The Himalayan air was thin and biting, yet the landscape exuded a serenity that Bhima desperately needed. He stood at the edge of a steep ridge, his arms crossed against the cold as he stared into the sprawling valley below. His battered body bore the marks of his latest confrontation—bruises fading, but the yantra patterns on his arms faintly glowing, a reminder of the power that now defined him.
For the first time since his transformation, he felt… unsure.
“Was this what you wanted, Ma?” he whispered, his voice carried off by the wind. “To be a guardian, or a curse?”
The memory of his mother lingered, a bittersweet echo in his mind. She had been devoted to Lord Shiva, often speaking of balance—how destruction and creation were two sides of the same coin. Bhima had scoffed at the notion back then, burying himself in science and dismissing her faith as superstition.
But now, as he stood among snow-capped peaks that seemed to pierce the heavens, the weight of her teachings felt heavier than ever.
Behind him, the faint sound of crunching snow interrupted his thoughts. He turned to find Swami Anant, a serene figure with piercing eyes, approaching with a staff in hand.
“Still trying to understand yourself?” the Swami asked, his voice calm yet penetrating.
Bhima offered a wry smile. “Understanding myself would be a first.”
The Swami gestured for Bhima to sit by a small fire he had started earlier, the flames crackling softly in the icy stillness. Bhima hesitated but complied, his massive frame dwarfing the modest fire.
Swami Anant regarded him for a moment before speaking. “Your burden is heavy, Bhima. The power of Pralaya Shakti is not easily understood, let alone controlled.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” Bhima muttered, his gaze fixed on the flames. “I didn’t ask to become this… thing.”
“You were chosen,” Anant said simply.
Bhima scoffed, his tone sharp. “Chosen? For what? To destroy everything I touch? Look around you. Every time I use this power, people get hurt.”
The Swami’s gaze didn’t waver. “Destruction is not inherently evil. It is part of the cycle, just as creation is. Lord Shiva himself embodies this truth through his Tandava—the dance of destruction and renewal.”
Bhima frowned, his fists tightening. “I’m no god. I’m just a man who keeps losing control.”
“That,” Anant said, leaning closer, “is because you see yourself as separate from the power within you. You fight it, fear it. Until you embrace it, the Pralaya Shakti will always control you.”
Bhima stared at the Swami, his mind racing with memories of his transformations—the raw, untamed rage that had consumed him, the destruction he had caused at Somnath Temple, the terrified faces of the people he had tried to protect.
“How am I supposed to embrace something like that?” he asked quietly. “How do I stop being a monster?”
Swami Anant reached into his robes and produced a small, ancient-looking amulet etched with intricate yantras. He held it out to Bhima.
“Balance is found within, not without,” Anant said. “But sometimes, guidance helps. Take this. It will not give you control, but it will help you focus. The rest is up to you.”
Bhima accepted the amulet, its surface cool to the touch. As he studied its design, he felt a faint warmth emanating from it, like a heartbeat syncing with his own.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice subdued.
The Swami nodded. “Your journey is far from over, Bhima. But remember this: you are not a monster. You are a man tasked with wielding a power far greater than himself. What you do with it—that is what defines you.”
Bhima remained silent, his thoughts heavy.
Swami Anant stood at the edge of the cliff, his robes fluttering in the sharp Himalayan winds. He gestured for Bhima to follow, his staff pointing to a series of jagged peaks in the distance.
“Do you know the story of Shiva’s Tandava?” the Swami asked without looking back.
Bhima hesitated before stepping forward. “I’ve heard of it. My mother used to tell me about Shiva’s dance. Creation, destruction, renewal—all that.”
Swami Anant smiled faintly. “Not just ‘all that,’ as you say. The Tandava is the rhythm of existence itself. Every step Shiva takes is a step through time, a reminder that destruction is not the end but a prelude to creation.”
Bhima’s gaze drifted to the snow-covered valley below. “You’re saying I’m supposed to dance through life?” he asked, his tone skeptical.
The Swami chuckled. “Not literally, no. But the Tandava teaches us something important: destruction has its place in the balance of the universe. To create something new, we must often break what came before. The question is whether you can wield that power without letting it consume you.”
Bhima clenched his fists, his glowing yantra patterns flickering faintly. “I’ve already seen what happens when I lose control. People get hurt. That’s not balance—that’s chaos.”
Swami Anant turned to face Bhima, his expression grave. “Chaos and order are intertwined, Bhima. The Pralaya Shakti within you is not chaos—it is potential. It is raw, untamed energy. You must learn to see it not as a curse, but as a responsibility.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?” Bhima demanded, his voice rising. “Every time I use this power, I feel like I’m losing a part of myself. Like I’m becoming something… else.”
The Swami regarded him thoughtfully. “That is because you fight it. You see the Pralaya Shakti as separate from yourself, as something to be feared or suppressed. But the truth is, it is you, Bhima. It is a part of you, just as your mind and body are. Only by embracing it can you hope to control it.”
Bhima shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You make it sound so simple. Just ‘embrace it,’ and everything will be fine?”
“Nothing about this will be simple,” the Swami said, his tone firm. “But simplicity is not the same as truth. Look within yourself, Bhima. What is it that truly holds you back? Fear? Guilt? Or is it something deeper?”
The words hit Bhima like a blow. He thought of the destruction at the Somnath Temple, the faces of terrified devotees, the crumbling walls, and shattered idols. The memory gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his failure.
“I… I don’t know if I can do this,” Bhima admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Swami Anant placed a hand on Bhima’s shoulder, his touch light but grounding. “You are not alone in this. Others have faced the same struggle—Shiva himself, when he drank the Halahala poison to save the cosmos. He bore the burden willingly, knowing the cost. You must decide whether you are willing to do the same.”
Bhima met the Swami’s gaze, his heart pounding. The mention of the Halahala poison stirred something within him—a faint flicker of resolve, buried beneath layers of doubt.
“What if I fail?” he asked.
“Failure is not falling down,” the Swami replied. “It is refusing to rise again.”
The wind howled around them as Bhima let the Swami’s words sink in. He looked down at his hands, the faint glow of the yantra patterns pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” he said quietly.
“Then learn to master yourself,” Swami Anant said. “The world does not need you to be perfect. It needs you to be present. Every step you take toward understanding the Pralaya Shakti brings you closer to balance.”
Deep within the dimly lit chambers of his subterranean lair, Rudrasena stood before an ancient pedestal, his hands hovering over the stolen Shiv Dwar Yantra. The artifact pulsed with a fiery energy, casting eerie shadows across the walls adorned with Vedic inscriptions and diagrams of the Mahapralaya Astra.
Rudrasena’s piercing eyes glinted with anticipation as he recited an incantation, his voice echoing in the cavern. Beside him stood his most trusted lieutenant, Daruka, watching his master with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
“The time is near, Daruka,” Rudrasena said, his voice low and resonant. “The energy of the Yantra has awakened the latent power within me. Soon, I will wield the Pralaya Shakti as it was meant to be wielded—not as a curse, but as a tool to reshape this broken world.”
Daruka hesitated before speaking. “But, my lord, this transformation—it comes at a cost. The Mahapralaya Astra’s energy is unpredictable. Even the legends warn—”
“Legends,” Rudrasena interrupted, his tone sharp. “Warnings written by those too weak to claim the power for themselves. Do you think Shiva feared the Halahala? Do you think he hesitated to drink the poison when the cosmos demanded it?”
Daruka lowered his gaze, unwilling to challenge Rudrasena further.
With a sudden motion, Rudrasena placed his hands directly on the Yantra’s surface. The energy surged through him, and he let out a guttural roar as fiery veins spread across his arms, pulsating with molten light. His body trembled, his muscles rippling as the energy coursed through him, reshaping him from within.
Daruka took a cautious step back, his eyes widening as Rudrasena’s skin began to crack like molten rock, glowing with the same fiery energy as the Yantra. His form grew larger, his once-sharp features becoming more angular and otherworldly.
“My lord!” Daruka called, his voice tinged with alarm. “You must stop! The energy—”
Rudrasena’s roar silenced Daruka as the cavern shook with the force of his transformation. The Yantra’s glow dimmed slightly, as if it had transferred part of its power into its wielder. Rudrasena stood taller now, his body wreathed in an aura of heat and destruction. The glowing cracks on his skin formed intricate patterns resembling yantras, each pulsating with an otherworldly rhythm.
He turned to Daruka, his voice deeper and more resonant. “Stop? Why would I stop when I’ve only just begun? This power is not a curse—it is liberation. It is order born from chaos.”
Daruka swallowed hard, his loyalty wavering for the first time. “But what of Bhima? He’s already proven a formidable obstacle. If he masters his own power…”
Rudrasena laughed, a harsh, guttural sound that echoed through the chamber. “Bhima? That fool clings to his humanity like a crutch, afraid of what he truly is. He will never understand the Pralaya Shakti as I do. And when he faces me again, he will see the difference between a pretender and a god.”
As Rudrasena spoke, the cavern trembled again, this time with an almost rhythmic pulse. Daruka glanced nervously at the Yantra, which now glowed faintly, as if drained.
“My lord,” he said cautiously, “the Yantra—it seems… weakened.”
Rudrasena’s expression darkened, the fiery cracks on his skin flaring brighter. “Its purpose is fulfilled. The Yantra was but a key, and now the door has been opened. The next phase of the plan begins immediately.”
He stepped closer to Daruka, his molten eyes piercing. “Prepare the Sons of Rudra. The time has come to claim the final artifact at Kashi Vishwanath. Let Bhima follow if he dares. He will witness the birth of a new age, even if it destroys him.”
Bhima sat cross-legged in the center of the ashram’s meditation chamber, his eyes shut tightly as he struggled to focus. The air around him was still, but within his mind, chaos raged like a storm. Swami Anant’s voice echoed faintly in the background, guiding him through the process.
“Breathe, Bhima. Let the chaos settle. Do not fight it—observe it,” the Swami instructed.
But Bhima’s breaths were uneven, his heart pounding as fragmented memories of his Pralaya form flashed before him: his massive fists smashing through stone, terrified faces fleeing his path, the guttural roars that felt both his own and alien.
“Settle?” Bhima muttered under his breath, his voice laced with frustration. “How do I settle something like this? It’s like asking a hurricane to stop mid-spin.”
“The hurricane does not need to stop,” the Swami replied calmly. “It needs to find its eye. Balance is not found by silencing the storm, but by understanding its rhythm.”
Before Bhima could retort, the faint glow of the yantra patterns on his arms intensified, spreading to his chest and face. His muscles tensed, and the room seemed to darken around him.
The world shifted abruptly, and Bhima found himself in a surreal, endless void. The ground beneath him rippled like liquid light, and the sky above was a swirling mass of cosmic energy. He turned in confusion, his glowing arms now a blinding beacon in the darkness.
“Where… am I?” he asked, his voice echoing into the void.
“This is the reflection of your soul,” came Swami Anant’s disembodied voice. “Here, the Pralaya Shakti manifests in its purest form. Be vigilant, Bhima. What you face here is not an enemy—it is yourself.”
The swirling mass above him began to coalesce, taking shape. Bhima’s heart sank as the figure solidified—a towering version of his Pralaya form, grotesque and monstrous. The beast’s molten blue skin radiated power, its yantra patterns pulsing like living flames. Its fiery eyes locked onto Bhima, filled with a primal rage.
“This… is me?” Bhima whispered, his voice trembling.
The beast roared, the sound reverberating through the void, shaking the ground beneath Bhima’s feet. The beast lunged forward, and Bhima barely managed to leap back, his glowing fists raised in defense.
“Face it, Bhima,” Swami Anant’s voice urged. “Do not run. This is the shadow of your power—your fear, your guilt, your rage. It will not disappear until you confront it.”
But the beast gave him no time to reflect. It attacked with relentless fury, its massive fists slamming into the ground and sending shockwaves that knocked Bhima off balance. The beast’s movements were wild yet precise, as though it knew every weakness in Bhima’s form.
“Stop!” Bhima shouted, raising his hands in desperation. But his words fell on deaf ears as the beast roared again, its molten patterns glowing brighter with each strike.
Memories flooded Bhima’s mind: the devastation at the Somnath Temple, the terrified faces of devotees, his colleagues at the lab screaming as destruction rained down. Each image fueled the beast, its size growing with every pang of guilt that wracked Bhima’s heart.
“You are destruction,” the beast growled, its voice a twisted echo of Bhima’s own. “You are chaos. Stop pretending otherwise.”
“No!” Bhima shouted, surging forward to strike the beast. But his punch glanced off its molten skin, the beast swatting him aside effortlessly.
As Bhima struggled to rise, the beast loomed over him, its fiery eyes narrowing. “You cannot defeat me,” it said, its tone almost mocking. “I am you. You are nothing without me.”
“No…” Bhima whispered, his fists trembling. “You’re wrong.”
From somewhere deep within, a memory surfaced—his mother’s voice, soft and steady: “Even in destruction, there is purpose. Trust in your strength, Bhima, and remember why it exists.”
The beast lunged again, but this time, Bhima stood his ground.
The void dissolved into light, and Bhima gasped as he was thrust back into the physical world. His hands pressed against the cool stone of the meditation chamber floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The faint glow of the yantra patterns on his arms steadied, no longer pulsing erratically.
Swami Anant sat nearby, observing him with quiet satisfaction. “You’ve returned,” the Swami said. “And with a steadier gaze, I see.”
Bhima pushed himself upright, his muscles still trembling from the trial. “I faced it,” he said, his voice hoarse. “The… thing inside me. It’s still there, but I feel like I can…” He paused, struggling for the right words. “I can breathe now.”
The Swami nodded. “You took the first step, Bhima. You acknowledged your shadow, your fear. Balance begins not with control, but with understanding.”
Before Bhima could reply, a faint humming sound echoed through the chamber. It grew louder, sharper, like a swarm of locusts descending. Swami Anant’s expression darkened, and he rose to his feet.
“They’ve found us,” the Swami murmured.
Bhima turned toward the chamber’s entrance as a small, sleek drone hovered into view, its black body reflecting the dim light. The symbol of the Sons of Rudra was emblazoned on its side, glowing ominously. The drone scanned the room before projecting a holographic image of Rudrasena.
The image flickered to life, revealing the transformed figure of the cult leader. His molten skin glowed with fiery cracks, and his molten eyes burned with unsettling intensity.
“Bhima,” Rudrasena’s deep voice resonated. “I see you’ve found yourself a guru. How quaint.”
“Rudrasena,” Bhima growled, rising to his feet. “What do you want?”
“Want?” Rudrasena’s holographic image smirked. “I want what I’ve always wanted, Bhima: balance. But balance requires sacrifice, and you, my dear failed champion, have no place in the new order I will create.”
Bhima’s fists clenched, the glow of his yantra patterns flaring slightly. “The only failure here is you. You’re blinded by your own madness.”
Rudrasena laughed, the sound echoing eerily through the chamber. “Madness? No, Bhima. Clarity. You cling to humanity, but humanity is a cancer. The Mahapralaya Astra will cleanse this world of its imperfections, and I will wield its power as it was meant to be wielded.”
The Swami stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “You underestimate the strength of balance, Rudrasena. The Pralaya Shakti is not yours to command.”
Rudrasena’s expression hardened. “And yet, it bows to me now,” he said, raising a molten hand. The hologram flickered as Rudrasena’s presence grew more menacing. “But I am not here to lecture. I am here to issue a challenge.”
Bhima frowned. “A challenge?”
“Come to Kashi Vishwanath,” Rudrasena said. “Witness the next stage of my ascension. Or hide in the shadows like a coward. The choice is yours. Either way, balance will be restored, with or without you.”
The drone self-destructed, leaving behind a faint hum that dissipated into the stillness of the chamber. Bhima and Swami Anant exchanged a tense glance.
“Kashi Vishwanath,” Bhima muttered, his jaw tightening. “He’s not just after me—he’s going for the Astra’s final pieces.”
Swami Anant nodded gravely. “The Kashi Vishwanath Temple is among the holiest of Shiva’s abodes. If Rudrasena desecrates it and gathers what he needs, the Astra will be fully awakened.”
Bhima’s hands flexed, his fingers curling into fists. “Then we stop him,” he said.
The Swami’s gaze softened, but his tone remained resolute. “This path will test you, Bhima. You’ve faced the shadow within yourself, but Rudrasena will force you to confront that shadow again—and this time, there will be no room for hesitation.”
Bhima met the Swami’s eyes, the faint glow of his yantra patterns steadying. “I’ve made my choice,” he said. “If Rudrasena wants me to face him at Kashi, then I will. But I’m not going there to fight for him. I’m going there to stop him.”
In the open courtyard of the ashram, the air was thick with anticipation. The rising sun cast long shadows across the stone floor as Bhima stood in the center, his breath steady and his fists clenched. Swami Anant observed from the edge, his staff planted firmly in the ground.
“Today, Bhima, you will summon the Pralaya Shakti,” Swami Anant said, his voice calm but firm. “Not out of anger, nor fear, but out of understanding.”
Bhima glanced at his hands, the faint yantra patterns on his skin glowing faintly in response to his quickening pulse. “And what if I lose control again?” he asked, his voice edged with doubt.
The Swami stepped closer, meeting Bhima’s gaze. “Then you must find it. This is not about suppressing your power—it’s about embracing it. Trust the rhythm of balance.”
Bhima took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing as he closed his eyes. Slowly, he began to focus inward, seeking the energy that lurked just beneath the surface. The familiar hum of the Pralaya Shakti stirred within him, a deep vibration that resonated with every fiber of his being.
The ground beneath him began to tremble as the yantra patterns on his arms grew brighter, spreading across his chest and face. His muscles tensed and expanded, his skin darkening to a deep, radiant blue. The transformation was slower this time, more deliberate. Bhima’s breaths came in steady intervals, his control holding firm.
“Good,” Swami Anant said, his tone even. “Feel the power, but do not let it consume you. This is the eye of the storm—your balance.”
Bhima opened his glowing eyes, now ablaze like molten fire. His towering Pralaya form was fully activated, but unlike before, the aura surrounding him was calm and steady.
He raised a hand, studying the patterns etched across his massive arm. “I can feel it,” Bhima said, his voice deeper but composed. “It’s… alive. But it’s not fighting me this time.”
Swami Anant smiled faintly. “You are not its enemy, Bhima. The Pralaya Shakti is a part of you, just as destruction is a part of creation. Now, channel it.”
The Swami gestured to a series of massive stone pillars set up in the courtyard, their surfaces inscribed with intricate yantras. Each pillar radiated a faint energy, designed to test Bhima’s precision and restraint.
Bhima focused on the nearest pillar, raising his fist. The air around him crackled with energy as he brought his arm down, unleashing a shockwave that shattered the pillar into precise, even fragments. He paused, assessing the result.
“Better,” Swami Anant said. “But you must direct your energy without waste. Again.”
Bhima turned to the next pillar, this time summoning a focused beam of energy from his glowing palms. The beam struck the pillar, carving a clean line through its center without causing collateral damage.
Sweat dripped down Bhima’s brow as he worked through each pillar, his movements becoming more fluid and controlled. The energy within him, once wild and chaotic, now flowed like a steady river. Each strike, each burst of power, was deliberate and precise.
By the time the final pillar crumbled into neat sections, Bhima stood tall, his glowing eyes scanning the courtyard. The ground bore the marks of his training, but it remained intact—a testament to his growing mastery.
The warm glow of the setting sun bathed the ashram in hues of orange and gold as Bhima prepared to leave. His body, now in its human form, felt lighter but stronger, as though the balance he had achieved with the Pralaya Shakti resonated in every cell. Swami Anant watched quietly as Bhima gathered his belongings, his expression a mixture of pride and solemnity.
“You’ve come far, Bhima,” Swami Anant said. “But the journey ahead will demand more than strength. It will require resolve—a commitment to protect even when destruction seems easier.”
Bhima slung a simple satchel over his shoulder, his eyes steady. “I’ve seen what Rudrasena’s vision leads to. If I don’t stop him, countless lives will be lost. I’m ready for this.”
Swami Anant nodded but hesitated before speaking again. “Rudrasena’s power grows with each artifact he claims. Kashi Vishwanath is not just another target for him—it is a nexus of Shiva’s energy, one that holds immense significance. If he desecrates it…”
Bhima’s jaw tightened. “Then he could awaken the full power of the Mahapralaya Astra,” he said, completing the thought. “I won’t let that happen.”
The Swami reached into his robes, pulling out a small, intricately carved pendant. He handed it to Bhima, who took it with a curious glance.
“This pendant carries the essence of balance,” Swami Anant explained. “It may serve as a guide in moments of doubt. Remember, Bhima, the path of balance is not about erasing chaos but channeling it for purpose.”
Bhima nodded, tucking the pendant into his satchel. “Thank you—for everything.”
As he turned toward the ashram’s gate, a faint tremor rippled through the ground. Bhima paused, his instincts sharpening as the air grew heavy with an unspoken tension.
A villager came rushing up the path, his face pale with fear. “Swamiji!” he called, his voice trembling. “There’s been an attack! Strange men with glowing weapons—at the temple near the village!”
Bhima’s muscles tensed, the faint glow of his yantra patterns flickering under his skin. He turned to Swami Anant, who met his gaze with a knowing nod.
“They’re testing you,” the Swami said. “The Sons of Rudra want you distracted, weakened before the true battle. Go, Bhima, but remember: the villagers’ safety comes before vengeance.”
Without hesitation, Bhima sprinted toward the village, his feet pounding against the dirt path. The closer he got, the louder the sounds of chaos became—shouts, the clash of weapons, and the crackling of energy blasts.
He arrived at the temple to find several of Rudrasena’s followers, their faces obscured by masks etched with fiery patterns. They wielded strange, glowing weapons that radiated an unsettling heat, and their movements were precise and ruthless.
A small group of villagers had barricaded themselves inside the temple, their frightened faces visible through the cracks in the door. The attackers had begun to breach the barricade, their energy weapons carving through the thick wood like butter.
Bhima stepped into the fray, his voice booming. “That’s enough!”
The masked men turned, momentarily stunned by the sight of him. Bhima’s glowing arms and faintly bluish skin left no doubt as to who he was.
“The failed champion,” one of them sneered, raising his weapon. “Rudrasena sends his regards.”
With a roar, Bhima charged, his glowing fists smashing into the ground and sending a shockwave that knocked the attackers off balance. He moved with precision, disarming one after another without unleashing his full Pralaya form.
As the last of the attackers fled, one of them turned back, throwing a fiery blade in Bhima’s direction. Without thinking, Bhima raised his hand, summoning a burst of energy that disintegrated the weapon midair.
The villagers emerged from the temple, their expressions a mixture of gratitude and awe. But Bhima barely noticed, his focus already shifting to the path ahead.
As Bhima turned back toward the horizon, the faint glow of Kashi Vishwanath’s spires shimmered in the distance. “I’m coming, Rudrasena,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see if your chaos can stand against true balance.”