CHAPTER 11: A FRACTURED TEAM
The city smelled of rain and fear.
The storm had passed hours ago, leaving the streets slick and glistening, reflecting the neon glow of flickering streetlights. Puddles rippled beneath hurried footsteps, the hushed murmur of midnight traffic drowned by the distant hum of power lines overhead.
Somewhere in the depths of Imphal, a man begged for his life.
“Please, I swear—I didn’t know! I—”
The words were cut off by the sickening sound of bones snapping.
A sharp cry of agony echoed through the alley, swallowed by the night. A body slumped against the brick wall, its weight collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
Laxman stood over him, expression unreadable.
His eyes burned, twin orbs of molten black-red, reflecting the dim glow of streetlights above. The Halāhala coiled around him, smoke-like tendrils weaving through the air, restless, hungry. His body was no longer his own, not entirely—it moved differently now, smoother, sharper, something between a man and a shadow.
The criminal beneath him—a mid-level arms dealer, the kind that thrived in the cracks of a city too afraid to stop him—shuddered violently. His arm hung at an unnatural angle, his breath coming in short, gasping wheezes.
Laxman tilted his head slightly, watching.
A week ago, this man had been untouchable.
Bribed officers. Paid off politicians. Laughed in the face of justice, because he knew the law could never truly touch him.
But Laxman wasn’t the law.
And the rules didn’t apply anymore.
“You’ve sold weapons to gangs that kill children,” Laxman said, his voice unnervingly calm, almost conversational. “You’ve given murderers the tools to spill innocent blood. And now you want mercy?”
The man coughed, spitting red onto the pavement. “I—I swear I—”
Laxman’s fingers flexed, the Halāhala responding, tendrils twitching like a predator scenting its kill.
“You don’t get to swear,” Laxman murmured.
His grip tightened.
The man’s breath hitched, a strangled whimper escaping his throat as his ribcage cracked beneath Laxman’s grip.
The Halāhala thrived on judgment.
On corruption.
On punishment.
The city was sick, and Laxman had the cure.
One final squeeze, one more inch of pressure—
And then, a voice.
“Stop.”
Laxman’s body went still.
Slowly, he turned his head.
A crowd had gathered.
A small one—four, maybe five people, huddled together at the mouth of the alley, watching in horrified silence. Their eyes were wide, unblinking, locked onto him with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
Laxman could hear their hearts pounding. Could smell the sharp, metallic scent of their terror.
One of them—a woman, maybe in her mid-thirties, clutching a plastic grocery bag to her chest as though it could protect her—stepped forward. Her voice trembled, but she spoke anyway.
“You’re supposed to be a hero,” she whispered.
Laxman’s eyes narrowed.
The Halāhala curled at his feet, shifting with his movement, responding to his thoughts before he even had them.
“I am,” he said simply.
The woman swallowed hard. “Then—then why are you doing this?”
Laxman turned fully toward them now, stepping over the broken man on the ground without so much as a glance. The civilians flinched.
“You’re afraid of me,” he observed.
None of them answered.
The woman’s hands clenched around the grocery bag. “You—you’re not Naga Man,” she whispered.
Laxman tilted his head.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
The words felt good.
Right.
For so long, he had lived in Ajit’s shadow, playing the role of the jealous second, the one who had always been lesser.
But not anymore.
Now, when people looked at him, they didn’t see a sidekick.
They saw something greater.
The fear in their eyes didn’t bother him.
It satisfied him.
Because this? This was what justice looked like.
The city had spent too long living under the illusion that mercy could fix what was broken. That men like the one groaning at his feet deserved second chances.
Laxman had no interest in second chances.
He turned back to the man on the ground, his grip tightening once more.
The crowd gasped.
“Please—” the woman begged. “Don’t—”
Laxman stopped.
Not because he had changed his mind.
Not because he felt guilt.
But because a voice—one he had not expected—cut through the night like a blade.
“That’s enough, Laxman.”
He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
He felt it in the air, the familiar weight of someone who had once been his equal.
Laxman exhaled slowly, almost disappointed.
He turned.
And there, standing at the mouth of the alley, battered, bruised, but still standing—
Ajit Singh.
Naga Man.
Laxman smiled.
“You’re late,” he said.
Ajit’s hands curled into fists.
The storm was finally here.
And Laxman had never been more ready.
Ajit could feel his heartbeat in his throat.
The alley was silent now, save for the distant hum of streetlights and the ragged breathing of the criminals Laxman had left shattered on the ground. The small crowd that had gathered at the alley’s edge didn’t move, didn’t speak.
All eyes were on them.
On him.
On Laxman.
The man who had once been his closest friend now stood before him, draped in shadows and power, black-red tendrils of Halāhala curling at his feet like smoke given life.
The air around him felt wrong.
Ajit had spent enough time bonded to the Halāhala to recognize it. The way it changed the air, twisted the space around it. Like reality itself was being pulled toward him, reshaped in his image.
But this wasn’t like before.
Not like when it had lived inside him.
Back then, the Halāhala had been a poison. A battle inside his own body, something he had fought against every step of the way.
But Laxman?
Laxman hadn’t fought it.
He had embraced it.
And that made him something else entirely.
Something stronger.
Ajit swallowed hard, trying to keep his stance steady, but Laxman could see it.
He could feel it.
The uncertainty. The hesitation. The flicker of doubt just beneath Ajit’s skin.
Laxman smiled.
“You look different,” he mused. His voice was calm, almost amused, like they were just two old friends catching up. “Slower. Weaker.”
Ajit didn’t answer.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
His body still ached from the fight in the warehouse. His ribs throbbed where Laxman had already hit him once before. His breathing was shallow, his muscles burned.
This was what it felt like to be just human.
To not have the Halāhala whispering through his veins, healing his wounds in seconds, making him faster, stronger, untouchable.
Without it, he was already exhausted.
And Laxman?
Laxman wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
The realization sank into Ajit like a lead weight.
He had come here to stop him.
But how could he stop someone who had surpassed him completely?
“Tell me, Ajit,” Laxman continued, tilting his head slightly, eyes gleaming with something close to curiosity. “How does it feel? To be standing there, knowing you’re outmatched?”
Ajit’s fingers twitched.
He had fought gods. He had faced men who could tear through walls, beasts that had crawled from ancient nightmares.
But this?
This was different.
Because Laxman knew him.
Knew his weaknesses. Knew how he moved, how he thought, how he fought.
And worse—Laxman had every advantage.
Ajit had always been pushing back against the Halāhala, struggling to control it, fearing what it might turn him into.
Laxman had no such fears.
And that made him deadlier than anything Ajit had ever faced.
The doubt crept in, unrelenting.
“You can’t beat him.”
“You’re weaker now. Slower.”
“You’re not the hero anymore.”
Ajit clenched his jaw.
No.
He couldn’t think like that.
Couldn’t let it take hold.
Because the moment he hesitated—Laxman would tear him apart.
“Walk away,” Ajit said finally, his voice quieter than he wanted it to be.
Laxman let out a slow, almost mocking breath. “Or what?”
Ajit’s hands curled into fists.
Laxman saw it.
And laughed.
“You don’t even believe that, do you?”
Ajit stayed silent.
Laxman took a slow step forward, and for the first time, the crowd behind Ajit moved back.
Because they could see it too.
This wasn’t just a fight.
This was a reckoning.
“You think this city needs you?” Laxman continued, his tone shifting, something darker creeping into it. “They don’t. They need someone who isn’t afraid to make the hard choices. To end the people who deserve it.”
He gestured to the man behind him, still whimpering on the ground.
“Tell me, Ajit. Do you think he deserves to live?”
Ajit’s throat tightened.
“You never could do what needed to be done,” Laxman said, shaking his head. “That’s why you’re standing there, bleeding, broken, struggling just to keep up.”
Laxman took another step forward.
Ajit braced himself.
Because he knew what was coming next.
“You lost this city, Ajit.”
Laxman’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“And now it belongs to me.”
Then—
He moved.
Faster than Ajit could react.
Faster than he could even think.
The impact came like a freight train—Laxman’s fist slamming into his ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs, lifting him off the ground. The world spun as Ajit was sent flying, crashing through a rusted dumpster, hitting the pavement hard.
Pain exploded through his body.
He gasped, struggling to breathe. Laxman was already on him.
A foot pressed against his chest, pinning him down.
Ajit struggled, tried to push back—but the weight was too much.
Laxman leaned down, his face inches from Ajit’s.
“You’re not ready for this fight,” he whispered.
And then—he let go.
Ajit collapsed onto the pavement, gasping for air.
Laxman straightened, rolling his shoulders, shaking the tension from his limbs.
“Stay down, Ajit.”
Ajit forced himself onto his hands and knees.
He wasn’t done yet.
Laxman sighed. “Fine.”
Then he disappeared into the night.
And for the first time, Ajit didn’t chase him.
He just knelt there, breathing hard, staring at the cracked pavement beneath his hands.
Because for the first time in his life—
He didn’t know if he could win.
Padmini found Ajit in his apartment, staring at his own reflection.
The bathroom mirror was cracked, a jagged line running through the glass, splitting his face in two. One half of him looked normal. The other? Shadowed, beaten, barely holding itself together.
He looked like a man who had just lost a fight.
Because he had.
Padmini leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him carefully. The apartment was dimly lit, cluttered with books, old case files, maps of the city pinned haphazardly to the walls.
A month ago, it had felt like a place of purpose.
Now?
Now it just felt empty.
“Say something,” Padmini finally said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.
Ajit didn’t move.
Didn’t turn to face her.
She knew that look.
Knew what was going through his head.
He was losing confidence.
Doubting himself.
And she couldn’t let that happen.
“Ajit,” she tried again, stepping forward this time, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t let him—”
Ajit finally spoke, cutting her off.
“He’s stronger than me.”
The words felt like stone.
Heavy. Unshakable.
And it scared her.
Because Ajit never talked like this.
She swallowed, shaking her head. “You don’t know that.”
Ajit let out a bitter, humorless laugh.
“Padmini, he broke me in two hits.” He turned away from the mirror, finally facing her. His eyes were tired, bloodshot. “You saw what he did out there. You saw what he’s become.”
Padmini took a breath, grounding herself, forcing her voice to stay steady.
“I also saw you get back up.”
Ajit shook his head. “And next time? What happens then? What if I don’t?”
Padmini’s fingers tightened around his wrist.
“Then we find another way.”
Ajit exhaled sharply, stepping back, out of her reach. “You don’t get it, Padmini. He’s not fighting like me. He’s fighting like something else. He’s—”
“Like you were,” she finished.
Ajit froze.
Padmini’s gaze was unwavering.
“Like you were when the Halāhala had you,” she continued, voice firm. “You know exactly how that felt. You know what it does. And now you’re acting like it’s something impossible to stop.”
Ajit didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
She took another step forward, lowering her voice. “I don’t care how powerful he is, Ajit. I don’t care how many fights you’ve lost. You can’t just—just let him spiral. You can’t let him keep doing this.”
Ajit clenched his jaw.
“He doesn’t want to be saved.”
Padmini hated the way he said it.
Like he had already given up.
“You don’t know that,” she snapped.
Ajit gave her a tired look.
“Yes, I do.”
Padmini exhaled, stepping away, running a hand through her hair.
Her pulse was pounding.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
She had come here to pull Ajit back from the edge—to get him focused again. To remind him that he wasn’t alone.
But now?
Now she wasn’t sure if he even wanted to fight anymore.
Padmini hated this.
Hated seeing him like this.
Hated the idea that he might let Laxman win before the fight was even over.
Because if Ajit lost hope—
The city would too.
She turned back to him, forcing the words out before she could second-guess them.
“Promise me,” she said.
Ajit frowned. “Promise you what?”
Padmini’s throat tightened.
“Promise me that you’ll stop him.”
Ajit looked at her for a long time.
Then, finally—
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
It wasn’t much.
But it was enough.
For now.
The night ripped apart in a flash of steel and fire.
One second, the streets of Imphal were quiet—too quiet. No sirens, no traffic, just the low hum of streetlights flickering against the damp asphalt.
The next?
Alha descended.
It hit the pavement like a meteor, crushing the ground beneath its weight. A storm of dust and debris erupted outward, sending shattered glass skittering across the asphalt, the shockwave shaking nearby buildings.
Pedestrians barely had time to react.
A shopkeeper standing outside his stall stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror. A young couple, mid-conversation, turned just in time to see a shadow moving faster than thought.
And then—
The machine stood.
The upgraded Alha Mk-II.
Its form was sleeker now, reinforced titanium plating molded to perfection, shifting like living armor. The once-smooth faceplate had been altered, redesigned—now a single, glowing red slit ran across its featureless head, scanning, calculating.
And it spoke.
“Targets acquired.”
Its voice was different now.
Colder. More refined. Less like a machine, more like something alive.
Alha moved.
And the street exploded.
Ajit barely had time to react.
One moment, he was perched on the edge of a rooftop, watching the streets below, searching for Laxman.
The next?
A streak of energy cut through the air, blasting apart the ledge beneath him.
Ajit’s instincts kicked in, his body moving before his mind could catch up—rolling, twisting mid-air as the rooftop crumbled beneath him, bricks and concrete collapsing into the street.
He landed hard, his shoulder absorbing most of the impact, pain flaring through his arm. He barely had time to exhale before another shot came—a searing bolt of plasma that tore through a parked car, melting metal on contact.
Ajit gritted his teeth.
Alha.
The machine had found him.
And this time?
It wasn’t playing games.
Ajit pushed himself up just as Alha lunged.
The AI moved too fast, a blur of shifting armor and raw power, its movements unnatural, predatory, calculated.
Ajit barely dodged the first strike—a brutal downward punch that shattered the pavement where he had just stood. The ground buckled beneath the impact, spiderweb cracks racing outward in all directions.
He countered, throwing a sharp kick toward Alha’s side—but it was like striking solid steel.
Pain shot through Ajit’s leg.
Alha didn’t even flinch.
Instead, it adapted.
“Speed adjustment: Complete.”
It moved again, faster than before.
A palm strike to Ajit’s chest—he barely blocked it, but the impact sent him flying backward, crashing into the wreckage of the ruined car.
Ajit gasped, the breath knocked from his lungs.
This was bad.
This was very bad.
Alha wasn’t just stronger now.
It was learning.
And then—
Something else moved.
Something darker.
Alha’s head snapped to the side, its sensors flaring.
Because another presence had entered the fight.
A shadow stepped forward from the other end of the street, slow, deliberate, the black-red glow of Halāhala flickering at his fingertips.
Laxman.
He took his time, walking toward them like he had all the time in the world, his expression calm, unreadable.
“Well,” Laxman murmured, glancing at the wreckage. “That looks painful.”
Ajit ignored him.
Alha didn’t.
It turned fully toward Laxman now, scanning him, analyzing.
“Unregistered anomaly detected. Energy signature: Unknown.”
Laxman smiled.
“That’s because you’ve never fought anything like me before.”
Then he moved.
And the fight truly began.
The first strike shattered the sound barrier.
Laxman moved first.
One second, he was standing at the far end of the ruined street—the next, he was a blur of motion, a black-red streak slicing through the night.
The air cracked apart as he launched himself at Alha, a shockwave rippling outward from where his foot left the ground. The asphalt splintered, chunks of road lifting into the air from the sheer force of his movement.
Alha calculated. Adjusted.
“New combatant. Engaging.”
It twisted at the last second, its reinforced arm snapping up just in time to meet Laxman’s strike.
Their collision bent the laws of physics.
A thunderous boom erupted as Laxman’s fist met Alha’s forearm, sending a shockwave outward. The force tore through the air, shattering nearby windows, ripping neon signs from their bolts.
Alha slid backward, skidding across the pavement—but only an inch.
Laxman’s eyes gleamed.
He lunged again—but this time, Alha was ready.
The AI’s left hand shifted mid-motion, plating sliding back to reveal a pulse cannon embedded in its wrist.
It fired point-blank.
A blast of raw concussive energy erupted from its palm, slamming into Laxman’s chest before he could react.
The impact was brutal.
Laxman was sent hurtling backward, smashing through the wreckage of a burning car, metal crumpling around his body like paper. He tumbled across the asphalt, tearing up the street as he skidded.
And then—Ajit moved.
Before Alha could turn its focus back to him, Ajit attacked from the side.
He lunged low, sweeping a kick toward Alha’s legs—but the AI adapted instantly, jumping at the last second, its entire body twisting unnaturally in midair.
It landed on the side of a nearby building, claws digging into concrete.
Then, without hesitation—it launched itself at Ajit.
Ajit barely had time to brace himself before Alha’s full weight slammed into him.
A metallic fist drove into his gut—Ajit felt his ribs crack.
A second blow followed, hammering him into the pavement.
Ajit coughed blood. Felt his vision blur.
“Too slow.”
“Too weak.”
Alha grabbed him by the throat, lifting him effortlessly.
“Tactical analysis complete. You are no longer a threat.”
Ajit snarled.
Then—before Alha could react, Ajit twisted, driving his knee into the AI’s core.
The impact was precise.
Right where he had seen a weak point in its armor plating.
The hit cracked something.
Not much. But enough.
Alha staggered slightly.
Ajit used the opening.
He gripped Alha’s arm and flipped his entire body backward, using the momentum to twist the machine’s own strength against it.
Alha’s massive frame was thrown over Ajit’s shoulder, smashing into the pavement with a resounding crash.
Ajit stumbled back, chest heaving.
But he had no time to recover—because Laxman was already back on his feet.
And he was smiling.
Ajit’s stomach turned cold.
Laxman shouldn’t have been able to stand after that cannon blast.
Not that quickly.
Not that easily.
But the Halāhala had made him something else.
Something unbreakable.
Laxman rolled his shoulders, shaking off the dust, the black-red tendrils of Halāhala still curling off his skin like steam from a volcanic fissure.
He turned toward Ajit, tilting his head.
“Slowing down already?”
Ajit wiped blood from his mouth. “Shut up.”
Laxman laughed.
Then he lunged—not at Alha, but at Ajit.
Ajit barely had time to react.
Laxman struck like a cobra, his palm slamming into Ajit’s chest. The force sent Ajit flying into a building, his body crashing through the first-floor wall like a cannonball.
Ajit hit the ground hard, rubble collapsing around him.
Pain flared through his ribs, his lungs, his spine.
He coughed, dust filling his lungs.
Laxman stepped through the wreckage casually, as if this wasn’t a fight, but a lesson.
“You’re not fast enough, Ajit,” he said, his tone almost sympathetic.
Ajit forced himself up, shaking.
“You want to fight me—while that thing is still standing?” Ajit shot back, gesturing toward Alha. “Smart.”
Laxman sighed.
“Alha isn’t the threat here.”
Ajit wiped blood from his forehead.
“You sure?”
Because the AI wasn’t down.
It had recalibrated. Adapted.
Now, it moved differently.
It was studying them both.
It had learned their weaknesses.
And now?
Now it was going to kill them both.
Alha’s plating shifted again, new weapons forming from its armor—jagged energy blades humming with plasma, cannons sliding into position along its forearms.
“Threat assessment complete.”
The air crackled with static energy.
“Eliminating both targets.”
Ajit and Laxman both turned to face it.
For a moment, they just stood there, breathing.
Then—
Laxman smirked.
Ajit exhaled.
And, without speaking, they moved.
The city trembled.
Not from the battle.
Not from the clash of steel and flesh, machine and monster.
This was something older.
Something deeper.
Something awakening.
Far below the streets of Imphal, beneath the layers of concrete and earth, past the ruins of forgotten dynasties and lost gods, something stirred.
Something Ravana had been waiting for.
And tonight—
He would set it free.
Above, the battle raged.
Alha moved like liquid metal, a seamless blur of shifting armor and relentless calculations.
Ajit and Laxman were fast—but Alha was faster.
They struck together—Ajit low, Laxman high, a coordinated assault that should have overwhelmed anything that moved like a man.
But Alha was not a man.
The machine twisted unnaturally, its titanium plating bending at impossible angles.
Ajit’s punch whiffed air where Alha had just been—only for the AI to materialize behind him a fraction of a second later.
A backhanded strike slammed into Ajit’s spine, sending him crashing through the windshield of an abandoned bus.
Glass exploded outward as he tumbled through the wreckage, his ribs screaming in protest.
Laxman took the opening.
He dived forward, his black-red tendrils surging out from his back like a storm of living whips, slicing toward Alha.
Alha analyzed. Adapted.
A sudden pulse of electromagnetic energy erupted from its core, a shockwave that blasted outward—disrupting Laxman’s Halāhala tendrils mid-air, sending them snapping back like recoiling snakes.
Laxman barely had time to register the counterattack before Alha was already moving.
A blade formed in its hand—white-hot, humming with unstable plasma.
Laxman’s eyes gleamed.
“Finally,” he whispered.
He let the Halāhala take him completely.
His body blurred, black-red energy surging through his veins. His hands became claws, his muscles rippled, his jaw unhinged for just a moment—teeth elongated, venom dripping.
Laxman met Alha’s blade with his bare hands.
The impact shattered the air.
His fingers caught the plasma edge, holding it between two claws, the heat searing against his skin—but his Halāhala-infused flesh did not burn.
Alha’s optical sensors flickered.
“Impossible.”
Laxman grinned, fangs bared.
Then, with inhuman strength, he shattered the blade between his fingers.
Ajit reappeared behind Alha.
His foot slammed into the AI’s back, the force finally staggering the machine forward.
Alha stumbled—for the first time.
Ajit and Laxman landed side by side.
Panting. Still standing.
For the first time, the fight felt equal.
Then—
Everything went wrong.
A sound rippled through the air.
Low.
Vibrating.
Wrong.
Ajit felt it first—a pull deep inside his bones, something primal, something from the Nagamani itself.
Laxman faltered for just a second, his tendrils snapping back, convulsing.
And Alha?
Alha froze completely.
Because even a machine could recognize what was happening.
Somewhere far below—in the depths of Imphal, beneath the layers of earth and stone—the last seal broke.
And Ravana’s voice echoed through the city like a whisper from the abyss.
“It is done.”
The ground split open.
Skyscrapers groaned, their steel frames twisting. The streets ruptured like flesh being torn apart. The sky itself dimmed, as if something ancient had reached up from the depths and smothered the stars.
Ajit’s veins ignited in golden pain.
The Nagamani inside him reacted violently, trying to protect him, trying to reject whatever was rising from below.
But the Halāhala inside Laxman?
Laxman laughed.
Because he could feel it.
The thing beneath the earth.
The thing Ravana had just unleashed.
Something far worse than the Halāhala.
Something older.
Something with a name.
Narakasura.
Ajit’s breath hitched.
Because he knew now—they had been fighting the wrong battle.
Alha wasn’t the real enemy.
Laxman wasn’t even the real enemy.
Ravana had been playing them all.
And now?
Now the real fight was about to begin.