The smell hit first.
Not the scent of spices or incense or sweat-soaked cloth that normally thickened the air in the Varanasi bazaar. No—this was different. Sulfur. Rust. Blood.
Makardvach walked among the crowd, scarf wrapped loosely around his face, eyes darting.
His hands tingled. Not with fear.
With warning.
They’d received the alert from Akshay only minutes ago—one of the seismic sensors he’d buried beneath the temple ruins had flared red. A rift had opened just outside the old Kashi Vishwanath district.
“Small pocket,” Akshay had said over the comm. “Localized dimensional stress. Like something just landed. Hard.”
And now—
Makardvach saw the ripple.
A shimmer in the middle of the market square, above the cobbled stone, next to a mango cart.
It was like watching heat distort glass—but the air wasn’t warm. It was cold. Sharp. Wrong.
Then it tore.
A line in the air, black as void.
And from it stepped Tarakasura.
Fully armored. Axe in each hand.
His feet cracked the stones beneath him.
The crowd went silent—then screamed.
People ran.
Some froze.
One vendor threw a bag of rice at him.
Tarakasura batted it aside without looking.
He didn’t speak.
He just walked—slowly, methodically—toward the heart of the chaos.
Looking for one man.
Makardvach didn’t wait.
He ducked behind a row of stalls, tore off his overshirt, wrapped the red scarf tightly across his mouth and nose, and strapped the gada to his back. The leather harness Akshay had designed clicked into place.
He checked the tension.
Twisted his wrists.
Then stepped into the open.
A few people stopped running.
One shouted, “It’s him—Monkey Man!”
Makardvach didn’t correct them.
He ran straight at the demon.
Tarakasura saw him coming. Smiled.
“Ready for another round, cub?”
Makardvach leapt.
The gada came down like thunder.
Tarakasura blocked it with one axe—but stumbled.
Stone cracked beneath their feet.
Civilians fled in every direction, but dozens stayed—watching from rooftops, phones recording, breaths held.
The demon lunged.
Makardvach rolled beneath the first axe swing, planted a foot, and uppercut the gada into Tarakasura’s jaw.
The demon reeled.
Blood—black and steaming—splattered the cobbles.
Makardvach didn’t speak.
He just pressed forward.
Strike.
Parry.
Dodge.
Roar.
The market had become a battleground.
And the world—watching from phones and rooftops and windows—witnessed something they hadn’t seen in generations.
A protector. In red and gold. Fighting for them.
Tarakasura roared and slammed both axes into the street.
The shockwave tore through carts, stalls, fruit, and stone, sending a ring of destruction outward like a bomb of thunder and hate. Screaming erupted again—shopkeepers shielding children, tourists ducking behind concrete barricades.
Makardvach flew backward from the blast—slammed into the side of a temple wall. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs. His ribs felt like glass inside a shaking jar.
The gada clattered beside him.
Tarakasura approached, slow and cruel, dragging one axe behind him like a blade across bone.
“Still standing?” he snarled. “That’s new.”
Makardvach pushed off the wall with one hand. The other clenched around the gada.
He was bleeding now—shoulder, temple, somewhere behind the ribs—but he wasn’t down.
He would not go down.
He took a breath. Not for power.
For focus.
And charged.
Tarakasura swung.
Makardvach ducked under it and drove the gada into the demon’s hip.
The street split.
Tarakasura buckled. Dropped one axe.
Makardvach spun, reversed grip, and slammed the gada into the demon’s spine.
Boom.
The force of it cracked windows on three buildings.
But Tarakasura wasn’t done.
He turned—faster than expected—and punched Makardvach square in the gut.
Something inside him snapped.
He flew across the plaza and landed hard, skidding through shattered stone and broken stalls.
The crowd gasped.
Phones shook.
Blood trickled from his mouth. His vision swam.
He couldn’t breathe for a second.
But then—
A voice.
Small.
A child, hidden behind a stairwell.
“Don’t let him fall!”
Then another.
“Monkey Man! Get up!”
“Get up!”
“Vanara Man!”
Makardvach coughed. Sat up.
He heard them.
He saw their faces—ordinary people, watching something ancient and holy unfold in front of their grocery shops.
They weren’t afraid anymore.
They were with him.
He gritted his teeth.
Stood.
The wind caught his scarf.
The gada glowed again.
And Makardvach Rathore, bleeding, bruised, unknown until this moment, stepped forward.
Not as a myth.
Not as a meme.
As a guardian.
The crowd chanted louder:
“Vanara Man! Vanara Man!”
Tarakasura’s snarl faded.
He saw it now.
Not just a man.
A reminder.
A return.
Makardvach raised the gada—and the street trembled in answer.
The moment hung, a breath suspended between realms.
And then—
Makardvach charged.
No battle cry. No theatrics. Just movement—pure and deliberate.
The gada shimmered, arcs of golden light trailing every swing.
Tarakasura braced.
The impact struck like judgment.
Stone shattered beneath their feet. Sparks erupted from every block. Cars nearby flipped. Shopfront glass shattered in a circle-wide ring.
Makardvach pressed the advantage.
Hit—
Spin—
Drop—
Crack—
The demon reeled.
But he wasn’t done.
Tarakasura roared and grabbed a chunk of the broken street, hurled it toward a family cowering near a fruit cart.
Makardvach saw it mid-swing.
No time to think.
He moved.
He dove.
Caught it.
Held it.
The slab shook in his hands, heavier than he could bear in his state—but he gritted his teeth and gently lowered it to the ground.
The family scrambled away, weeping.
Phones everywhere were filming now. Capturing not a myth.
But a man choosing to protect.
Makardvach turned, heaving, ribs on fire.
Tarakasura stepped forward, furious.
“You bleed,” he snarled. “I smell your pain. Your lungs collapse. Why won’t you fall?!”
Makardvach wiped blood from his mouth and raised the gada one-handed.
“I don’t have to stand for myself,” he said. “I stand for them.”
He pointed the gada at the demon’s chest.
“Come.”
Tarakasura roared and charged again.
But this time—
Makardvach met him mid-run.
Two forces collided.
One born of wrath.
The other of resolve.
The explosion sent debris flying across the market. Smoke swallowed the scene.
Silence.
Then—
Makardvach stepped through the haze.
Bloodied.
Breathing hard.
But standing.
Tarakasura was on one knee—wounded, stunned.
He looked up, hate burning.
“This isn’t over,” he hissed.
Makardvach didn’t reply.
He let the gada hum with quiet power.
The demon vanished into smoke—retreating.
The people stood in stunned silence.
Then a young man, maybe nineteen, whispered:
“That’s not just Monkey Man…”
Another echoed:
“That’s Vanara Man.”
Voices grew.
Louder.
Certain.
“Vanara Man! Vanara Man!”
Phones lit the air.
Makardvach didn’t wave.
Didn’t bow.
He simply picked up the gada, turned away, and walked out of the square as the chanting rose behind him.
The name had taken root.
Not in myth.
But in memory.
The smoke followed him home.
Tarakasura stumbled through the black rift into Paatal Lok, dragging one of his shattered axes behind him, the other lost to the streets of Varanasi. Blood leaked from the split in his armor—black ichor steaming into the stone beneath his feet.
The air was cold in a way only failure could explain.
He walked into the throne hall.
And knelt.
Kalnemi didn’t speak.
Not immediately.
He stood at the edge of the Shivnadi’s seal—its cracks had widened, now pulsing faintly with pale-blue flame, like the eye of a sleeping god.
Shitala was already there, veiled and grinning.
She didn’t laugh. Not yet.
But the silence said enough.
“I broke his ribs,” Tarakasura growled.
“You broke a market,” Kalnemi corrected, still facing away. “He still stands.”
Tarakasura bowed lower.
“I will kill him next time.”
“I know you won’t,” Kalnemi said.
A beat.
Tarakasura’s fists clenched. “Then send Krodha. Or send me again. He is just a man.”
Kalnemi turned, finally.
His molten mask was still. His eyes—glowing slits—pierced the room.
“He is no longer just anything,” Kalnemi said.
He stepped forward slowly, each footfall echoing louder than it should.
“He fights without mastery. Without a full awakening. And still… you bleed.”
He stopped a few feet from Tarakasura.
“I expected this.”
Tarakasura looked up, startled. “What?”
“You were never meant to win,” Kalnemi said.
Shitala tilted her head. “He was a blade to test the edge.”
Kalnemi nodded. “The boy needed to believe. Now he does. That makes him predictable. He will charge. He will protect. He will bleed.”
Tarakasura stood. “Then I was bait.”
“No,” Kalnemi said. “You were an offering.”
The floor beneath Tarakasura’s feet glowed red.
Chains of molten shadow shot from the stone, wrapping around his limbs before he could scream.
Shitala took one step back—not out of fear, but ritual.
Tarakasura roared, straining against the binds.
“I served you!”
“And you shall again,” Kalnemi whispered. “In another form.”
The chains pulled.
Tarakasura was dragged into the seal—into the crack of the Shivnadi itself.
His scream echoed down into eternity.
Kalnemi turned to Shitala.
“Prepare Raktanjali.”
“She’s already begun her ritual,” the demoness purred. “She waits in blood and silence.”
Kalnemi raised one hand.
The seal pulsed.
“So does the flood.”
He limped through the edge of the forest just after dusk—smeared in blood and dust, scarf soaked, shirt shredded, the gada dragging behind him like a wounded limb that refused to let go.
The jungle whispered around him, leaves parting as if recognizing him now—not as an intruder, but as one of their own.
At the camp, the floodlights caught his figure first.
Then Akshay’s voice:
“Holy—Mak! That’s not a walk, that’s a death shuffle!”
Makardvach tried to smile. It came out sideways. “You should see the other guy.”
Akshay ran forward, catching him under the arm.
Megha and Rishabh followed, eyes wide, hearts pounding in their own quiet ways.
“Is that your blood?” Megha asked.
Makardvach looked down, dazed. “Some of it.”
She nodded. “Right. That’s somehow worse.”
Rishabh took his other side. “To the tent. Now.”
They laid him out on the cot inside, stripped off what was left of his shirt, and set to work—gauze, herbs, silent prayers, ointments passed down from monks who never aged.
Makardvach winced, but didn’t complain.
He only asked one thing:
“Did anyone see?”
Megha looked up from stitching a gash along his ribs. “The entire market. You’re trending in six languages. Hashtags include ‘MonkeyMan,’ ‘GhatsProtector,’ and weirdly, ‘BajrangBro.’”
Makardvach groaned. “Please tell me that one dies quickly.”
“No promises.”
Rishabh leaned over him, pressing two fingers to his forehead.
Makardvach flinched—then relaxed as a warm calm flooded him.
“Rest,” Rishabh said.
“I’m fine,” Makardvach muttered, half-asleep.
“You’re human,” the monk replied. “Be that, too.”
A few hours later—after the fever broke, after the pain dulled—Makardvach sat upright, shirtless and scarred, sipping water.
Akshay entered, holding a tablet.
“Okay,” he said. “You fought a demon in public. You’re officially a symbol. So… let’s make you look like one.”
Makardvach raised a brow.
Akshay tapped the screen.
A 3D render appeared: red and gold body armor, sleek but flexible, with Vanara-script motifs along the chest and shoulders. A stylized scarf-like cowl. Reinforced bracers. Boots built for leaping. Subtle tech woven into the seams. A chest emblem shaped like a gada, minimalist but unmistakable.
Makardvach stared.
“I based the design on a mix of ancient Vanara war suits and a bit of…you know…urban mythos.”
“It’s beautiful,” Megha whispered.
“It’s durable,” Akshay said. “The symbol will last longer than your bones. People need to see more than a man with a stick. They need to see Vanara Man.”
Makardvach looked down at his hands.
Still scarred. Still shaking.
But steady now.
“I’ll wear it,” he said softly. “But don’t make it armor.”
“Why not?”
Makardvach looked up.
“Because I’m not hiding anymore.”
