The air inside the inner sanctum of Shree Kshetrapal Dham was heavy with incense.
Swami Vairagyanand sat on his grand seat of sandalwood and ivory, draped in saffron silk. His body was still, but his eyes burned with fury.
Bhavchand, trembling, knelt before him, sweat pouring down his face.
"I saw it with my own eyes, Maharaj…" he said, voice dry. "That servant boy, Dev… he must have killed Adityanand. Then he took his form."
For a moment, Swami said nothing.
His eyes closed.
A flash of memories struck him—Adityanand as a child, pampered and cruel, yet still his blood. All those years, all that power built for him. Now gone. By the hand of a lowly sweeper.
A servant.
A boy he barely remembered, whose face was always in the shadows.
"I thought he was dead," Swami muttered, almost to himself. "Missing for days… I assumed some of our men killed him out of boredom. It happens here. No one notices."
He gritted his teeth, fingers digging into the armrest of his throne.
"But now he's not just alive…" he hissed. "He's wearing my son's skin."
Just then, the torches flickered violently, though there was no wind.
Two men entered.
One walked with unnatural grace, a pale glow in his third eye—Sundar Nath, seer of illusions.
The other loomed behind like a demon from scripture, horns just beneath his scalp, muscles bulging under his saffron robes—Gajanan, the bull-blooded.
They bowed.
"Maharaj," Sundar Nath said calmly, "We were at the river. The veil is thinning. There I found a mysterious temple. We just need your permission to explore."
Swami's face twisted.
"The mysterious temple? That must be the secret of this bastard power… this lowborn vermin."
"Who are you talking about Maharaj?" Sundar Nath asked, he didn't understand what Guruji was thinking.
Then Swami Vairagyanand explained about his son's death, and Dev taking his place.
Gajanan grunted in anger, hearing that guruji's son had died. "Should I rip off his skin, Maharaj?"
Swami raised a hand. "Not now. Not while he walks in my son's name. The people, the police, the media—even Kailash Yadav—they all believe Adityanand lives."
"But," he leaned forward, voice cold as ice, "He visits the river often. Alone. Thinking himself untouchable."
He turned to Gajanan. "You will follow him. Wait till he is far from the Ashram. Then kill him. Quietly. No one must know Adityanand is dead—not yet."
"With this we also know about the temple secret, and will find the same powers, which lowly vermin have gotten."
Gajanan bowed with a cruel smile. "He will die screaming, Swamiji."
Swami looked into the dark.
And for the first time in years… he prayed.
But not to God.
He whispered to the shadows.
"Let death fall upon the imposter like a curse wrapped in silence."
---
But Swami Vairagyanand did not stop here, he also ordered Sundar Nath to see who really the Dev was.
"Find his truth," Swami whispered.
Sundar Nath nodded.
His third eye glowing with a sickly white hue, lips chanting silently.
A bowl of dark oil shimmered in his hands. With a flick of his wrist, he dropped a single drop of his own blood into it. Instantly, the surface rippled and an image began to form.
A dusty road…
A crying boy…
An old, battered man in a police uniform stood there.
Javed Ali.
He looked around in guilt, then gently knocked on the gate of the Ashram, lifting the boy in his arms. No one saw. No one noticed. Then he walked away.
Sundar Nath opened his eyes. "The boy was dropped here ten years ago. By a man named Javed Ali, once a constable. He had a wife. And a daughter."
Swami's voice was now cold steel. "I want all three found. Now."
Sundar Nath bowed.
"I will go by myself to bring him with his family." Sundar Nath nodded, and with few followers goes towards Javed Ali's home.
---
Far from the temple walls, beneath the silver moonlight, Dev stood once more at the edge of the river.
He had returned to the ancient site again—drawn to the secrets inside the submerged Shiva temple, sensing the call of something.
The water shimmered.
But so did something else—in the trees behind him.
Gajanan, silent as a beast in hunt, crouched low. His skin pulsed. Horns slowly twisted from beneath his scalp. His breath was slow, his muscles coiled.
He was waiting.
Watching.
Dev turned his head slightly.
Then—
A thud.
Gajanan charged, a living bull, horns gleaming with thickened bone. He hit the ground so hard the earth cracked beneath him.
Dev twisted sideways.
Just in time.
Gajanan's charge slammed into a rock, splitting it clean.
"You're not Adityanand," Gajanan growled. "You're Dev. I will take revenge for Adityanand. Let me tear you apart."
Dev's eyes narrowed. "I was hoping you'd come alone."
Then he muttered under his breath:
"Agnichakra."
His palm burned hot.
He threw his hand forward—flames spiraled from his palm, not full fire, but searing enough to scorch Gajanan's robes. Gajanan roared, horns glowing, charging again.
The battle began.
Dev danced between blows, using his knife, he cut deep into Gajanan's thigh—but the brute barely flinched.
Then Dev activated another word from the scroll:
"Chhayachakra…"
For a moment, Dev vanished into the shadows.
Gajanan was shocked that Dev had vanished, but before he found the truth.
Dev appeared behind him, striking the pressure point near his spine. Gajanan stumbled—then with a roar, spun and lifted a whole log, hurling it like a missile.
Dev ducked.
It slammed into a tree behind him—exploding it.
Dev then used another power of the school.
"Trinetra!"
In his mind's eye, he saw Gajanan's weakness—a faint, flickering energy beneath his left rib. The heart, slowed and enchanted by Mahishasura's power.
Dev rushed in, and using the knife, he plunged deep.
Gajanan screamed in pain. He coughed a little blood—then charged again.
But his steps faltered.
One more strike. This time across the throat.
Gajanan's breath grew shallow, blood pouring from the wound in his throat. He fell to his knees, coughing violently.
Dev stood before him, his blade still warm, eyes like fire.
But before the last breath left Gajanan's body, he laughed—a cruel, gurgling sound.
"You think, after killing me, everything is over?" he choked. "Swami… he already knows… everything."
Dev's eyes sharpened. "What did you say?"
Gajanan grinned through the blood. "He knows you're not Adityanand… He knows you're Dev."
Dev took a step closer.
Gajanan continued, voice fading but dripping with mockery: "Sundar Nath… has already gone… to capture Javed Ali, his wife… and his daughter."
Then life left his eyes.
Dev froze.
For a second, the world was silent.
Then—
"No…"
His body surged into motion.
He didn't stop to bury Gajanan. He didn't look back at the river. He sprinted towards Javed Ali's house.
---
He owed everything to Javed Ali.
Ten years ago, if that worn-out man hadn't taken a risk… hadn't carried a nameless orphan boy in his arms and left him at the Ashram gate—he wouldn't be alive. He would've died in the gutters like a dog, forgotten and broken.
And Javed hadn't just saved him… he had remembered him.
In secret, Javed had met him many times near the village borders, disguised and hidden from the eyes of Ashram spies. They'd talk, share a quiet tea, sometimes laugh.
Javed's wife, Nazia, was a soft-spoken, kind woman, who welcomed Dev like her own. And their daughter—Aamira.
She had just turned sixteen.
Bright-eyed, full of mischief and light, Aamira had once declared with total confidence:
"When you become eighteen, you're marrying me."
Dev had laughed, but he had also nodded. For a promise—a simple one, born out of quiet affection.
She was good. Pure. Innocent of this world's filth.
And now they were in danger.
Because of him.
---
Dev's feet barely touched the ground as he moved. He cut through the woods, through the narrow pathways, the same path he remembered when Javed used to wave goodbye to him from the shadow of his home.
He didn't know what he would find. Only that he had to be faster than Sundar Nath.
Because this time, it wasn't about vengeance or anything.
This time, it was about a debt.
And Dev never left his debts unpaid.
---
The house that once echoed with laughter now trembled in silence.
Javed Ali, bruised and bleeding, knelt on the cold stone floor. His hands were bound, his face swollen from repeated blows. Yet in his eyes, there was no fear—only defiance.
Before him stood Sundar Nath, silent and still like a statue of judgment, flanked by two Ashram enforcers.
His wife, Naziya, was bent over the bed. Her Kurta was lifted up, while her Salwar was torn away, her panty was taken down.
Both her ass and pussy were revealed in front of the Ashram devotees.
Her dignity was stripped by humiliation, though her spirit still held on. She had been dragged here, shoved and shamed.
Tears streamed down her face, but she held her head high, refusing to beg for mercy.
Their daughter, Aaliya, was hidden—locked away in a small storeroom by her father before the Ashram men had broken in.
She didn't make a sound. She clutched her hands to her chest, eyes wide in silent prayer.
Sundar Nath stepped closer.
"Once again, Javed Ali," he said in a cold voice. "Where did you find the boy?"
Javed looked up slowly, blood running from his split lip.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he rasped. "He was just a child—abandoned, lost. I only did what any decent man would do."
Sundar Nath's eyes narrowed. His aura shifted, unnatural—dark energy pulsing around him like a coiled serpent.
"That boy is not just a boy," he said. "Swami Vairagyanand believes he is something more. And if you lie to me again…"
He gestured, and one of the enforcers slip down his dhoti. His cock appeared, and before Javed could say anything, the enforcer pushed his cock in the Naziya's pussy.
Naziya screamed in pain
"Aaaaaahhhhhhh."
Javed Ali watched in horror as the enforcer raped his wife, his heart shattering with each of her screams. Tears blurred his vision, but he refused to look away, refusing to give Sundar Nath the satisfaction of seeing him break.
"Stop!" he cried out, his voice hoarse and desperate. "Please, stop!"
Sundar Nath smirked, relishing Javed's anguish. "Tell me what I want to know, and it will all end," he taunted. "Keep your secrets, and your wife will suffer far worse than this."
The enforcer continued his brutal assault, Naziya's screams echoing through the room. Javed felt a surge of hatred, a desire to rip Sundar Nath's throat out with his bare hands. But he knew he had no energy to do it.