CHAPTER 10: THE TWISTED SAVIOR
The flames turned black.
No—not black. Something deeper.
Like the absence of light itself, a writhing, shifting void swallowing the fire that once burned on the altar. The temple groaned as the ancient stone strained under the weight of something it was never meant to hold. The walls cracked, the carved images of Nagas and gods splitting apart as if even they couldn’t bear to witness what was happening.
Laxman stood in the center of it all, breathing in the dark.
The Halāhala twisted around him in tendrils of black-red smoke, moving like living things—slithering across his skin, sinking into his veins, reshaping him.
He shuddered. Exhaled.
Then laughed.
A slow, breathy sound, half in disbelief, half in something far darker.
His body wasn’t his anymore.
It had changed.
The once-human contours of his muscles had sharpened, his frame taller, more defined—but not just stronger. More fluid. His skin, once warm brown, had taken on a slight oily sheen, the Halāhala bleeding through his pores, giving him an almost reptilian texture.
And his eyes.
Gone were the brown irises of Laxman Patel.
Now, in their place—two black-red orbs, endless, burning, shifting like molten tar.
They didn’t glow. They consumed.
Padmini took an instinctive step back.
Rajesh was frozen, mouth slightly open, caught between horror and disbelief.
Ajit lay motionless at the altar, his body still trembling, steam rising from his skin.
The Halāhala had been ripped from him.
And it had found a new home.
Laxman flexed his fingers, watching the black veins pulse beneath his skin, testing his grip, rolling his shoulders like someone slipping into a suit tailored to their exact measurements.
“Incredible,” he murmured.
The sound of his own voice startled him.
It was deeper, heavier, coated in something inhuman.
He exhaled again, just to feel his lungs expand, just to confirm that this was real.
The power thrummed in his bones.
And for the first time in his life—
Laxman Patel felt complete.
He turned.
The black tendrils licking at his arms retracted, coiling like obedient vipers as he faced Ajit’s broken form.
Ajit, who had wasted this power.
Ajit, who had tried to reject it.
Ajit, who had feared what Laxman had embraced.
Laxman crouched beside him, pressing a single finger to his chest.
Ajit twitched, coughed—his breath was weak.
Laxman smiled.
“You were never worthy of this,” he said softly.
His fingertip pressed down.
Ajit gasped, his back arching, his body convulsing in pain.
Padmini lunged. “LAXMAN, STOP!”
Laxman barely moved—he flicked his wrist, and a tendril of Halāhala lashed outward.
Padmini was thrown backward, slamming against the stone wall. She crumpled to the ground, coughing, clutching her ribs.
Rajesh tried to run.
Laxman didn’t even look at him.
Another tendril shot out—lightning-fast—grabbing Rajesh by the throat.
Lifting him.
Rajesh’s legs kicked uselessly in the air.
He clawed at the tendril wrapped around his neck, but it didn’t budge.
Laxman stood, tilting his head, studying Rajesh like a scientist observing an insect.
“You’re afraid,” Laxman said. “Good.”
Rajesh choked, struggling.
Laxman could feel his pulse, the weak, frantic beating of a terrified heart.
It was strange.
A day ago, he would have never done this.
A day ago, he would have hesitated.
Now?
Now he only felt curious.
“Is this how Ajit felt?”
“Was it this easy?”
“This… intoxicating?”
He tightened his grip.
Rajesh’s kicks slowed.
His eyes rolled back.
His body went limp.
And just before Laxman could snap his neck—
Something hit him.
A force unlike anything he had ever felt before.
A blur of movement. A violent impact.
One second, Laxman was standing in control.
The next—he was crashing through stone, smashing through a temple pillar, dust and rubble exploding outward.
The Halāhala cushioned him.
But he still felt it.
Pain.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough to tell him who had just struck him.
He pushed himself up from the wreckage, wiping the dust from his face, exhaling slowly.
His lips curled into something between amusement and challenge.
Because standing before him—
Breathing hard.
Steam rising from his skin.
His veins no longer blackened but glowing gold.
Ajit Singh.
Back on his feet.
Laxman’s smile widened.
“Finally,” he whispered.
Then his fingers flexed—
And the battle truly began.
The footage spread fast.
The world might have been vast, the streets of Imphal endless, but nothing stayed hidden for long.
At first, it was just whispers—a few shocked voices, a grainy cell phone video posted online.
A figure in black-red, moving like a shadow through the city streets. No hesitation. No restraint.
Then, more videos followed.
A gang leader, dragged screaming from his hideout. His men beaten to the ground in seconds.
Corrupt officers, men who had hidden behind their badges, exposed, torn from their power.
A smuggler’s operation burned to ash, the flames licking high into the night.
No speeches. No warning. Just action.
And suddenly, Imphal had a new protector.
A new legend.
Rajesh stood in the dim glow of his laptop, scrolling through the headlines. His hands were shaking.
“Naga Man is Gone. The City Has a New Guardian.”
“Justice or Terror? The Rise of the Black Serpent.”
“Laxman Patel—Hero or Monster?”
He swallowed hard. His chest was tight. His thoughts refused to settle.
Because he could see it now—the way the city was shifting.
Some people were terrified.
But others?
Others approved.
Rajesh scrolled down, his breath catching at the comments flooding the news reports.
“Finally. Someone who isn’t afraid to do what needs to be done.”
“Naga Man was weak. He let criminals walk. This one doesn’t.”
“He’s not a villain. He’s justice.”
Rajesh slammed the laptop shut.
His reflection stared back at him in the darkened screen.
He looked hollow.
Like someone who had just watched a friend disappear before his eyes.
Because that’s what had happened, wasn’t it?
Laxman wasn’t Laxman anymore.
He had let the Halāhala consume him.
And now the city was applauding him for it.
Rajesh closed his eyes.
For the first time, he wasn’t sure if they could bring Ajit back.
Or if he even wanted to come back at all.
The first punch landed harder than it should have.
Ajit staggered back, breath sharp, the metallic taste of blood already pooling in his mouth.
He had seen the hit coming.
He had moved to block it.
But he had been too slow.
The second hit followed—a wild hook from the street thug, a man Ajit would have taken down in seconds before.
Ajit barely managed to twist out of the way, the attack grazing his ribs instead of shattering them.
His body wasn’t moving like it used to.
The speed was still there, but it wasn’t supernatural anymore.
The strength was still there, but it wasn’t limitless.
His healing—slower now. Human.
The Halāhala was gone.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime… he felt it.
Pain.
Real pain. The kind that didn’t disappear in seconds, the kind that lingered, that stole his breath, that made him hesitate.
He wasn’t invincible anymore.
And the city knew it.
The gang surrounded him in the dim alleyway, five of them, maybe six. Their grins were sharp, their weapons ready.
They had seen the news.
They had seen the shift.
They had seen Laxman.
And now?
Now they wanted to see if Naga Man could still bleed.
“Not so scary anymore, huh?” one of them taunted, flicking a knife open. “That other guy—he would’ve finished us already. But you?”
Ajit forced himself to breathe.
His stance was still strong. His muscles still coiled, ready to strike.
But deep down, he knew.
They were right.
Laxman wouldn’t have hesitated.
Laxman wouldn’t have held back.
Laxman wouldn’t have let them think they had a chance.
Ajit clenched his fists.
And attacked.
He moved first, fast, striking at the closest man. His fist slammed into the thug’s gut, sending him to the ground, gasping for air.
But the others were already moving.
A pipe swung toward his skull—Ajit ducked, but not fast enough. It clipped the side of his head, pain bursting through his vision.
The knife came next—Ajit twisted, grabbing the attacker’s wrist, but his grip wasn’t ironclad like before. The thug resisted, nearly slipping free.
Ajit cursed, twisting harder, disarming him, driving an elbow into his ribs. The man crumpled.
Three left.
A bottle shattered against Ajit’s shoulder. Sharp pain. The sting of glass cutting skin.
He sucked in a breath.
He wasn’t healing instantly anymore.
The next punch caught him in the ribs—Ajit grunted, stumbling.
He felt it. The exhaustion. The weight of a fight dragging him down.
He felt human.
And that terrified him.
By the time the fight ended, Ajit stood alone.
His enemies lay at his feet, groaning, barely conscious.
But he wasn’t unscathed.
His breathing was ragged, blood dripped from a cut above his eyebrow, his body ached in ways it hadn’t in months.
He wiped the blood from his lip, flexing his fingers.
No black veins. No pulsing energy beneath his skin.
Just him.
Just Ajit Singh.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if that was enough.
Laxman stood atop a crumbling rooftop, watching the city he had begun to reshape.
Imphal stretched out before him, a living thing of neon lights and restless shadows. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, but they weren’t rushing toward him.
They weren’t hunting him.
Because he wasn’t the prey anymore.
He was the predator.
And the city was starting to understand that.
Below him, criminals lurked in the alleyways, but they moved differently now—quieter, smaller, cautious.
They had seen what he had done.
A smuggler’s den turned to ash.
A crime syndicate shattered overnight.
A corrupt officer found hanging from his own badge.
Laxman exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, feeling the power in his bones.
He had never felt so alive.
So right.
And yet—
Something was missing.
The city still hesitated. Still whispered.
Still compared him to Ajit.
And that thought twisted inside him like a knife.
“Impressive work,” came a voice from the shadows.
Laxman didn’t flinch.
He had sensed him long before he spoke.
From the darkness, Ravana stepped forward.
Draped in his signature black-and-gold robes, his expression unreadable, his eyes gleaming with calculation.
He walked with the ease of someone who had already won.
Laxman didn’t move, but the Halāhala around him stirred— black-red tendrils curling at his fingertips, responding to his mood.
“You’ve come to stop me?” Laxman asked, his voice cold.
Ravana chuckled. “No,” he said. “I’ve come to congratulate you.”
Laxman’s eyes narrowed.
Ravana walked to the edge of the rooftop, gazing down at the streets below, hands clasped behind his back.
“The city fears you now,” he mused. “They whisper your name. They bow before your strength.”
He turned, his gaze locking onto Laxman’s.
“But they still do not call you their savior.”
Something inside Laxman bristled.
He had been thinking the same thing.
Ravana smiled, reading the shift in his expression.
“You know what the problem is,” he continued smoothly. “It isn’t you. It’s him.”
Laxman’s jaw tightened.
“Ajit.”
Ravana nodded. “As long as he breathes, as long as he lingers in the shadows of his failure, people will hesitate. They will question. They will wonder if he might rise again.”
His voice dropped lower. Sharper.
“But you and I both know the truth, don’t we?”
Laxman’s fingers twitched.
“He’s weak,” Ravana murmured.
The words dug deep.
Laxman had seen it with his own eyes—Ajit struggling, breaking, barely able to win fights that should have been effortless.
The city still looked at him like he was the same man he had always been.
But Laxman had seen what was underneath.
Fear.
Doubt.
A man who wasn’t sure if he even deserved to fight anymore.
“He will try to stop you,” Ravana continued. “Not because he can, but because he is afraid of what you represent.”
Laxman turned toward him, eyes burning.
“And what do I represent?”
Ravana smiled.
“Evolution.”
The wind howled between them, but Laxman barely felt it.
He should have turned away. Should have ignored the words.
But he didn’t.
Because he had always believed in strength.
In power.
And maybe—just maybe—Ravana was right.
Maybe Ajit Singh had to fall.
For Laxman Patel to truly rise.
The air smelled like blood and rain.
Laxman stood in the ruins of an old warehouse, his breath slow, steady.
Around him—bodies.
Men groaned, some clutching shattered limbs, others struggling to crawl away. A few lay motionless, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles. The concrete floor was cracked where he had struck, the metal scaffolding bent from the impact of bodies thrown against it.
They had come at him with guns, blades, and firepower.
They hadn’t lasted five minutes.
Laxman rolled his shoulders, shaking the blood off his hands.
These men had belonged to Ravana.
His spies. His foot soldiers. The ones who moved in the city’s shadows, controlling the flow of drugs, weapons, and power.
The same men he had once feared.
Not anymore.
Tonight, he had hunted them.
Not for survival.
Not for justice.
But because it felt right.
Laxman exhaled, his pulse thrumming slow and deep. The Halāhala inside him was calm now, satisfied.
His body didn’t ache.
His hands didn’t shake.
For the first time in his life, he wasn’t doubting, second-guessing, or hesitating.
He was unstoppable.
The last man standing—a lieutenant, someone high enough in Ravana’s network to matter—was trying to crawl away. His leg was broken, his breath ragged, his eyes wild with fear.
Laxman took his time approaching.
He could hear the man’s heartbeat.
Could smell the fear pouring off of him in waves.
This was the kind of man who had terrorized the weak, extorted families, put innocent people in the ground.
A man who had taken power because no one had been strong enough to stop him.
But now, there was Laxman.
“Please,” the man gasped, dragging himself backward, his hands slipping on the blood-slick floor. “Wait—”
Laxman stomped on his hand.
Bones cracked. The man screamed.
Laxman crouched, gripping his jaw with iron fingers, forcing him to meet his gaze.
The man’s breath hitched.
Because he saw it now—what Laxman had become.
Not human.
Not Naga Man.
Something else.
“You served Ravana,” Laxman said, voice low, even. “Where is he hiding?”
The man’s pupils shrank. “I—I don’t know.”
Laxman tightened his grip. A little more pressure, and his jaw would snap like dry wood.
“Don’t lie.”
The man shook violently. “Please—I swear! He doesn’t stay in one place! He—”
Laxman’s grip tightened further.
The man let out a choked wheeze.
He could feel the tendrils of Halāhala coiling at the edges of his vision, waiting, whispering.
“End him.”
“He is filth. A parasite. A disease.”
“You are the cure.”
The urge to finish it was overwhelming.
It would be so easy.
One snap. One twist of his fingers.
The man would never hurt anyone again.
No trial. No escape.
No mercy.
Laxman’s breath slowed.
He had the power to decide.
Not the courts. Not the police.
Him.
But then—
Something shifted.
A sound in the distance.
A voice.
A presence that stopped him cold.
“Laxman.”
Laxman’s head snapped up.
A shadow stood at the entrance of the warehouse, framed against the night.
The blackened, tattered remnants of a green-and-gold suit.
A face bloodied, bruised—but standing.
Ajit Singh.
Naga Man.
His expression was unreadable.
But his eyes burned.
Laxman’s grip on the man’s jaw loosened.
Ajit took a slow step forward.
“You need to stop this,” he said.
Laxman stared.
And for the first time, he wondered—
Was this a fight Ajit was even capable of winning?
Or was this where he finally fell?
The air between them was thick.
The scent of blood, sweat, and fire clung to the ruined warehouse, mixing with the stench of oil and rust. The bodies of Ravana’s men lay scattered around them—moaning, broken, barely alive.
And at the center of it all—
Ajit and Laxman.
Two men who had once been brothers in all but blood.
Now standing on opposite sides of something too vast to be undone.
Ajit took another slow step forward, his breath still uneven, his body aching from the fight before. His ribs throbbed where they had taken a hit, his muscles burned from exhaustion he wasn’t used to feeling.
He wasn’t as fast as he used to be.
Wasn’t as strong.
And Laxman could see it.
His old friend stood tall, arms crossed, the black-red tendrils of Halāhala still coiling at the edges of his form like living things. His expression was calm, but his eyes—Ajit could barely look at them.
Those weren’t Laxman’s eyes anymore.
They were hungry. Endless. Burning.
A reminder of what Ajit had almost become.
“You need to stop,” Ajit said, his voice steady.
Laxman tilted his head, as if amused. “Do I?”
Ajit glanced around at the men lying on the floor. Some were groaning, gasping for air, broken bones jutting at odd angles. Others weren’t moving at all.
“You think this is justice?” Ajit asked. “You think this is what heroes do?”
Laxman smirked.
“You were always soft,” he said, shaking his head. “Always afraid to go far enough. Always holding back.”
His fingers flexed at his sides, the Halāhala responding, pulsing.
“But I’m not like you.”
Ajit swallowed, his pulse steady, measured. “No. You’re not.”
Laxman stepped forward, slowly, deliberately.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he said. “I’m doing what you never could.”
“You’re killing people.”
Laxman scoffed. “I’m fixing this city. You left a power vacuum. I’m filling it.”
Ajit’s jaw clenched. “You’re becoming the very thing we fought against.”
Laxman laughed.
It was a hollow sound, dark, edged with something unnatural.
“You still don’t see it,” he muttered. Then, meeting Ajit’s gaze, he grinned.
“You’re obsolete, Ajit.”
Ajit exhaled, forcing his muscles to stay loose. “You sound like Ravana.”
Laxman’s grin vanished.
A flicker of something hot and angry passed through his face, but it was gone in an instant.
Ajit pressed on. “You think you’re different from him? He manipulated you, and now you’re doing his work for him.”
Laxman’s fingers twitched.
Ajit didn’t stop.
“You’re not saving the city, Laxman. You’re ruling it.”
Laxman’s expression darkened.
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
Ajit’s stomach turned cold.
This wasn’t just anger.
This wasn’t just misguided justice.
Laxman believed this.
“You need to stand down,” Ajit said, his voice firm now. “Walk away. While you still can.”
For a moment, Laxman just stared at him.
Then, slowly, his smile returned.
But this time, it was different.
It wasn’t amusement.
It was pity.
“You really think you can stop me?” Laxman murmured.
Ajit said nothing.
Laxman chuckled, shaking his head. “Look at you,” he said. “Weak. Slower. Holding yourself together with whatever scraps of power you have left.”
He took another step forward, towering over Ajit now.
“You don’t belong in this fight anymore.”
Ajit clenched his fists. “I do if you’re the one I’m fighting.”
Laxman’s eyes flashed.
And then—he moved.
Ajit barely had time to react.
Laxman hit like a meteor, his fist slamming into Ajit’s ribs with enough force to lift him off the ground.
Pain exploded through Ajit’s body.
The warehouse blurred past him as he crashed through a stack of wooden crates, splinters flying in every direction.
Ajit landed hard.
His breath ripped from his lungs.
His vision swam.
And as he struggled to stand, he heard Laxman’s voice, smooth and unwavering.
“I’m not walking away, Ajit.”
Ajit wiped blood from his mouth, pushing himself up.
Laxman cracked his knuckles.
“You are.”
Then he lunged again.