CHAPTER 2: THE HALĀHALA AWAKENS
Imphal wasn’t the same.
Ajit could feel it in the air, in the spaces between the streetlights, in the whispers carried by the wind. A sickness was spreading through the city—not in the way of plagues, but in the way of curses.
It had been three days since the attack in the marketplace.
Three days since he fought the Mongoose Men.
Three days since the Nagamani showed him the vision.
And now? Now the city was breathing wrong.
He crouched on a rooftop overlooking Thangal Bazaar, his senses stretched outward. Below, the city pulsed with its usual rhythm—shopkeepers calling out last-minute deals, scooters weaving through traffic, stray dogs prowling near food stalls.
But something was off.
Then—a scream.
Ajit moved.
He dropped from the rooftop, hitting the pavement in a smooth roll. By the time he straightened, he was already running—toward the sound.
The alley behind the marketplace was chaos.
A man—a vendor—was on the ground, clutching his bleeding arm. His stall was overturned, fruits and vegetables crushed beneath hurried footsteps. People were backing away, murmuring in shock.
Ajit’s eyes locked onto the attackers.
Six of them. The same six.
The same criminals from three nights ago. But now—now they were worse.
Their bodies had changed.
Their skin was stretched too tight over their bones. Their arms seemed longer, their fingers tipped with clawed nails. Their eyes—black, lifeless, and filled with hunger.
One of them—a tall, gaunt man with a twisted grin—sniffed the air, his neck craning in an unnatural way.
He looked directly at Ajit.
And then, in a voice that didn’t sound human, he hissed—
“Naga Man.”
Ajit’s stomach turned to stone.
They knew him.
And worse?
They had been waiting for him.
Ajit’s body reacted before his mind could catch up.
The Mongoose Men rushed him like starving wolves, their bodies unnatural, their movements jagged and twitching. He had fought enhanced criminals before—thugs juiced up on experimental drugs, cybernetically augmented mercenaries—but this was different.
This was wrong.
One of them lunged, swinging a rusted blade. Ajit ducked, his muscles twisting instinctively as he snapped his leg up in a counterattack. His foot connected with the attacker’s ribs—but instead of breaking, the bones bent and stretched like rubber.
Ajit’s gut twisted.
Another came from the side—too fast.
Ajit barely had time to react as clawed fingers raked across his forearm.
Pain.
A sharp, electric sting that burned immediately.
Ajit gritted his teeth and retaliated, slamming his elbow into the attacker’s jaw. The man—or thing—stumbled back, black saliva dripping from his mouth.
The others hesitated, watching him.
Then they laughed.
Low. Sick. Like nails scratching against bone.
Ajit glanced at his arm. The scratch wasn’t deep, but the veins around the wound were already darkening.
Something was spreading.
He clenched his fist, forcing his breathing to steady. Not now.
The leader of the group—his skeletal face stretched in a grotesque grin—stepped forward, tilting his head.
“You’re already dead, Naga Man.”
Ajit’s eyes burned gold.
“Come try and prove it.”
The fight wasn’t over.
And neither was the infection.
Ajit stared at the black veins creeping from the scratch on his arm.
He was back in his dorm, sitting at his desk, the fluorescent light buzzing softly above him. The wound wasn’t healing. Not like usual. His regeneration should have sealed it shut in minutes, but the skin around it remained dark, pulsing, irritated.
Something was wrong.
His fingers hovered over the wound, hesitant. The Halāhala. The word sat heavy in his mind. He had seen it in his vision. He had felt it crawling into his thoughts.
And now it was inside him.
His laptop dinged.
Ajit blinked, snapping out of his trance. He glanced at the screen—an email from Professor Sharma.
“Final deadline for your Applied Physics paper. If you don’t submit it by today, you will receive a zero. No exceptions.”
Ajit’s heart sank.
The assignment.
His mind raced. Shit. He had completely forgotten. Between the fight at the market, the vision, and the infection spreading through his bloodstream, university had been the last thing on his mind.
He grabbed his phone. 11:47 PM.
Thirteen minutes left.
He scrambled, flipping through half-finished notes, opening empty Word documents, trying to summon knowledge that didn’t exist. His hands were sweating. His breathing shallow.
Then the burning in his arm flared up—hot, piercing, like something was crawling under his skin.
Ajit gritted his teeth, clutching his forearm. His fingers trembled over the keyboard.
11:53 PM.
The screen blurred. His chest felt tight. His own heartbeat didn’t feel like his anymore.
He slammed his laptop shut. It was over.
His scholarship was on the edge of a knife. One more academic failure and—
His vision swam. The room tilted. The buzzing light hummed in his skull like a swarm of insects.
And then—
A whisper.
Soft. Icy. Crawling along the inside of his mind.
“Let me in.”
Ajit’s hands dug into the desk. His jaw clenched. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard.
No. No. Not yet.
Not like this.
He forced himself to stand, to move, to leave before the walls closed in on him. His laptop, the assignment, the deadline—they didn’t matter anymore.
Because something inside him was changing.
And he didn’t know how much longer he could stop it.
The screens glowed in the dark.
Rows of monitors lined the stone walls, flickering with surveillance footage—grainy black-and-white feeds from security cameras, satellite images, thermal scans. Each one focused on him.
Ajit Singh.
Or, as Ravana preferred to call him—the Failed Experiment.
The old man leaned forward in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His crimson robes pooled around him, the candlelight casting deep shadows across his scarred face.
Beside him, Alha stood motionless. The AI warrior’s golden eyes flickered with lines of data, processing the same images Ravana studied.
On the largest screen, Ajit was writhing in his dorm room, clutching his arm. The wound on his forearm pulsed black, the veins corrupting—a sickness spreading just beneath the skin.
Ravana exhaled through his nose. It had begun.
“The Halāhala has entered his bloodstream,” he murmured, tapping his fingers against the armrest. His voice was slow, deliberate. Satisfied.
Alha tilted its head slightly, processing the information. “His vitals are destabilizing. The infection is spreading at a rate of 12.3% per hour.”
A smirk curled at the edges of Ravana’s lips. “And yet, he resists.”
“Temporary.” Alha’s golden gaze flickered. “The probability of complete corruption increases exponentially with time.”
Ravana leaned back, stroking his beard. “Yes. But that’s not the most interesting part.”
He gestured, and the footage shifted—rewinding, zooming in. The moment in the alley. The Mongoose Men. The scratch.
Ravana’s eyes gleamed.
“They infected him,” he whispered. “Not by accident. By design.”
Alha processed the words. “Conclusion: The Halāhala is now self-replicating. It no longer requires an external host to spread.”
Ravana chuckled, low and deep. “Like a disease. A virus.” He exhaled slowly. “Finally… it is awake.”
Alha’s gaze remained fixed on the screens. “Shall I engage?”
Ravana raised a hand, stopping him. “No. Not yet.”
He studied Ajit’s shaking form, the slow unraveling of his body, his mind.
“He’s still fighting it,” Ravana mused. His smile grew sharper. “Let him struggle. Let him believe he can resist. That is where true despair is born.”
Alha’s glowing eyes flickered. “And if he overcomes it?”
Ravana chuckled. “Then we will have a far more interesting opponent.”
He reached forward, fingers brushing against the ancient, blackened tome on his desk. The leather-bound pages hummed beneath his touch, alive with secrets far older than the city above them.
“The legend is unfolding as it should,” he murmured. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “And soon… the true King of Serpents will rise.”
He closed the book.
And in the shadows, something stirred.
The library was nearly empty at this hour.
Rows of wooden bookshelves loomed overhead, their musty scent thick in the air. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the floor. Outside, the world was winding down, but inside, Rajesh was chasing ghosts.
His fingers flicked through the brittle, yellowed pages of an old manuscript, eyes scanning line after line of forgotten knowledge.
“The Churning of the Ocean… the great war of gods and demons… and the poison that nearly ended creation itself.”
Rajesh’s jaw tightened.
The Halāhala.
His mind raced, connecting dots that should have never been connected. He had spent years studying mythology, piecing together fragments of ancient texts, but this—this was different.
This wasn’t just a legend.
This was real.
He leaned in closer, his breath shallow. The ink on the page was faded, but the words still burned with warning.
“The poison was not merely a force of destruction. It was alive. A hunger that could not be satisfied. A venom that did not kill… but corrupted.”
Rajesh swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the paper.
“Only the Great Serpent, Vasuki, could contain it. And only through the sacrifice of the gods was it sealed away… never to be touched again.”
But it had been touched.
The Nagamani.
The bite.
Ajit.
Rajesh grabbed his notebook, flipping through the scribbled sketches and research he had compiled over the years. The Nagamani was supposed to be a relic of power—but what if it was something else?
A prison.
What if the gem in Ajit’s chest wasn’t empowering him?
What if it was containing something?
A deep, creeping dread settled in Rajesh’s stomach. He needed to talk to Ajit—now.
He stuffed his notebook into his bag and stood up, but the moment he turned—
A shadow moved between the bookshelves.
Rajesh froze.
The air shifted—cold. Wrong. Watching.
His breath hitched.
Slowly, carefully, he reached into his pocket, gripping his phone. His fingers hovered over the flashlight button.
He pressed it.
A beam of light pierced the darkness.
Nothing.
The aisle was empty.
But Rajesh wasn’t convinced.
Because deep inside, he felt it.
Something was listening.
And it did not want him to keep reading.
Ajit’s body felt wrong.
He sat alone on the rooftop of his dorm, his back against the rusted water tank, his breath slow and uneven. His fingers traced the darkened veins creeping from the scratch on his forearm. The infection wasn’t spreading fast—but it wasn’t stopping, either.
The night air was thick with the scent of rain, the distant hum of traffic a soft murmur beneath him. But beneath that—beneath the heartbeat of the city—was something else.
A sound.
A whisper.
“Ajit.”
His spine stiffened.
The voice wasn’t coming from around him.
It was coming from inside.
“You are strong. But you could be more.”
Ajit squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palm against his forehead. Lack of sleep. Hallucinations. Stress. That’s all this was.
“You fight your enemies. You bleed. You break. And for what?”
His jaw clenched.
“You hold the venom inside you. Why not use it?”
Ajit’s breath came sharp through his teeth. No.
He pushed himself up, shaking his head, trying to steady his thoughts. He needed to get out, to move, to clear his head—
His legs buckled.
The world tilted.
Ajit collapsed to one knee, clutching his arm as his vision blurred. The veins around his wound pulsed, spreading in thin, branching tendrils under his skin.
And then—for a moment—he wasn’t on the rooftop anymore.
He was drowning.
A vast, endless black ocean churned around him. The water was thick, sticky, like tar, seeping into his pores.
Above him, the sky was a wound, jagged and bleeding green light. And from its depths, something moved.
A shape. A serpent.
Massive. Coiling. Endless.
It opened its mouth, revealing a darkness that swallowed the stars.
And then—
“LET ME IN.”
Ajit gasped.
His eyes snapped open, his body drenched in sweat. His fingers dug into the concrete rooftop, his breath ragged, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap.
The voice was gone.
The ocean was gone.
But the feeling—the hunger—remained.
Ajit wiped his face, his fingers trembling.
He needed to tell someone. Rajesh. Padmini. Anyone.
But deep inside, he already knew the truth.
This wasn’t something they could save him from.
This was something he had to fight alone.
And he had no idea if he was strong enough.