---
[Location: Mahakaleshwar temple | Ujjain]
They stepped into the sanctum.
The temple's air tasted like old secrets and sandalwood—with a hint of moldy enlightenment.
Ancient bells hung like they were waiting for someone to admit they never did their Sanskrit homework.
Edward paused. Eyes scanning.
And there it was. Near the altar.
A fruit basket.
All. Mangoes.
Edward blinked. "Right... bit of a tropical dictatorship of a fruit bowl, isn't it?"
Nanu, mid-bow, moved one eyebrow by exactly 0.3 millimeters.
In monk-espionage, that meant: "Yes. Suspicious as your internet history."
Edward edged closer, hands behind his back like he was contemplating the mysteries of life—or planning a heist involving aged fruit.
Each mango bore strange markings. Faint, intricate Vedic symbols scorched into the peel.
One mango? Completely unmarked.
Too clean. Too... virginal.
Like it was trying too hard not to be noticed. Like Mr. Verma hiding behind a newspaper with eyeholes cut out.
Edward nodded once, lips a thin line.
> "Why do I feel this mango has a backstory and a legal team?"
Nanu didn't answer. Instead, he walked toward the donation urn—an ancient bronze bowl where devotees left offerings—and, with the grace of a man who's probably disarmed nukes using chopsticks, dropped the mango in.
No one noticed.
Except the monk.
The saffron-robed monk who stood guard near the idol hadn't moved in over fifteen minutes. Not even a blink. The kind of stillness only seen in statues or serial killers on vacation.
Now, with a twitch of the ankle—click.
Somewhere behind the altar, stone whispered open. A low rumble echoed, like the Earth just cleared its throat.
The monk gave Nanu a blinkless nod.
Nanu responded by adjusting his shawl half an inch.
> Translation: We're in.
---
Outside the sanctum, Edward froze.
Movement. Too sharp.
A figure leaned near the pillar, trying too hard to look casually spiritual. Bad posture. Wrong shoes. And—what was that? A Louis Vuitton knockoff with a fake Om symbol? Blasphemy.
Tail spotted.
Edward didn't flinch. Just cracked his knuckles.
Time for the ballet of the buffoons.
He gave the slightest nod to Eloise.
She didn't move. But her eyes said "Ah. Chaos hour."
She adjusted her scarf. The signal.
Now came her hardest mission yet:
Dealing with Mrs. Verma.
A woman powered by shopping, subtle shade, and 200 grams of judgment per sentence.
> "Mrs. Verma," Eloise began, her voice colder than a royal butler's slap.
"The bazaar out back sells handwoven textiles dyed using crushed Himalayan violets, and blessed by retired sages with Instagram reels."
Mrs. Verma blinked.
> "Also, they have a saree pattern worn by the last woman who rejected Prince Harry."
Mrs. Verma gasped audibly.
Hooked.
Meanwhile, Mr. Verma was rambling to Damoun about "Ayurvedic digestive winds" when Edward swooped in.
> "Gentlemen," he said, too politely, "Did you know there's a spice shop around the corner that sells truffle-infused cardamom smoked by virgins in Tibet?"
Damoun froze.
> "Pardon? Truffle what?"
> "And a vintage chutney aged in coconut skulls," Edward added, casually.
> "SACRÉ BLEU!" Damoun gasped, grabbing Mr. Verma's hand like they were eloping.
They scurried off.
Like two pigeons on a mission for gourmet breadcrumbs.
Edward turned down the incense alley, smile fading.
Tail still behind him.
Time to go hunting.
---
Somewhere near the temple bazaar, under a pink awning that screamed "regret and embroidery":
Mrs. Verma was two questions deep into emotionally interrogating a saree vendor.
> "Is this silk? Or 'silque' like your pronunciation of 'discount'?"
The poor shopkeeper aged five years.
Eloise stood beside her, weaponized elegance in action.
Her eyes scanned the environment like a sniper—but her voice? That was velvet dipped in acid.
> "You know, Mrs. Verma," she purred, fingering a pashmina that probably cost more than the GDP of Bhutan, "This fabric is rumored to be woven by blind monks in the Himalayas... each thread infused with a prayer and one passive-aggressive curse."
Mrs. Verma's pupils dilated.
Eloise leaned in conspiratorially.
> "Rumor has it, Deepika Padukone once wore this... and her mother-in-law never spoke again."
Mrs. Verma gasped.
> "I'LL TAKE THREE."
Mission: Distract Level—Exorcist complete.
---
Meanwhile—somewhere deeper in spice-scented chaos:
Edward strolled with monk-like calm through the spice bazaar, casually browsing between stalls. The scent of turmeric, cardamom, and high-level espionage perfumed the air.
The tail kept following.
Edward turned into a cramped alley.
No one else around.
Just a cracked wall, a shrine to a forgotten deity, and 37 cats that clearly knew secrets.
He stopped at a spice stall.
Picked up a pod of kala jeera. Looked back.
Tail paused.
Too late.
> "Lost, are we?" Edward called, voice smooth like his watch—understated, deadly, British.
The man froze.
Edward stepped closer. Slow. Controlled. Casual like he wasn't two seconds away from folding this guy like laundry.
> "Locals don't wear Adidas with monk robes. Your 'Namaste' had a New Jersey accent. And that fake beard? Darling, it's shedding."
The tail reached for something.
Wrong move.
With one fluid flick, Edward twisted the spice scoop in his hand and slammed it against the man's neck pressure point. The guy dropped like a sack of mildly racist pamphlets.
Edward crouched.
Tattoo on the wrist: three mangoes and a snake eating its tail.
> "Bloody brilliant," Edward whispered.
"We've got a sect, a cipher, and now... fashion-forward cult tattoos."
The tail stirred, groaning.
Edward plucked a hairpin from his own coat (somehow?) and jammed it into the man's shoe sole. A tracker. No need for blood. Not yet.
He whispered into his earpiece, voice low.
> "Eloise? Our mango theory just got confirmed. They've got a tail here, he's marked. Possibly part of a sect. Tattoo looks like a farmer's market had an exorcism."
Eloise replied, deadpan as death in heels:
> "Copy that. Mrs. Verma just tried to bargain with a mannequin. Morale is low."
Edward smirked.
But something made his smile drop.
From the rooftop above—the glint of another eye.
> "Eloise," he said, voice sharp now, "We're not alone. Someone else cracked the fruit code."
---
Cut to:
Nanu descending into the temple's newly revealed passage.
Only torchlight now.
Carvings whispered past his shoulder like dead generals offering counsel.
> He whispered, barely audible: "Then it begins."
---
The sanctum door didn't open.
It breathed.
Like something ancient had just exhaled after waiting a thousand years for someone competent.
Nanu stepped in, alone.
Torchlight flickered, illuminating walls etched with Vedic geometry so precise it could have given NASA an inferiority complex.
The floor tiles shimmered—some dull, some polished. Not random.
> "Sanskrit Sudoku," Nanu muttered.
"Cute."
He didn't walk. He navigated—each step a calculated move on a millennia-old chessboard of death.
One tile clicked beneath his left heel.
Whirrr—CLANK!
A carved lion's mouth opened.
It didn't roar.
It projected a 3D hologram of the ancient layout.
But only for 5 seconds. Because obviously it's ancient tech and nothing ever works for more than 5 seconds.
Nanu had seen enough.
> "Left corridor. Third alcove. Touch the broken Vishnu."
He moved.
At the end of the corridor was a statue. Shree Vishnu—arm outstretched. But the fingers had broken off long ago… except for one.
One modern material finger, covered in dust but unmistakably metal.
> Click.
The ground split.
Nanu didn't flinch as the floor dropped beneath him.
He fell—
—but landed on his feet like the laws of gravity had a separate treaty with him.
He was now inside what looked like an underground archive.
Scrolls. Tablets. Devices that looked like USB drives pretending to be rosaries.
And in the middle: a pedestal.
On it?
A mango.
Again.
But not a real one.
This one was polished brass, encrusted with ancient engravings and… faint circuits.
> "Oh you clever old snakes," Nanu whispered.
---
Above ground, somewhere between "Shop No. 88" and "Instant Henna & Divorce Advice":
Eloise hadn't just distracted Mrs. Verma.
She'd turned her into a weapons-grade gossip grenade.
> "You know Mrs. Damoun believes her house is haunted by a colonial ghost named Reginald?"
Mrs. Verma's mouth opened. She didn't blink for twenty-eight straight seconds.
> "And Mr. Verma?" Eloise continued, expertly applying eyeliner with the grace of an assassin, "He once accidentally worshiped a statue of an elephant thinking it was Ganesha. At a wedding. In Goa."
Mrs. Verma combusted.
> "I MUST FIND THEM IMMEDIATELY."
Eloise nodded, smiling like a Bond villain sipping on sarcasm.
> "Do tell them I said hello."
---
Cut to: Edward, high above the bazaar now.
He'd climbed up a fire escape.
Spotted the second stalker.
This one wasn't tailing them. He was watching the temple.
Binoculars.
Lip mic.
Body posture? Trained.
Tattoo? Hidden under the sleeve.
But Edward saw the reflection of it in a steel kettle boiling tea.
> Three mangoes. Snake in the center.
And below it—a crown.
> "Eloise," he whispered.
"Bad news. They're not just mango fanatics. They're royal mango fanatics."
Pause.
Eloise's voice came through—cool as a cryogenic blade:
> "And here I thought cults couldn't get worse."
---
Meanwhile... underground:
Nanu reached out.
Didn't pick up the brass mango.
He twisted its stem.
The pedestal groaned.
Wall behind him rotated.
Another room.
One seat.
One screen.
One symbol glowing—same as the tattoo.
On the screen:
An ancient Vedic manuscript... being decoded in real-time by an AI interface.
> "They've already begun digitizing the Sutra Network," Nanu whispered.
Then the lights blinked.
Someone else had just accessed the terminal.
And not from inside India.
From London.
---
---
[LOCATION -- ETHAN'S CAVE]
They slinked up the staircase like two goblins trespassing into their own heist.
Veer: jittery, twitchy, high on curiosity and poor decisions.
Ethan: dragging himself like he owed gravity an apology.
The door creaked open to Ethan's tech-cave: Cables tangled like robot intestines.
Monitors glitch—briefly, in one frame, a watermark flashes:
> @RiyaWrites // Draft 03 – "Chrono-Compression Theory"
Duct-taped gadgets blinked like rejected R2-D2 prototypes.
A 3D-printed skull wore VR goggles. Next to it? A toaster with a Post-it: "DO NOT PLUG IN — EXPLODED ONCE. RIP."
In the corner, a teddy bear wore a GoPro and silently judged them.
Ethan hesitated. Just a breath. The kind of pause you take before letting a tornado into your church.
He floated into his cobbled throne of a chair—a Frankenstein fusion of a gaming seat, an ergonomic horror story, and probably haunted.
He spun once. Quietly.
Like a cat surveying the end of the world.
Veer, carrying the cursed U-shaped mystery like the idiot messiah of dumb decisions, SLAMMED it on the desk.
> "Boom. From the fog. Could be alien. Could be demonic. Might be a futuristic nutcracker. But it ZAPPED me, so it's special."
Ethan blinked at the object. Then at Veer. Then back.
"You licked it, didn't you." (softly. like a barista watching you pour Red Bull into herbal tea.)
> "Sniffed, tapped, THEN licked. SCIENCE."
Ethan exhaled. Long and light. A sound that said, "I forgive you. But only because I don't have the energy to scream."
He picked it up with salad tongs from a drawer labeled 'BIOHAZARD + VEER'.
> "Why are you like this?"
Soft. Sad. A feather of judgment wrapped in affection.
> "Genetics. Bad parenting. Cursed academics."
The machine HUMMED. A deep, unholy purr. Like an ancient beast stretching in its sleep.
Ethan's demeanor shifted—quiet concern tightening into silent focus.
His brow furrowed.
Scanner activated.
The room lit up like an '80s ritual powered by guilt and RAM.
> "It's not Wi-Fi. Not Bluetooth. But… it's bleeding something. Energy? Radiation? …Sarcasm?"
> "Does it give powers? Can I jump off a roof and not die?"
Ethan didn't look up.
> "You could jump regardless. But surviving's the tricky part."
The device SPARKED—tiny arcs flickering like agitated spirits.
Ethan's monitors glitched.
Strings of corrupted code.
Symbols like Sanskrit overdosed on caffeine.
> "It's encrypted… not like code. Like reality is scared to read it."
> "So it's magic tech?! Like cursed space wizard stuff?"
Ethan's fingers flew. No drama. Just precision and quiet dread.
> "Material's not human. Too unstable. You should be… cooked."
Pause.
Both glance at Veer.
Fine. Healthy. Barely singed.
Glowing with that same stupid grin.
> "Wait… you've been carrying this?"
> "Yep. Thought it whispered my name once."
Ethan stared. A whisper of panic behind the deadpan.
> "You cuddled an interdimensional hand grenade."
Veer.
> "You think it chose me?"
Screen message.
> V&J_ADVENTURES_EP_12_UNLISTED
Ethan.
> "It's choosing Darwin."
BZZZTTT!
A jolt cracked the desk. Keyboard wailed like a dying banshee.
Ethan flinched—his soft features hardening with fear.
> "Okay—this isn't right. This thing has a frequency lock. Someone engineered this with physics that don't exist here."
Model loaded. Ethan rotated it.
He stopped.
Eyes wide.
A breath caught in his throat.
> "…Oh my god."
> "What? WHAT? Did it say my name in binary!?"
> "This… is a shoe sole."
> "A WHA—"
Ethan zoomed, enhanced, rotated—CSI levels of betrayal.
> "Specifically… a broken smart-sole. Shockwave tech. Possibly alien-adapted. You were licking... shoe debris."
> "…I THOUGHT IT WAS A PORTAL KEY!"
> "No. You French-kissed toe technology."
> "It was glowing! It SPOKE!"
> "Probably body heat. Or your emotional damage."
Beat.
Ethan's voice dropped. Gentle. Almost worried.
> "You've been dragging radiation into my room…"
> "…I'm sorry. I just wanted to—"
> "No, no, it's okay," Ethan cut in softly, wiping the desk with nervous fingers. "Just… maybe don't bring cursed footwear next time, okay?"
Pause.
Then the bear twitched.
A low whisper: "Ssshhhoooeee…"
Veer: "Is this one of Cherry's cursed toy mods? You know, the one with the scream-activated glitter cannon?"
Ethan: "She said this one was 'too well-behaved.' So she gave it to me."
Veer:
> "I'm emotionally stable. That's why I never need any."
---
Half an hour later..
[ETHAN'S CAVE– 9:30 AM]
Ethan blinked slowly, like a cat deciding if the world was worth saving today.
He pointed to the screen—data streams, waveform clusters, infrared overlays.
Ethan:
> "I ran thermal ghost-mapping, reverse-traced residual EM fields, and cross-checked quantum leakage patterns."
Veer (sipping a suspiciously green energy drink):
> "Hot."
Ethan (ignoring him, softer):
> "It all leads back to that one spot. The fog zone. Where your last two brain cells went to die."
A pause. Ethan adjusted his headphones—half on, as always. Then, quieter, almost reluctant:
Ethan:
> "…There's something off about it, Veer. The signals felt… lonely."
Veer blinked.
Veer:
> "Bro. Did you just emotionally diagnose a haunted bush?"
Ethan (flat):
> "Fine. But we're doing this scientifically. Gear. Scans. Caution. No licking."
Veer (mock salute):
> "I only lick with consent now."
---
EDGE OF TOWN – FOG INCIDENT SITE – 10:00 AM
The place looked normal. Which meant cursed.
Trees bent ever-so-slightly away from the center. Birds refused to chirp. Even sunlight seemed to hesitate.
Ethan set up his portable scanner—two antennae and a laptop duct-taped to what looked like a lunchbox from hell. Veer just poked at things with a stick he named "Dr. Proberton."
Ethan (softly):
> "Field distortion's still here. Low-level. But measurable. Wait. why the pole's bent?"
Veer (holding up a burnt leaf):
> "Looks like it paid taxes and gave up on life."
Suddenly—BEEP. Ethan's scanner spiked.
Ethan:
> "Localized gravitational hiccup. Point-six-second flux anomaly. Something passed through here."
Veer:
> "...You mean like teleport?"
Ethan (still typing furiously):
> "Or arrival. Or exit. Or bleeding between timelines. Could be a multidimensional corridor breach."
He paused. Looked at the spot.
Ethan (quieter now):
> "It left a residue. Like… it didn't want to leave."
Veer:
> "You say that like it's normal and not how horror movies start."
The fog thickened—unnaturally. Like it heard them.
Veer (tense):
> "Dude. I swear this is where I saw those eyes. Red. Watching. Like a toaster from hell."
Ethan (focused):
> "Electromagnetic field's compressing. Something's echoing back."
Static flickered on Ethan's handheld monitor. Briefly—too fast—a silhouette. Tall. Inhuman.
Ethan froze.
Then looked at Veer.
Ethan (quietly):
> "…Did it…just wave at you?"
Veer (gulping):
> "Did I just wave back?"
The fog thickened for a second—then vanished. Like someone canceled the effect.
The scanner died. Battery full. Gone.
Ethan dropped to one knee, brushing the grass with gentle, almost reverent fingertips. He looked like someone touching a memory.
Ethan (softly):
> "This… This was engineered. Not random. Not natural. Someone built this hole in the world."
Veer (serious for once):
> "And left me a glowing sneaker sole as a party favor."
They both looked at each other.
Then down at the spot.
Then back at each other.
Veer (deadpan):
> "Do we tell someone?"
Ethan (small smirk):
> "Absolutely not."
Veer:
> "Cool. What now?"
Ethan (rising, quiet resolve):
> "Now? We build a framework. If this is tech, we reverse-engineer it. If it's something else…"
Veer (Devil smirk):
"—We'll monetize it."
Kind of grin was banned in 47 dimensions and considered an act of emotional terrorism.
---