The final battle lasted seconds.
Because Yami didn’t fight like a man.
He wasn’t one anymore.
He moved faster than thought, faster than reality could keep up. The moment Guru Kaalo raised his hand, Yami was already behind him.
The cult leader spun, too slow.
Yami’s clawed fingers wrapped around his throat.
And for the first time, Guru Kaalo looked afraid.
Not because he feared death.
No—because Yami wasn’t just going to kill him.
He was going to erase him.
“You spent centuries devouring the forgotten,” Yami whispered.
His voice wasn’t just his own.
It was all of them.
Every name Guru Kaalo had stolen.
Every soul he had erased.
Every voice that had screamed into the void, only to be swallowed by darkness.
Now, they screamed for him.
Guru Kaalo snarled, clawing at Yami’s grip. His body twisted, his form flickering between flesh and shadow, trying to slip away.
But Yami held firm.
Because this was his world now.
And here—he was stronger.
Guru Kaalo’s blackened fingers trembled.
“You think you have won.”
“You think you can break the cycle.”
His eyes burned.
“But you are me now.”
Yami tightened his grip.
“No.”
And then—
He ripped Guru Kaalo’s soul from his body.
It wasn’t a clean thing.
There was no ceremony. No grand, dramatic collapse.
Just one last, terrible sound—
A low, guttural, inhuman howl as Guru Kaalo’s very existence was peeled apart, shredded, dissolved into the void he had spent centuries feeding.
The cult leader’s body collapsed.
But there was nothing left inside it.
No soul.
No name.
No memory.
Just emptiness.
And then—it was over.
Guru Kaalo was gone.
The cycle was broken.
And yet…
Yami felt nothing.
Because in killing Guru Kaalo—he had erased the last thing tying him to his past.
There was no Pravash left.
Only Yami.
The city was silent.
And for the first time, he understood what it meant to be forgotten.
The wind settled.
The sky, once a churning black void, slowly returned to normal. The twisted, elongated buildings, the streets that had bled into Naraka, the whispers that had curled in the corners of reality—
They faded.
The world stitched itself back together.
And just like that—Kathmandu was whole again.
But not everything was the same.
Pravash—no, Yami—stood atop the ruined stupa, staring down at the city below.
At first glance, it looked as it always had.
The same winding alleyways. The same flickering neon. The same temple bells ringing in the distance.
But beneath it all, he could feel the difference.
Some streets were too empty.
Some names—missing.
Some people had never returned.
Not because they had died.
Because they had been erased.
Just as Guru Kaalo had taken names from history, some had vanished with him.
Their families would never know.
No one would ask where they had gone.
Because they had never existed to anyone except him.
And no one knew who he was anymore.
Yami turned, his gaze falling on the woman standing at the temple steps.
She had survived.
She had fought beside him.
She had been his wife.
But he felt nothing.
No recognition. No warmth.
No love.
Because whoever Pravash had been—he was gone.
The woman stared at him, her face pale, her hands shaking.
She opened her mouth.
“Pravash—”
Yami shook his head.
“That’s not my name.”
Her expression broke.
She took a step toward him. Hesitated.
Then, in a whisper—”Then what is?”
Yami turned away.
The city was waiting.
It always would be.
And he would be watching.
Even if no one ever watched for him.
Kathmandu moved on without him.
Yami walked through the city streets, his boots echoing softly on the damp stone. The rain had come and gone, leaving the air thick with the scent of earth, incense, and petrol. Neon lights flickered in the puddles, warping into strange shapes as rickshaws weaved through the alleys.
Life continued.
The vendors at Ason Bazaar still shouted over one another, haggling for the best price on vegetables and spices. The temple bells still rang, calling the faithful for evening prayers.
And yet—he wasn’t part of it anymore.
He passed crowds of people—people he had once known.
Cops. Journalists. Criminals.
Men and women who had worked cases with him.
A fruit vendor he used to buy oranges from.
A beggar near Basantapur whom he had once shared a cigarette with.
None of them looked at him twice.
None of them recognized him.
Because to them—he had never existed.
The Cost of Power
Yami stopped at the edge of a familiar street.
His old apartment building loomed in front of him, its walls cracked and covered in drying laundry. The light in his old window was on.
Someone else lived there now.
A different life. A different man.
He turned away.
There was nowhere for him to go.
No home.
No name.
He had sacrificed everything to kill Guru Kaalo.
And in the end—he had become just another forgotten soul.
A man without history. Without memory.
Without Pravash.
The Shadow That Watches
A scream cut through the air.
Yami turned.
A side street. Dark. Isolated.
A group of men cornering a woman against a wall. Their voices were low, their intentions clear.
The old him would have pulled out a badge.
Would have ordered them to step back, to put their hands where he could see them.
The new him stepped into the shadows instead.
And disappeared.
The next time he moved, he was behind them.
The first man turned. His face froze.
Because in the dim alleyway light—he didn’t see a man.
He saw something else.
Something with burning silver eyes.
Something that wasn’t supposed to exist.
Yami spoke.
“Run.”
They did.
Because they knew—somewhere deep in their bones—
The city had something watching over it now.
Something that had no name.
The city no longer remembered him.
But she did.
She found him at Swayambhunath, standing at the edge of the ruins, his back to the city he had saved. The wind stirred his coat, but he didn’t turn as she approached.
She wasn’t crying.
She had no tears left to give.
But her voice—her voice still shook.
“Pravash.”
He didn’t react.
She took another step closer. Desperate now.
“Pravash, look at me.”
Still, nothing.
His silver eyes stayed locked on the horizon, unblinking, detached.
Like he was already gone.
Her hands trembled.
She had watched him fight. She had stood beside him as the city split apart.
And now—he wouldn’t even acknowledge her.
“You’re still here,” she whispered.
She reached for him.
Her fingers barely brushed his arm before he stepped away.
Finally—he spoke.
“I don’t know you.”
The words hit harder than any wound.
Her breath caught. A flicker of pain in her eyes.
“Yes, you do,” she insisted.
Her voice cracked.
“You do.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, finally—he turned.
And when their eyes met—
She saw nothing.
No recognition.
No warmth.
No trace of the man she had once loved.
“Who are you?”
Her heart broke.
Because she finally understood.
The man she had known was dead.
This was someone else.
Or maybe—no one at all.
And as the realization sank in, as she stepped back, as her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line—
Yami turned away once more.
He had a city to protect.
Even if it would never know his name.
Even if she never spoke it again.
The city whispers of a shadow in the night.
A ghost that hunts the wicked.
A thing that moves through the alleys unseen, vanishing into smoke, stepping through walls like a forgotten prayer.
They say the guilty see his eyes—burning silver in the darkness—before they disappear.
Some call him a demon. Some say he is a vengeful god.
But no one knows his name.
Because he has none.
A City Without a Protector
Kathmandu had always been a city of stories. Temples carved with myths. Streets filled with gods and legends.
And now, there was a new one.
Criminals spoke in hushed tones, glancing over their shoulders in the night.
“He isn’t real,” some scoffed.
“Then why did Nabin go missing last week?” others whispered.
Bodies weren’t found.
They were erased.
Like the city itself had swallowed them whole.
And in a way—it had.
Because something watched over it now.
Something that no longer belonged to this world.
The Shadow Remains
On the rooftops of Thamel, a figure stood against the night.
Motionless. Silent.
Watching.
Yami no longer had a past.
No longer had a future.
No longer knew the warmth of a home, the touch of another, the sound of his own name.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Because the city needed him.
Even if it had forgotten him.
Even if he had forgotten himself.
A wind swept through the streets below.
A man stumbled out of a dark alley, hands shaking, eyes wide with terror. He had seen something.
Something that had judged him.
Something that had marked him.
Yami watched.
And then, without a sound, he disappeared into the night.
Never seen.
Never known.
But always there.
Final Line of the Story
“The city remembers him… even if he does not remember himself.”
THE END
This is it—the final moment of The Masked Yaksha: Yami.
A tragic, haunting ending. Yami exists, but does not live. He is feared, but never known. The protector Kathmandu will never acknowledge, but will always need.
Did this ending deliver the weight you wanted? A legend whispered in the dark?