The night sky was wrong.
Pravash stood at the base of Swayambhunath Stupa, staring up at the ancient temple. Its massive, painted eyes loomed over him, watching.
But the sky above was not the sky of Kathmandu.
It was black. Hollow.
A vast, shifting void where the heavens should have been, twisting like something was trying to push through from the other side.
The world was breaking.
And so was he.
Pravash exhaled slowly, his boots crunching over the temple’s cracked stone steps. His body ached, his mind burned, but he kept moving.
Because this was the end.
At the top of the stupa, Guru Kaalo was waiting.
The mask whispered at Pravash’s side.
“You are ready.”
But something inside him felt hollow.
Because as he climbed—he realized something terrible.
He couldn’t remember anything anymore.
Not just his name.
Not just his wife.
Everything.
His childhood. His life before the mask. The reason he had even started this fight.
It was all gone.
He was walking toward the final battle, but he no longer knew why.
No history. No past.
Only vengeance.
Only Yami.
He reached the top.
And Guru Kaalo smiled.
“It is already done.”
The final battle had begun.
The wind howled across the stupa.
Pravash stood on the cracked stone platform, his breath slow, his pulse steady. But deep inside, something was unraveling.
His past. His name. His face.
All of it fading.
And in front of him, standing in the center of the ruined temple, Guru Kaalo watched.
His black robes billowed without wind. His hands—clawed, ancient—rested at his sides. His hood concealed most of his features, but his eyes burned like twin voids.
“You have come far, Mask-Bearer.”
His voice was smooth, patient.
“But you are no longer here to stop me.”
The words slithered through Pravash’s skull, curling like smoke inside his mind.
“You are here because you are becoming what I am.”
Pravash didn’t answer.
Because somewhere deep inside, he knew—Guru Kaalo wasn’t lying.
He didn’t know how long he had been fighting. How long he had been wearing the mask.
All he knew was the power.
The weight of fear.
The justice in taking what the wicked had stolen.
And now—there was almost nothing left of him but that.
Guru Kaalo took a step forward.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
Pravash clenched his fists.
The mask at his side hummed.
His shadow twisted unnaturally beneath him, flickering like a living thing.
Because it was.
Guru Kaalo smiled.
“You are already mine.”
And then—he attacked.
The Shadow War
The first strike shattered reality.
Guru Kaalo moved like a ripple in space, shifting faster than the eye could track. One moment he was standing still—the next, he was behind Pravash, his clawed hand tearing through the air.
Pravash barely shifted to shadow in time.
The attack passed through him, slicing the air where his spine had been a second earlier.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
A second strike followed—not physical.
A whisper.
“Tell me your name.”
The words hit him like a knife to the chest.
His vision blurred. His thoughts fractured.
For half a second—he couldn’t remember why he was here.
Guru Kaalo moved in.
Pravash barely managed to regain control, his body flickering from solid to shadow and back again. He spun, twisting low, his fist lashing out.
His hand sank into Guru Kaalo’s form.
Not into flesh.
Not into anything solid.
Into absence.
Pravash’s body froze.
His arm was sinking into nothingness.
Guru Kaalo leaned in.
“Do you understand now?”
Pravash’s jaw clenched. His mind screamed.
He ripped his arm free, spinning back, retreating. His breath was ragged.
Guru Kaalo wasn’t fighting him like a man.
He was fighting him like an idea.
A force that could not be touched.
Pravash exhaled slowly. His fingers brushed the mask.
He had only one option left.
He had to become the monster completely.
Or he would be erased.
The sky above Swayambhunath rippled like ink on water.
Reality was breaking. So was he.
Pravash stood on the cracked stone, his breath ragged, his body flickering between man and shadow. The mask at his side burned hotter than ever, pulsing against his ribs, whispering words he could not understand.
And across from him, Guru Kaalo smiled.
“You still think this is a battle, don’t you?”
His voice was patient. Amused.
“That you and I are different?”
Pravash didn’t answer.
Because deep inside, where the cracks in his mind were widening, he knew.
Something was wrong.
Guru Kaalo exhaled slowly, stepping forward, his form shifting at the edges like a mirage of something older.
“Tell me, Mask-Bearer—”
His blackened fingers gestured toward Pravash’s chest.
“Do you even remember why you fight?”
Pravash’s pulse skipped.
He opened his mouth—but nothing came out.
Not his name. Not his past.
Nothing.
Guru Kaalo’s grin widened.
“I thought so.”
The stupa trembled. The air warped.
And then—the truth unfolded.
The Last Yaksha King
A wave of memories that weren’t his crashed through Pravash’s skull.
A temple, shrouded in mist.
A warrior, kneeling before an altar.
A voice—old, deep, broken by time.
“It is the only way.”
Pravash staggered. His hands went to his head, his fingers digging into his skull as the visions ripped through him.
Because they weren’t just memories.
They were his.
No—they belonged to something inside him.
Guru Kaalo’s voice was soft now. Final.
“You thought the mask made you powerful.”
“You thought it was a gift.”
“But it was never meant to be worn.”
Pravash’s knees almost buckled.
Because now—he saw.
The Yaksha Mask was not a weapon.
It was a prison.
And inside it—inside him—was something ancient.
The last Yaksha King.
The one who had broken the cycle before.
The one who had been locked away so it could never happen again.
And now, Pravash had set him free.
Guru Kaalo spread his hands.
“This was never your battle.”
His eyes burned with victory.
“It was always his.”
Pravash’s breath hitched.
Because he felt it.
Something inside him waking up.
Something no longer human.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop it.
The wind howled across the stupa.
Pravash staggered, his vision flickering between two worlds.
One moment, he was himself—or what was left of him. A man without a name, without a past, standing on a battlefield he could barely remember choosing.
The next, he was something else.
Something older.
The last Yaksha King.
The whispers in his skull weren’t just voices.
They were memories.
Of a time before Kathmandu. Of a war waged in secret. Of a protector who had been betrayed by the very gods he swore to serve.
And now—he was waking up.
The mask ached against his ribs.
Not as a tool.
As a cage.
Pravash gritted his teeth, forcing himself back into the moment. Focus.
Across from him, Guru Kaalo watched.
Waiting.
Enjoying this.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
His voice was smooth, patient.
“You are slipping, Mask-Bearer.”
Pravash launched forward.
He moved faster than thought, his body shifting between shadow and flesh, closing the distance between them in an instant.
Guru Kaalo didn’t move.
Didn’t need to.
He simply lifted a single finger—
And the world bent.
A force unseen, unheard slammed into Pravash’s chest.
Not a punch.
Not magic.
Something worse.
The weight of every forgotten soul Guru Kaalo had ever consumed.
Pravash’s body folded.
His ribs cracked.
His vision flared white as he was sent flying across the stupa, smashing through the stone railing.
For a second—just one—he almost went over the edge.
Almost plunged into the city below.
But his hand shot out, gripping the stone at the last moment. His body dangled over the ruined temple steps, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He barely had time to recover before Guru Kaalo was on him.
The cult leader moved without moving, shifting in and out of space, appearing beside Pravash in an instant.
His voice was calm. Cold.
“This is not your fight.”
Pravash swung.
A desperate, furious punch—but his fist passed through nothing.
Like Guru Kaalo wasn’t even there.
Pravash cursed under his breath, gripping the ledge with his other hand, trying to pull himself back up.
But Guru Kaalo lowered his head.
And whispered.
“Let go.”
The words hit like a knife.
For the briefest second, Pravash felt it.
The pull.
The temptation.
Let go.
Stop fighting.
He had already lost everything, hadn’t he?
His name. His past.
Even now, the memories slipping through his mind weren’t his own.
So why hold on?
Why not fall?
Guru Kaalo leaned closer.
“You are not real anymore, detective.”
Pravash’s fingers twitched.
And then—something shifted inside him.
Something deep. Old. Unstoppable.
And it was angry.
The last Yaksha King rose.
Pravash let go.
Not because Guru Kaalo told him to.
Not because he had lost.
But because he was done pretending he was still human.
For a single, weightless moment—he fell.
The wind roared in his ears, the ruined steps of Swayambhunath shrinking away, the city lights below stretching into a blur of color and shadow.
Then—
He stopped.
Not by hitting the ground.
Not by grabbing onto anything.
He simply stopped falling.
Because shadows don’t fall.
Pravash’s body twisted midair, his outline flickering, stretching, his flesh dissolving into something else.
Something dark. Cold. Eternal.
The mask didn’t just burn against his ribs anymore—it fused into him.
The last chains snapped.
And Yami was born.
The Yaksha Awakens
Guru Kaalo stood at the edge of the broken stupa, watching.
His expression—once calm, once patient—shifted.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But concern.
“So…” Guru Kaalo murmured.
“You’ve chosen oblivion.”
Pravash—no, Yami—rose from the darkness.
He no longer had weight.
No longer had a body like men did.
His shape flickered—sometimes a man, sometimes a twisting, living shadow, his form stretching between the space of existence and something far older.
His eyes burned silver.
Not with light.
With remembrance.
Every soul Guru Kaalo had stolen.
Every name that had been erased.
They were still here.
And they had chosen him.
Yami spoke.
His voice was not just his own.
It was all of them.
“You were right, Kaalo.”
The mask fully merged, its once ornate features now carved into his very being.
“Pravash Bajracharya is gone.”
A whisper spread through the air.
Kathmandu itself seemed to exhale.
And for the first time—Guru Kaalo stepped back.
Just once.
A fraction of an inch.
Because he saw it now.
This wasn’t just a man anymore.
This wasn’t a vigilante wearing the mask of a forgotten warrior.
This was the Yaksha King reborn.
And he was here to finish what had been started long ago.
Yami moved.
Faster than thought.
Faster than light.
And the final battle began.