door before catching himself.
No.
He wasn’t going to react like this. Like something hunting.
Another knock.
Then—
“Ajit, open up!”
Padmini.
Ajit froze.
Her voice was frustrated, angry—worried.
“Rajesh and I have been calling you for days! Are you seriously ignoring us?”
Ajit’s fingers curled into fists. She shouldn’t be here.
She was the only person who had ever looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.
If she saw him now?
If she saw what he was becoming?
“Ajit,” Padmini’s voice was softer now. Closer. “Please. Just talk to me.”
Ajit’s throat tightened.
He wanted to open the door.
Wanted to tell her everything.
That he was losing himself. That the whispers weren’t whispers anymore, that they had grown teeth. That every time he closed his eyes, he saw something staring back.
But instead—
He stepped back.
Further into the darkness.
Further away.
“Ajit?”
Silence.
A long pause.
Then a sigh.
“Fine,” Padmini muttered, her voice thick with frustration. “If you want to push us away, go ahead. But whatever’s happening to you? You’re not going to fix it alone.”
Her footsteps retreated.
Ajit waited until the sound of her leaving faded into the night.
Then, slowly, he let out a breath.
His apartment was quiet again.
And for the first time in his life—
Ajit had never felt more alone.
Ravana stood before the massive screen in his underground citadel, watching the latest surveillance feed of Naga Man.
Or rather, what was left of him.
The image was grainy—captured from a hacked traffic camera overlooking a deserted street in the dead of night. But even through the distortion, even through the rain-smeared lens, Ravana could see it.
Ajit Singh was falling apart.
His movements were still precise, still deadly—but there was something off. A heaviness in the way he carried himself. A hesitation that hadn’t been there before.
And his suit.
Ravana narrowed his eyes.
The green had darkened further. The golden trim, once pulsing with divine energy, was barely visible beneath the corruption spreading across the fabric like veins.
Perfect.
A slow smile crept across Ravana’s face as he turned away from the monitor.
“You were supposed to be a warrior,” he murmured, almost fondly. “But now? You’re just a broken man wearing a monster’s skin.”
A mechanical hiss filled the room as Alha stepped forward.
“Combat analysis updated.” The AI’s voice was emotionless, precise. “Target’s cognitive function is deteriorating. Reaction time decreased by 12%. Emotional instability detected.”
“Which means?”
“He is vulnerable.”
Ravana exhaled, placing his hands behind his back. “Then it’s time, isn’t it?”
He strode across the chamber, past the flickering holographic projections of ancient texts, past the towering databanks pulsing with raw information.
Stopping in front of the vault.
A massive, reinforced steel door stood before him, covered in runes and encrypted locks, sealing away what lay inside.
He placed a hand against the surface, feeling the faint vibrations beneath the metal.
The Halāhala inside was restless. Hungry.
Ravana had spent years studying it, unlocking its secrets, shaping its power. But now?
Now, it was time to let it spread.
“Deploy Alha,” he ordered. “Push him to the edge. Break him completely.”
Alha’s eyes flashed.
“Understood.”
The AI warrior turned and vanished into the darkness, its body dissolving into a spectral blur as it activated its stealth systems.
Ravana smiled.
Naga Man was already losing himself.
Now, all Ravana had to do was give him the final push.
And when Ajit finally fell?
The true heir to the Halāhala would rise in his place.
Laxman Patel sat in the dim glow of his laptop screen, scrolling through the latest news reports, surveillance footage, and social media posts.
Everywhere, the same headline echoed.
“Is Naga Man Losing Control?”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face, his jaw tightening.
This wasn’t the Ajit he had looked up to.
This wasn’t the same man who had saved people without hesitation, who had once fought with precision, with control, with purpose.
Now?
Now, Naga Man moved like something else.
A shadow, a blur, a thing in the dark.
The fight footage played again—grainy security camera feed, but Laxman had watched it enough times to know the truth.
Ajit wasn’t just hitting harder.
He was hurting people.
Even when they were down.
Even when they were begging.
And the moment that stayed with Laxman the most—the one that wouldn’t leave his mind—was the way the criminals had reacted.
They had always feared Naga Man.
But this?
This wasn’t fear of a hero.
This was fear of a monster.
Laxman leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
For months, he had watched Ajit spiral, had seen the cracks forming, had felt the shift between them.
Ajit had been chosen. Given power. Given everything.
And now, he was wasting it.
Laxman clenched his jaw.
He had always believed that if someone had power, they should use it the right way.
Ajit used to understand that.
But if Ajit wasn’t worthy anymore…
If Ajit wasn’t the hero the city needed—
Then maybe it was time for someone else to take his place.
Laxman closed his laptop.
And for the first time, the thought didn’t feel wrong.
Ajit’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He sat hunched on the edge of a construction site, staring at the darkened veins crawling up his arms, pulsing beneath his skin like something alive.
Like something hungry.
The city stretched out before him—silent, restless, shifting under the neon glow of streetlights. His city.
And yet, tonight, it didn’t feel like his anymore.
The people didn’t trust him.
Padmini had looked at him like he was a stranger.
Rajesh had seen the news, the footage—and said nothing.
And deep down, Ajit knew why.
“Because they see the truth.”
Ajit swallowed, squeezing his hands into fists. No.
He could still fight this.
He just had to—
Pain lanced through his skull, sudden and sharp, like claws raking through his thoughts.
He gasped, doubling over, gripping his temples.
The whisper wasn’t a whisper anymore.
It was a roar.
“Why do you keep fighting me?”
Ajit clenched his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. “Shut up,” he muttered.
The voice laughed.
“You are afraid. Afraid of what you already know. Afraid that I am not your enemy.”
“Afraid that I am you.”
Ajit shuddered, his vision blurring. The city lights twisted, the skyline bending wrong, too sharp, too unnatural.
The Halāhala pulsed through his veins, burning like liquid fire.
And the worst part?
It didn’t feel bad.
It felt right.
“You are weaker when you resist me.”
“Let me show you what you can be.”
Ajit’s breathing was ragged. He felt his body shift, his skin crawling, the dark energy curling around him like a second skin.
Then—
The gunshot.
Ajit’s head snapped up.
Far below, in the alley behind the construction site—three men surrounded a fourth. One of them had just fired a warning shot into the air. The victim was on his knees, shaking, hands raised.
A mugging. A simple crime.
Ajit had stopped a thousand like it.
But this time, something snapped.
His body moved on its own.
He hit the ground before the criminals even registered his presence.
And then—
The violence began.
Ajit didn’t fight like he used to.
He didn’t strike to disable.
Didn’t strike to protect.
He struck to break.
A punch to the ribcage—bones cracked.
A knee to the spine—a scream.
A hand gripping a man’s throat—pressure, suffocation, fear.
He could smell it on them. The fear.
And for the first time… he liked it.
The last thug tried to run.
Ajit caught him.
Too fast. Too strong. Too much.
He slammed the man against the alley wall, hard enough to leave cracks in the brick.
The thug gasped for air, eyes wide with terror.
Ajit raised his fist.
The Halāhala pulsed.
“No hesitation.”
“No mercy.”
The man’s lips trembled.
“P-please…”
Ajit’s muscles tensed.
His fist stopped.
His breathing was too loud, too sharp, his body shaking with restraint.
This wasn’t him.
But it could be.
If he let it.
“Why are you stopping?” the voice taunted.
Ajit squeezed his eyes shut.
And then—he let go.
The man collapsed to the ground, coughing, scrambling away as fast as his legs would carry him.
Ajit didn’t move.
Didn’t chase.
Didn’t even watch.
His hands trembled at his sides. His heartbeat was slow, steady.
The Halāhala had wanted him to finish it.
And for a second—just a second—he had wanted it too.
Ajit turned and disappeared into the night, leaving the city behind.
But the Halāhala had won something tonight.
Because it wasn’t asking him to give in anymore.
It knew.
It just had to wait.
Imphal was burning.
Not in flames, not yet—but in fear.
It started with whispers. Murmurs in markets, hushed conversations in shopfronts.
“Did you hear about what happened in the alley?”
“They say Naga Man almost killed someone.”
“Maybe he already has.”
And then—it spread.
Small-time gangs that once lurked in the shadows now roamed openly. Smugglers who used to hide their dealings now moved without fear. Petty criminals who once feared the sound of Naga Man now laughed in the face of the legend.
Because the legend had cracked.
Because the hero wasn’t a hero anymore.
And if the people didn’t trust him—
Then why should the criminals fear him?
Ajit watched it unfold from above.
Perched on the skeletal framework of a construction site, he scanned the streets, listening, sensing. His enhanced vision traced every movement below— the shifting of hands exchanging contraband, the flicker of a knife under streetlight, the scent of adrenaline-fueled desperation.
He should have been down there.
Should have been stopping them.
Should have been the hero they still needed.
But the city didn’t want him anymore.
And deep down, Ajit wondered—did he still want it?
“You are not their protector anymore.”
His fingers clenched.
He had told himself he could fix this.
That the people would see the truth, that he could undo what was happening.
But truth didn’t matter.
Perception did.
And right now?
The city saw him as a threat.
“They fear you now. And fear is power.”
Ajit exhaled slowly, the Halāhala pulsing inside him, thick as poison, heavy as doubt.
Then—
Gunfire.
The sound cut through the night, sharp and sudden.
Ajit’s head snapped toward the source—a street corner near the metro station. A gang of masked men, guns raised, storming a jewelry store, their movements practiced, confident.
This was different.
This wasn’t a desperate mugging.
This was organized. Coordinated.
A statement.
Ajit moved before he could think.
Faster than a blink.
By the time the first man turned—Ajit was already there.
The first blow sent him flying into a parked auto-rickshaw, metal crumpling under the force.
The second man didn’t even see it coming.
A precise strike to the gut—bones cracked, breath left him in a wheezing gasp before he collapsed to the ground.
The third one raised his gun—Ajit caught his wrist, twisted.
A scream. A shattered bone. The gun hit the pavement.
Too fast.
Too brutal.
The fourth man?
He didn’t fight.
He just stared at Ajit in horror.
And then he did what criminals never did.
He dropped his weapon.
And ran.
Ajit stood there, breathing hard, his pulse steady, his body humming with power.
The fight was over.
But it didn’t feel like a victory.
Because people were watching.
Behind the shattered glass of the storefront, bystanders stood frozen, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.
A woman clutched her child tightly, pulling him back as if Ajit would turn on them next.
A store owner—bleeding from a cut on his forehead—took a hesitant step forward.
And then, with shaking hands, he reached for something beneath the counter.
Ajit’s stomach dropped.
It wasn’t a gun.
It was a phone.
The man was recording him.
Not thanking him.
Not calling for help.
Recording.
Because Naga Man wasn’t a hero anymore.
He was a story to be told.
A monster to be feared.
Ajit stepped back.
His breath came sharp, uneven. The Halāhala whispered, laughing.
“See how they look at you?”
He turned and disappeared into the night.
Behind him, the city burned.
And this time?
It wasn’t the criminals setting the fire.
It was him.
Padmini had never believed in magic.
She had grown up with stories, of course. Ancient myths, whispered prayers, tales of gods and demons locked in eternal battle. But to her, those had always been just that—stories.
Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Because Ajit was changing.
And whatever was happening to him wasn’t science.
It wasn’t just stress or exhaustion or the weight of being a hero.
It was something else.
Something old.
Something crawling through his veins.
Something she had to stop.
Padmini sat cross-legged on the floor of the old library, surrounded by stacks of ancient texts, loose papers, faded scrolls. Rajesh sat across from her, bleary-eyed, flipping through pages filled with cryptic symbols and forgotten history.
The research had started days ago—after she had seen Ajit in that alley. After she had seen what he had almost done.
After she had seen his eyes.
“He isn’t going to save himself,” she had told Rajesh that night.
And Rajesh, to his credit, had only hesitated for a moment before saying, “Then we’ll do it for him.”
Now, they were here—digging through stories that might not be stories anymore.
Rajesh rubbed his temple, scanning another brittle manuscript. “Okay, so what do we know so far?”
Padmini didn’t look up. She was tracing a line of Sanskrit script with her finger, her lips moving as she whispered the translation.
“The Halāhala,” she murmured, “was never meant to be wielded by man. It is the poison of destruction, the end of all things. It corrupts, it devours, and once it takes hold—”
She swallowed hard.
Rajesh looked up. “Once it takes hold, what?”
Padmini exhaled.
“It never lets go.”
The words hung between them like a noose.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Rajesh, quieter now: “Is there a way to stop it?”
Padmini turned the page. The paper was rough, ancient, fragile. She moved carefully, as if the wrong touch would cause it to crumble to dust.
Then—her breath caught.
There.
An illustration.
A man, standing within a circle of fire—darkness pouring out of his body, pulled away, stripped from him by something greater.
A ritual.
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the book.
“This,” she said. “This might be it.”
Rajesh leaned over, studying the image. “What does it say?”
Padmini’s eyes flickered over the text, her mind translating the words as fast as she could.
“It’s a purification rite,” she said. “An ancient one. It was used to purge those who had been touched by divine poisons. It—” She hesitated.
Rajesh raised an eyebrow. “It what?”
Padmini licked her lips. “It doesn’t just remove the poison,” she said. “It seals it away. Locks it inside something so it can never spread again.”
Rajesh leaned back, rubbing his face. “Sounds like exactly what we need.”
Padmini wasn’t so sure.
She read the passage again, slower this time, letting the meaning sink in.
The ritual could cleanse Ajit.
But only if he let it.
Only if he wanted to be saved.
And that was the part that scared her.
Because she wasn’t sure if he did anymore.