Bhima Mishra sat in the dim confines of his cramped apartment, his back pressed against the cold wall as a single desk lamp cast long, flickering shadows across the room. The air was heavy, laced with the faint scent of solder and burnt plastic from his laboratory experiments.
He stared at his trembling hands, the faint blue tint of his skin catching the dim light. The yantra patterns etched faintly into his arms seemed to pulse with a rhythm of their own, like a heartbeat he couldn’t silence. He clenched his fists, trying to banish the memory of the Mahapralaya Astra’s light engulfing him, but it lingered like a ghost.
“It’s just radiation exposure,” Bhima muttered to himself, the words hollow and unconvincing. “A high-energy phenomenon. Nothing mystical.”
His gaze darted to the cluttered desk nearby, where an array of instruments sat blinking erratically. A Geiger counter lay in pieces, its components scattered after failing to measure the strange energy he now radiated.
Every attempt to quantify the changes in his body had led to failure—and frustration. His readings defied every known principle of radiation physics.
The silence was interrupted by a faint hum, almost imperceptible at first. Bhima froze, his heart racing. Slowly, he raised his arm and watched in growing dread as faint yantra patterns began to glow along his skin.
“No. Not now.”
He stumbled to his feet, nearly toppling the desk in his haste. The glow grew brighter, spreading from his arms to his chest, and the burning sensation returned—a searing heat that seemed to ignite his very core.
Desperate for answers, Bhima grabbed a handheld thermal scanner, aiming it at himself. The screen erupted in static, and the device let out a high-pitched whine before sparking and going dead in his hands.
“Damn it!” he growled, throwing the device across the room. It shattered against the wall, joining the growing pile of ruined equipment.
He sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. The sensation subsided, but the questions it left behind grew louder.
“What is happening to me?” he whispered.
The next morning, Bhima walked into his lab at the Nuclear Research Institute, trying to appear as normal as possible. He wore a long-sleeved shirt despite the summer heat, concealing the faint scars of the yantra patterns that refused to fade.
The lab bustled with activity—colleagues poring over data, discussing the latest developments in radiation research. Bhima moved among them like a ghost, his mind elsewhere.
“Hey, Mishra!” a voice called out. Dr. Arjun Patel, Bhima’s research partner, waved him over. “You’re late. Everything okay?”
Bhima forced a smile, his jaw tight. “Yeah, just… a lot on my mind.”
Arjun raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he gestured to a monitor displaying a series of complex energy waveforms. “Take a look at this. We’ve been picking up strange gamma emissions in the region—nothing natural. It’s almost like someone detonated a reactor, but without the usual fallout.”
The blood drained from Bhima’s face. He recognized the energy signature immediately—it was the same as what had erupted from the Shiva Linga.
“Where did you find this?” he asked, his voice betraying his anxiety.
“Near Kailasa Temple,” Arjun said. “Strange coincidence, huh? That’s where you—”
“Just drop it,” Bhima interrupted sharply, his tone harsher than he intended.
Arjun looked taken aback, but before he could respond, Bhima’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, his stomach sinking as he read the message on the screen:
Unknown Number: WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE HIDING. MEET US OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES.
The message burned in Bhima’s mind as he left the lab, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and dread. The words on his phone’s screen played over and over in his head like an ominous chant: WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE HIDING.
Who were “they”? And how could anyone know?
As he walked through the crowded streets of the city, the din of honking cars and bustling pedestrians seemed distant, muffled. His body felt alien, every nerve on edge. His skin itched beneath the fabric of his shirt, the yantra patterns faintly pulsating under the surface.
He felt… hungry. Not just hungry—famished. A gnawing, primal hunger that no amount of food could satisfy.
Bhima ducked into a small restaurant, his mind screaming for answers even as his body demanded sustenance. He sat at a corner table, ordering a mountain of food with the desperation of someone on the verge of collapse. The waiter raised an eyebrow but said nothing, delivering plate after plate until the table was filled.
As soon as the food arrived, Bhima devoured it. He tore through naan, curries, and kebabs with reckless abandon, drawing curious stares from the other diners. But the more he ate, the less satisfied he felt. The hunger wasn’t just physical—it was deeper, something visceral and impossible to explain.
Between bites, his hands trembled, and the faint glow beneath his sleeves flickered brighter. He clenched his fists, trying to will the energy away, but it only grew stronger.
“Control it,” he muttered under his breath. “You can’t let it—”
“Excuse me, sir.”
Bhima looked up sharply. A nervous waiter stood at his table, holding an empty tray. “Are you all right? You’ve… eaten quite a bit.”
Bhima forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, just—just a long day. Can I get the check?”
The waiter nodded and hurried away, clearly unsettled. Bhima leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on him, their curiosity a weight he couldn’t bear.
He threw some cash on the table and left quickly, his hunger still gnawing at him. The streets outside felt colder now, the shadows longer and darker.
As night fell, Bhima returned to his apartment. His thoughts raced as he paced the small space, the message on his phone taunting him. He couldn’t focus on his research, couldn’t make sense of the bizarre changes in his body.
“Think, Bhima,” he muttered. “It’s just a reaction. A biological anomaly. A… mutation.”
He stopped in front of the mirror, hesitating before rolling up his sleeves. His arms were glowing faintly, the yantra patterns etched into his skin burning with an otherworldly light.
The sight made his stomach churn, but he couldn’t look away. His reflection felt wrong, like he was staring at a stranger—or worse, a monster.
“What are you?” he whispered, his voice cracking.
The hunger surged again, sharper this time, like a fire roaring to life inside him. He clutched his chest, gasping as the heat spread through his veins. His vision blurred, and he stumbled, grabbing onto the desk for support.
In the corner of his eye, he saw his reflection ripple. For a fleeting moment, his image in the mirror wasn’t himself—it was something larger, glowing blue, with fiery eyes and yantra patterns blazing like molten metal.
“No,” Bhima rasped, shaking his head. “No, no, no!”
The hunger wasn’t just his—it was the power inside him, the energy of the Mahapralaya Astra demanding release.
His phone buzzed again, breaking through the haze. He grabbed it with trembling hands, dread pooling in his stomach as he read the new message:
Unknown Number: TIME’S UP. OPEN THE DOOR.
Before Bhima could react, there was a loud, deliberate knock at his apartment door.
The knock on the door echoed like a thunderclap in Bhima’s ears. His breath hitched, and his heart hammered against his ribcage. The glowing yantra patterns on his arms pulsed faintly beneath his sleeves, as if sensing the danger.
Another knock. Louder. More insistent.
“Mr. Bhima Mishra,” a cold voice called from the other side. “We know you’re in there. Open the door, and no one has to get hurt.”
Bhima froze, every muscle in his body locking in place. The voice was calm, calculated—too calm. It wasn’t the voice of someone making an empty threat.
He glanced around the apartment, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes landed on a heavy wrench lying on the desk, a remnant from his failed attempt to repair one of his instruments. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
The voice came again, sharper this time. “Last chance. Open the door, or we’ll open it for you.”
Bhima didn’t move.
The next moment, the door exploded inward, splintering into pieces as a concussive blast rocked the apartment. Bhima was thrown backward, his wrench clattering to the floor as he hit the wall.
Through the smoke and dust, shadowy figures stepped into the room. There were four of them, clad in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by masks. They moved with military precision, their weapons raised and aimed directly at him.
“On your knees!” one of them barked, a rifle trained on Bhima’s chest.
Bhima’s mind raced. Who were these people? What did they want? The mercenaries moved closer, surrounding him like predators closing in on prey.
“Mr. Mishra,” said the leader, stepping forward. His voice was calm, almost clinical. “We’re not here to hurt you—unless you make us. You’ve been working on some very interesting projects, haven’t you? Gamma radiation, high-energy particles… things that could change the world.”
Bhima glared at him, his breathing shallow. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The leader chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, but we do. You were at Kailasa Temple, weren’t you? Witnessed something… extraordinary.”
Bhima’s blood ran cold. How could they know?
“Where is it?” the leader demanded. “The energy. The source. Give it to us, and we’ll leave you alive.”
“I don’t have anything,” Bhima spat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Whatever you think I have, you’re wrong.”
The leader tilted his head, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
With a nod, he signaled to one of his men. The mercenary raised his weapon and fired—not at Bhima, but at the desk behind him. The shot sent sparks flying as the remains of Bhima’s research equipment were reduced to ash.
“No!” Bhima shouted, lunging forward instinctively.
A second mercenary grabbed him, slamming him back against the wall with surprising force. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” the leader warned.
Bhima’s frustration and fear boiled over, mixing with the gnawing hunger that had plagued him all day. The burning sensation returned, sharper than before, coursing through his veins like wildfire.
The mercenary holding him suddenly jerked back, letting out a sharp cry. Smoke curled from his gloved hand as if he’d touched something scalding. Bhima looked down at his own arm in shock—the yantra patterns were glowing brighter now, their fiery light cutting through the dimness of the room.
“What the hell is that?” one of the mercenaries hissed, stepping back.
The leader’s calm demeanor faltered. “Secure him! Now!”
Two of the men lunged at Bhima, but something inside him snapped. The hunger, the fear, the rage—it all coalesced into a single, overwhelming surge of energy.
Bhima roared, the sound echoing with an unnatural resonance. His body convulsed, his muscles expanding and his skin turning a vivid, radiant blue. The yantra patterns blazed like molten lava across his arms and chest, and his eyes burned with an otherworldly fire.
The mercenaries stumbled back in shock as Bhima’s form grew, his shirt tearing apart at the seams. The air crackled with energy, and the ground beneath him shook.
“What is he?!” one of the mercenaries shouted.
The leader barely had time to respond before Bhima lashed out. His massive fist struck the nearest mercenary, sending him flying across the room and slamming into the wall with bone-crushing force.
The remaining mercenaries opened fire, their bullets bouncing harmlessly off Bhima’s glowing skin. He turned toward them, his fiery eyes narrowing, and let out a deafening roar.
The roar that erupted from Bhima’s throat was primal, shaking the walls of the shattered apartment. His entire body radiated raw power, the yantra patterns glowing like molten veins carved into his blue skin. His breaths came in ragged, thunderous growls, each one charged with an energy that made the very air around him crackle.
The mercenaries hesitated, fear flashing in their eyes. They had come armed, prepared for anything—or so they thought. But this? This was beyond anything they could have anticipated.
“Fall back!” the leader barked, raising his weapon. “We’re dealing with something unstable. Regroup and—”
He didn’t get to finish.
With a single bound, Bhima crossed the room, his massive fist crashing into the ground just inches from the leader. The impact sent a shockwave through the apartment, shattering windows and toppling furniture. The mercenaries were thrown off their feet, their weapons clattering uselessly to the floor.
Bhima straightened, his towering form filling the cramped space. His glowing eyes locked onto the leader, who scrambled backward, his composure shattered.
“What… what are you?” the leader stammered, his voice trembling.
Bhima’s response was a guttural growl, his fists clenching as the rage within him swelled. He could feel it now—the power coursing through him, demanding release. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and utterly uncontrollable.
The leader tried to crawl away, but Bhima grabbed him by the collar, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The man’s legs dangled uselessly as he struggled, his terror evident in his wide eyes.
“Stop!” one of the other mercenaries shouted, raising a small device. A pulse of electric energy shot out, hitting Bhima square in the chest.
For a moment, the room went silent.
Then Bhima roared again, louder this time, and the electric pulse dissipated against his glowing skin like a matchstick in a storm. He turned toward the mercenary who had fired, his eyes narrowing.
The mercenary froze, panic overtaking him. “No… no, please—”
With a swift motion, Bhima hurled the leader aside, sending him crashing into the wall. He charged at the remaining mercenaries, his massive frame barreling through the room like a wrecking ball.
The apartment was a blur of chaos and destruction. Each of Bhima’s movements sent shockwaves through the space, reducing walls to rubble and furniture to splinters. The mercenaries, despite their advanced training, were no match for the sheer, unstoppable force he had become.
One by one, they fell—thrown, crushed, or knocked unconscious. The leader, bloodied but still conscious, watched in stunned silence as Bhima stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving with each ragged breath.
But the destruction wasn’t over.
The glow from Bhima’s yantra patterns intensified, and the energy emanating from his body began to distort the air itself. The faint hum of power grew louder, reverberating like the low rumble of an impending storm.
“Get out of here!” the leader shouted to his remaining men. “Retreat now!”
The surviving mercenaries didn’t need to be told twice. They scrambled toward the door, tripping over debris in their desperation to escape.
Bhima, still lost in his transformation, turned toward the fleeing figures. His instincts screamed at him to chase them, to crush them, to destroy.
But something held him back.
A flicker of clarity pierced through the haze of rage and power. Bhima froze, his massive fists lowering as he fought to regain control. He could feel the energy pulling at him, tempting him to let go completely—but deep down, a part of him resisted.
“Stop,” he muttered, his voice distorted and guttural. “Stop… this…”
With an enormous effort, Bhima forced himself to step back. The glow of the yantra patterns began to fade, and his towering form started to shrink. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed, and the fiery light in his eyes dimmed.
Moments later, he was human again—weak, trembling, and drenched in sweat.
The apartment was in ruins, a testament to the chaos he had unleashed. The walls were cracked, the floor littered with debris, and scorch marks marred every surface.
Bhima collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking as he stared at the destruction around him. He could still feel the energy within him, simmering just beneath the surface.
“What am I?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Outside, the faint wail of sirens grew louder, signaling the arrival of the authorities. Bhima knew he couldn’t stay. He had to run—before they saw him.
He stumbled to his feet, his body still aching from the transformation. As he stepped over the unconscious leader and toward the shattered door, he muttered one final word under his breath:
“Monster.”
The sirens grew louder, their piercing wails cutting through the eerie silence left in the wake of Bhima’s transformation. He staggered down the crumbling hallway, his legs trembling beneath him. His mind was a storm—flashes of the chaos he had unleashed, the sight of the terrified mercenaries, and the raw, unbridled power coursing through him.
As he reached the street, the cool night air hit his face like a slap. The world outside seemed oblivious to the destruction he’d left behind, the steady hum of city life carrying on as if nothing had happened. But Bhima knew better.
This wasn’t over.
He pulled the hood of his jacket up, concealing his face as he blended into the crowd. Every step felt like a struggle, his body aching from the transformation. Yet, deep down, the hunger remained—a gnawing, insatiable void that no amount of food, rest, or reason could fill.
The sound of screeching tires snapped Bhima out of his daze. A convoy of black SUVs tore down the street, heading straight for the wreckage of his apartment. He ducked into a narrow alley, pressing himself against the cold brick wall as the vehicles roared past.
From his hiding spot, he watched as heavily armed mercenaries poured out of the SUVs, their movements efficient and coordinated. They swarmed into the building, barking orders and scanning the area with advanced equipment.
Bhima clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He knew they were looking for him.
And for the first time, he wasn’t afraid.
A part of him—the part still resonating with the power of the Pralaya Shakti—wanted to confront them, to unleash the storm within him once more. The thought was intoxicating, and he found himself stepping forward before he even realized it.
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Not again.”
But it was too late.
The hum began as a faint vibration in his chest, growing stronger with each passing second. His breathing quickened, and his vision blurred as the glowing yantra patterns reappeared on his arms. They pulsed in time with his racing heartbeat, their light cutting through the shadows of the alley.
Bhima stumbled, gripping the wall for support. The hunger, the rage—it was all coming back, stronger than before.
Suddenly, a voice crackled over a nearby radio. “Target spotted near the main road. All units converge.”
Bhima’s head snapped toward the source of the voice. A lone mercenary stood at the mouth of the alley, his rifle aimed squarely at Bhima’s chest.
“Don’t move!” the mercenary barked.
Bhima didn’t respond. The energy coursing through him drowned out everything else—the fear, the reason, even the sound of his own voice.
The mercenary took a cautious step forward. “I said don’t—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
With a deafening roar, Bhima’s body surged with power. The transformation was instantaneous this time—his muscles swelled, his skin turned a brilliant blue, and the yantra patterns blazed like molten fire. The force of his transformation sent a shockwave through the alley, knocking the mercenary off his feet.
The mercenary scrambled to his knees, fumbling for his weapon, but Bhima was already upon him. With one massive hand, Bhima swatted the rifle away, sending it clattering into the darkness.
The man’s eyes widened in terror as Bhima loomed over him, his fiery eyes blazing like twin suns.
“P-please,” the mercenary stammered, his voice barely audible.
Bhima growled, his breath hot and ragged. For a moment, it seemed as though he would strike—but then, he froze.
A flicker of humanity pierced through the haze of rage. He could see the man’s fear, his trembling hands, his desperate plea for mercy.
Bhima clenched his fists, forcing himself to step back. He didn’t want to be this.
But the energy had other plans.
The alley lit up as more mercenaries arrived, their weapons raised and their sights trained on Bhima. The leader of the group shouted orders, his voice cutting through the chaos.
“Suppressing fire! Take him down!”
Gunfire erupted, the sound deafening in the confined space. Bullets ricocheted off Bhima’s glowing skin, harmlessly pinging into the walls around him. He roared again, the sound shaking the very ground beneath their feet.
With a single, powerful leap, Bhima launched himself at the group. His massive fists struck the ground with the force of a small earthquake, sending the mercenaries sprawling. The air crackled with energy as Bhima swung wildly, his movements a chaotic blur of destruction.
One by one, the mercenaries fell, their weapons useless against his raw power. Vehicles overturned, windows shattered, and the street itself cracked under the force of his rampage.
Bhima’s mind was a storm, torn between the primal urge to destroy and the faint, flickering hope of control. He tried to stop himself, to reign in the power, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave.
As the last mercenary fled into the night, Bhima stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving and his fists clenched. The glow of his yantra patterns began to fade, and his massive form shrank back to its human size.
He dropped to his knees, the weight of the destruction around him pressing down like a leaden shroud. He didn’t know how long he sat there, trembling and gasping for air, but the sound of distant sirens finally pulled him from his stupor.
He had to leave.
Bhima stumbled to his feet, his legs barely able to carry him. As he turned to flee, he caught his reflection in a shattered car window.
A monster stared back at him.
The night seemed unnaturally quiet as Bhima trudged through the darkened streets, his breath ragged and uneven. The glow of the yantra patterns had faded completely now, leaving his skin a dull, bruised blue. His muscles ached, his head pounded, and his hands shook as he tried to process the chaos he had left behind.
The mercenaries were gone, the last of them retreating into the shadows, but the damage was unmistakable. The once-bustling street now resembled a war zone—cracked pavement, overturned vehicles, shattered windows, and scorch marks streaking the walls.
The sound of distant sirens grew louder, a grim reminder that authorities would soon arrive to clean up the mess. Bhima needed to disappear before they found him.
He ducked into a narrow alleyway, leaning against the cold brick wall for support. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give out. His mind raced, replaying the events in his apartment, the alley, and the street.
What have I done?
He glanced down at his hands, expecting to see blood or ash, but they were clean—only trembling, their strength entirely sapped. His fists tightened as his thoughts spiraled into self-loathing.
“I lost control,” he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. “I couldn’t stop it.”
The faint glow of a streetlight cast long shadows around him, and for a moment, he saw his own shadow twist unnaturally—a hulking form with glowing veins and fiery eyes. He blinked, and the vision was gone, leaving only his gaunt reflection in a broken mirror propped against the wall.
He tore his gaze away, unable to look at himself any longer.
Bhima wandered aimlessly, avoiding the main roads as he moved farther from the destruction. The city’s lights grew dimmer, the streets quieter, until he found himself in an abandoned industrial area. The rusting skeletons of old factories loomed around him, their windows shattered and their walls covered in graffiti.
He stumbled into one of the factories, collapsing onto a pile of discarded pallets. His body felt like lead, his mind like fog. He tried to focus, to think clearly, but the hunger inside him gnawed relentlessly.
The power wasn’t gone—it was just waiting. Waiting for him to lose control again.
Hours passed in silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building or the distant howl of the wind. Bhima sat hunched on the pallets, his head in his hands, replaying every moment of the rampage in his mind.
He thought of the mercenaries—their fear, their desperate attempts to fight back, their shattered bodies strewn across the street. He thought of the destruction he had caused, the innocent lives he had endangered simply by being there.
And then he thought of the message.
We know what you’re hiding.
Someone knew. Someone had sent those mercenaries to his apartment, and they had known exactly what they were looking for. But how? And why?
Bhima’s thoughts were interrupted by a faint, metallic sound. He froze, his heart skipping a beat as he strained to listen.
Footsteps.
Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the empty factory, growing louder with each passing moment. Bhima’s pulse quickened, his body tensing instinctively.
He glanced around, searching for a weapon, but there was nothing within reach—just rusted metal and broken glass. He clenched his fists, preparing to defend himself if necessary.
The footsteps stopped.
“Mr. Mishra,” a voice called out, calm and measured.
Bhima’s breath hitched. He recognized that voice.
From the shadows emerged a figure—a man in a sharp suit, his hair slicked back and his expression unreadable. His piercing eyes glinted in the dim light as he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Who are you?” Bhima demanded, his voice wavering.
The man tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “A friend,” he said smoothly. “Or, at least, someone who could be… if you let me.”
Bhima took a step back, his instincts screaming at him to run. But his exhaustion held him in place, his legs too weak to move.
The man raised a hand, gesturing for calm. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal,” he said. “But you should know, this is only the beginning. The power within you—do you even understand what it is?”
Bhima’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”
“To help,” the man replied, his smile widening. “To guide you. To show you the true potential of the gift you’ve been given.”
“It’s not a gift,” Bhima snapped. “It’s a curse.”
The man chuckled softly, shaking his head. “A curse? No, no, Mr. Mishra. What you carry is something far greater. A force of creation and destruction, boundless in its power. And yet, you squander it—fighting mercenaries, hiding in the shadows. Such a waste.”
Bhima’s fists clenched, the yantra patterns flickering faintly on his arms. “You’re with them, aren’t you? The ones who sent those men after me.”
The man’s smile faded. “Let’s just say,” he said, his tone turning cold, “I represent interests far greater than those mercenaries. And far more dangerous.”
Bhima felt a chill run down his spine.
The man took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Think carefully, Mr. Mishra. The path you’re on will only lead to more destruction. But with my help, you could control it. You could become something… extraordinary.”
For a moment, Bhima hesitated, the man’s words echoing in his mind. But then he shook his head, his resolve hardening.
“I don’t need your help,” he said firmly.
The man sighed, as if disappointed. “Pity,” he said. “But I suppose we all have to learn the hard way.”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, his footsteps fading into the night.
Bhima stood alone in the silence, his heart pounding. He didn’t know who the man was or what he wanted, but one thing was certain: this was far from over.
The night air was biting as Bhima emerged from the decrepit factory, his thoughts as heavy as his steps. Every muscle in his body ached, every nerve felt frayed, but the worst pain was deeper—an ache in his soul.
What had he become?
He moved aimlessly, his hood pulled low over his face, blending into the shadows of the city’s quieter streets. The mercenary attack and the mysterious man’s cryptic words played on an endless loop in his mind.
“A force of creation and destruction… boundless in its power.”
His fists clenched at the memory, and he stopped, staring at his hands. They looked normal now, save for a faint blue tint, almost imperceptible in the dim light. But he could feel the power lurking beneath his skin, coiled like a serpent, waiting for the chance to strike.
Bhima reached a park bench overlooking the city’s skyline. The streetlights painted a golden glow over the world, and the faint sounds of distant traffic buzzed in the background. He sat heavily, burying his face in his hands.
He thought of his mother—her prayers to Shiva, her unwavering faith in the cosmic balance. She used to say that destruction wasn’t evil, but a necessary part of creation. He had dismissed her words back then, chalking them up to superstition. Now, they haunted him.
Destruction. Creation.
He had felt the truth of those words in his veins. The Pralaya Shakti—whatever it was—wasn’t just raw power. It was something ancient, something… divine.
But divinity didn’t excuse what he had done. The destruction he had caused, the fear he had inspired—it wasn’t balance. It was chaos.
Bhima’s thoughts were interrupted by the flicker of a TV in a shop window nearby. He stood and approached, his heart sinking as the screen filled with grainy footage of the aftermath of his rampage.
A shaky camera captured the wreckage of his apartment complex, the cracked pavement, the overturned vehicles. Witnesses spoke in hushed tones, describing a “blue-skinned monster” that had appeared out of nowhere.
“It was like something out of a nightmare,” one man said, his face pale. “It just… destroyed everything in its path.”
Bhima turned away, his stomach churning. He hadn’t wanted any of this—hadn’t asked for this power. But now, it seemed the world would only ever see him as a monster.
He pulled his hood lower and kept walking, his mind swirling with questions. Who was the man from the factory? What were these forces he represented? And why had the mercenaries come after him in the first place?
But most pressing of all was the question he couldn’t escape:
What am I becoming?
The answer was as elusive as it was terrifying. Every time he thought he had control, the power would surge again, threatening to consume him. It was like a fire burning in his chest—both a source of strength and a constant danger.
Bhima knew he couldn’t outrun it forever.
As he rounded a corner, he noticed a group of people gathered near a temple at the edge of the city. Their voices were low, their faces lit by the soft glow of oil lamps. Bhima recognized the telltale signs of a Shiva puja, the rhythmic chants and faint scent of sandalwood filling the air.
He hesitated, his feet rooted to the spot. The temple’s spire seemed to rise endlessly into the sky, its silhouette stark against the stars.
For a moment, he considered approaching, stepping into the circle of light and finding solace in the chants. Perhaps the prayers could drown out the noise in his mind, quiet the storm raging in his heart.
But he couldn’t.
He didn’t belong there—not anymore.
The chants faded into the distance as Bhima turned away, heading for the city’s outskirts. The pull of the Pralaya Shakti grew stronger with each step, its presence gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.
He needed answers. Not from priests or mystics, but from those who had brought him into this mess in the first place.
The mercenaries were just pawns. The man from the factory? He was a puppet master, a shadowy figure pulling strings Bhima couldn’t yet see.
If Bhima wanted to understand the power within him—and what it was doing to him—he would have to find the answers himself.
But where would he start?
The glow of dawn began to creep over the horizon as Bhima reached the edge of the city. Beyond lay a vast expanse of hills and forests, the world growing quieter with each step he took away from civilization.
He paused at the crest of a hill, looking back at the city he had left behind. Smoke still rose from the site of his rampage, a dark scar on the skyline.
The weight of his actions pressed down on him like a mountain. But even as guilt threatened to overwhelm him, a new resolve began to take shape.
Bhima didn’t know who he was anymore. But one thing was clear: he couldn’t hide from this power, or the consequences of what he had done.
He would find the answers he sought—about the Pralaya Shakti, about the mercenaries, about the mysterious man from the factory.
And when he did, he would decide for himself what he would become:
A monster.
Or something more.
As Bhima turned toward the forest, a news report crackled over a nearby radio.
“Authorities are still investigating the explosion at a private laboratory earlier this week. Sources confirm the involvement of a clandestine group with ties to the Sons of Rudra—a secretive cult believed to be seeking ancient artifacts of destruction. The whereabouts of Dr. Bhima Mishra remain unknown.”
Bhima froze, his fists tightening as the words sank in.
Sons of Rudra.
He whispered the name under his breath, the faint glow of the yantra patterns flickering on his arms once more.
“They’ll get their answers… when I get mine.”