Chapter 11
Rani, Pickachu, Alekhyaa Ram, Surya Abhiram, Vanya Polishetty, Lucario, and Anoshu Adai were still fighting the Hind Kush Demon when they step forward in front of them.
The demons were like humans, no extra stuffs coming out of them. But something was off. It was like a they were not real at all. The demons looked as if evil have entered their eyes for a long time in their black eyes.
Adithya stand there with a black kurta with straight hair and a beard.
Saranya has dark green kurta with golden flower patterns on them.
Vandan had a blue kurta with a beard and curly hair.
Suman wear yellow kurta with straight hair and a short beard than Aditya.
Keyur wear a golden and black kurta with the no beard and curly hair.
His cousin, Vidhaathri was wearing the same color saree.
Ayukta was wearing a red lehenga with crystal beads.
Mahadevan has whitish grey kurta with the longest beard the group have with straight hair.
Harsha has a blackish blue color kurta with a beard and straight long hair.
Malavika has blue and red color saree.
Each of their name were craved on their dresses in Hindi so that the slayer could see them. They were arrogance enough to demand, the surrender of the slayers.
"So, this is where Mr. Guru is?" Suman said.
Anoshu replied, "Why are you here?"
"We are here to be a plot against someone. Mostly we are sick of these trees. The smell is disturbing us." Ayukta said.
"The main reason is to destroy the Demon slayers for good." Aditya said.
"But that is not all." Anoshu said getting prepared to fight.
"You seems to be the smart one aren't you" Aditya said.
He looked at the situation and then said, "Let's dance, shall we?"
The Hind Kush demon were not like the previous demon Rani faced. Their power was so strong that Rani could easily defeat them with her small body, but there was one problem. Why are there here?
Anoshu attack from all ends. But it was she who was fighting. She felt like she should protect the others as they are weaker than her.
She kept fighting till dawn along with others. Anoshu was guiding everyone to do everything. But there were no match for the 12 demons in total.
But Anoshu could not fight anymore. She was stab in the heart and Alekhyaa and Surya ran to save her, they were thrown into the air and fell unconscious.
Rani got loses in her thoughts. There were so many demons that she never seen or heard. She wondered why. Why was she not informed about this. Why is the demon being in ranks. Have she so far killed demons that are not important.
She was so lost that. Aditya came near her. She and Pickachu did not realize until now. Anoshu is fighting for her life, Alekhyaa and Surya were down, and Vanya and Lucario was screaming something.
Rani was close. She immediately, attack Aditya but he vanish in thin air. She then heard Vanya saying, "They are not real. It is a trap!"
Rani look at her first. 'What does she mean it is a trap?"
Suddenly she hear a familiar voice.
"Hello Putri. It been a long time." Said Mayabazaar.
Chapter 12
Rani and Pickachu looked at Maya Bazaar for the first time in years. She have not changed a bit.
"You changed a lot, Putri. Or now they call you Rani, right?" She said with a cold smile.
It been a long time since someone called her that name.
"What are you doing here?" Aditya asked.
"Well, since it almost daylight, I am here to get the mission undergo. I see you kills a Stambh. Well, that does not matter. I came for the girl and her Pokémon."
"So, it was the holy demons order?"
"Yes."
Rani looked at Maya bazar remembering every inch of her past. It seem the girl was not able to listen to the conservations. She started to get angry and attack her in full rage.
But Maya bazaar took the blows. After Rani was done, Maya stood up and touch both her and Pickachu forehead and they collapsed.
"What are you going to do?" Lucario whispered to Vanya.
"Follow them." Vanya Polishetty said.
Aditya looked around and saw both of them disappear then.
"Very well then. Since the Anek Rishte region is close to Isa region, we though that we could help. But since the Holy demons asked for her, she was then that is not necessary." Aditya said.
"Of course, once the heart becomes full consumed then they is no stopping the demons." Maya cracked.
The Hind Kush Demon went back, with Maya Bazaar taking Rani and Pickachu. Leaving a note for Alekhyaa Ram and Surya Abhiram, to take care of Anoshu Adai.
Dhairy Adai, sister of Anoshu came running to see that her sister is dying there.
Anoshu last words struck Dhairy together. "Save yourself from the Hind Kush Demons. Do it be…" She died in her little sister arms.
Dhairy took Alekhyaa and Surya to her house for treatment. She decided to tell the other Stambhs about this. And now to search for the remaining Demon Slayers who Maya bazaar captured.
Meanwhile, Vanya send a message to her brother through a silver-like bird. "It will be better for help from someone I know well than the Demon Slayer." She tells Lucario.
"But will they help?" Lucario asked.
"Of course." Vanya said. But her body said otherwise.
"Are you okay?"
"I cannot believe that this is happening again."
"What happening again?"
"My Fits."
Maya bazaar hide in the daylight through a train full of darkness. There is tried to wake up Rani. But she was not budge.
'Her heart.' She knew that the demon heart is growing inside her.
Maya bazaar enter Dakshini Rajadhani area where the Holy Demons live. There she was welcome with cheers from small demons.
"Listen. Once the Holy Demons finish with her, then nobody will stop us conquering the world." Maya bazaar declared.
The demons cheered.
"Now to the operating table." She said with pride in her eyes.
Chapter 13
Rani was in an operating table. The female demons were getting her prepare as if they are going operated in the chest region. Rani was still breathing from her mouth and none of the medicine were working.
The Holy Demons then enter the room and the other demons left.
"Well, this is fun. We never operated on humans before." Said Anushuya, a young girl said.
"This girl may hold the future of the demons, and we need to be careful." Saketh a demon in his 20s said. The demon looks in there 20s wearing masks and gown on them.
"Now. Try to find where the heart is." Shreya said.
"The heart can be anywhere in the body, but. It seems attached to the human heart." Rakesh said.
"That is strange. Normally, demon hearts and migraines can be of evolving anywhere in the body." Maanvi said.
"This means that this girl is still breeding human. What should we do then?" Rajesh said.
"Start the procedure immediately." Sanjeet the leader said.
"OK, now I see the heart, and now I can see it coming through." Shreya said.
"We need to cut it gently." Saina said.
"I'm a doctor. I can do it. I have a degree in it. It's not getting none of you have it." Shreya said.
"Ohh please. Everyone knows that surgeons are not really doctors. No, it is PhD's who are real doctor." Bhavya said.
"What?" Shreya said in angry.
"Now is not the time to find out. Just keep going." Sanjeet said.
As the cut slowly gets in the way. There was lots of blood coming out quick.
"We need a something to take away this blood." Shreya said.
"We cannot freeze the blood steam, and we cannot freeze it. There is some human blood in it, but it's still demon." Tarun said.
"Ohh, now we found the heart. Now we need to remove it. How do we do it?" Anushuya said in her child form.
Suddenly a beam of Seas power started to blow out of Rani's body. This cause her Pokémon to come out of their balls and Pickachu to wake up.
The Holy demons started to get a little dizzy.
"What happen?" Saketh asked.
"It seems that her Seas magic is trying to stop us from attacking."
The scar seems to disappear and everything when back to normal before the operating.
"Something is off." Sanjay said.
"It seems to Seas magic is trying to control everything." Bhavya said.
"We better stop it before it's too late." Tarun said.
"But what about the Pokémon?" Rakesh asked.
"I can handle that. That's not a big deal." Anushuya said.
Anushuya cracked her bone and joints like it was nothing. She started to grow taller with the bone such that the Pokémon was scared to move.
"Now. Why are you here." Said a 5 ft tall Anushuya scaring smile. "Do you want to come closer."
The Pokémon are now scare to move.
"What should we do now? It seems the girl is in pain because just try to remove the seeds magic within her and then…" Shreya asked.
"Then what?" Saketh asked.
"Try to make her demon." Sanjay finish the sentence.
Chapter 14
Rani still unconscious enters into her dreams. There she saw a familiar figure. It was Captain Marvel.
"Hello child. It has been a long time." She said in her old voice.
"Where am I?" Rani asked.
"You are in your mind right now. Frankly speaking, I am glad that you are okay."
"Glad? Well, that's sound weird. I was kidnapped by my only demon friend and brought into this place full of demons and Pokémon."
"That is what written for you. I am sorry that I left so soon. If your mother or any of her relative who are Seas are there than you would be found soon. But, since every single Seas is young and have not yet unlocked their true potential, it is difficult to track you."
"What about my dad?"
"He is not a Seas. So, that is why it is taking too long."
Rani looked at Captain Marvel confused.
"What do you mean?"
"Only a Seas can search for another Seas. That is the law."
"What law? Did my grandmother break the law?"
Captain Marvel signed.
"Parsi is not someone that cannot ruled a country. It was Gana who gave the shots. Gana have been Swapna the demon cousin and Padma Iyer's father by birth. But he abandon everything, for power. He is no different than a demon itself. Unfornately, ever since they died, the rule of the Madhu City have brought down."
Captain Marvel looked at Rani.
"Madhu City is in chaos. Everyone is worried about the next ruler. But their main worry is you."
"Me?" Rani asked. "But why?"
"Don't you know. You are the…."
Captain Marvel disappear.
Rani woke up in a bed beside Pickachu and all of her Pokémon.
"What happen?" She whisper.
"You are the Holy Demons home now." Maya bazaar said who was right beside her.
"Maya… Why?" Rani struggle.
"I know you have a lot of questions right now. But for now, I want you to rest."
"What?" Rani suddenly felt a pain in her chest. "What have you done?"
"I tried to remove your demon heart. But since it is so attached to your body, only you should remove your Seas magic in order to become a complete demon." Maya bazaar said serious before leaving the room.
"Oh, And one more thing. Say goodbye to your past. Just like Padma did."
As Maya bazaar leaves, she smiled.
'This is where a new beginning starts.'
Chapter 15
Rani stayed in the room for two hours. Her Pokémon comfort her as she was not able to remember her dream.
"I wonder if everyone else is okay." She said. Rani was especially worried about the Stambh who saved her life.
Rani was still feeling a strong pain in her chest region.
The door open as there were nine people with a little girl enter the room. They were demons already but with more power.
"You are awake." Sanjay said.
"Who are you?" Rani asked.
"We are the Holy Demons." Sanjay said. "We are here to treat you."
"Treat me? But why?"
"Because you are a demon slayer with Seas power. Ever since you kill our friend Swapna. We decides to harness your power for our used. Then again, we will conquer the world."
"But first we need to remove your Seas power." Sanjay said. He look dead serious.
"What about my chest pain?" Rani asked.
"Chest pain?" Sanjay said. "It seems that one of your demon hearts is dying."
"Demon heart?"
"Yes. You have two hearts. A normal heart and the demon heart. Your demon heart start to work during the Madhu attack in the Madhu city. As a results, you started to show demon blood through your vein. Also, you have used more demon blood for your demon slayer magic through your whip. That results in the chest pain.
When we tried to operate on you. We notices that the heart is dead inside you causing severe problems. We want to remove it."
"But you are demon. Don't you want to kill me and then take out my heart or whatever you wanted?"
"No. Because we promise two people to make you a demon."
"Two people?"
"Maya bazaar and Aalia."
"Huh?" Rani was shocked to hear their names.
"You see, Maya bazaar never saw you as an enemy, but rather a friend. She seems to be angry at first, but now after watching you grow, she seems to be proud at what she have done.
As for Aalia. All she wanted is to be friends with you since you too share the same problem together."
"That sound nice, but what it got to do with me?"
"You have not unlocked your true potential yet? Once you do you will understand. Until then we are going to help you."
"First you said killed, enemy, friend, and now true potential. Who are you guys? And what do you want from me?" Rani said with confusion and angrier.
"We want you to be a demon." Sanjay said. "Whatever it takes."
Rani knew that she in big trouble.
"As for who are we? You need to know our back stories."
"Stories?"
Chapter 16
"I am Sanjay."
'From Bengaluru, the architect of subversion or the disillusioned engineer, the man is in advanced anti-corruption software is ignored, then his family is threatened by the corrupt system.'
Y70
Sanjay Soni was in his prime. As an only child, he was a darling. But his dream was shatter, when she want him to be an engineer. What Sanjay want to do is irrelevant.
Every game, every friend, every show on TV, and even every food has been controlled. For a middle-class family where his father barely works and mother controlling everything, Sanjay was in a deadlock. The grades, the university, the job. Everything was in her control.
But he decides to continue his mother path. For which he felt like it will help him have later control of his life and his mother will be proud of him.
And he did. But at what cost?
Controlling every aspect of his life. All of his friends were enjoying life as nothing is controlling them. Parties, Malls, even career choices were done without parent controlling them.
But everything was not a perfect life. He did not get the job that his mother wanted him to get. Instead, he got a simpler jobs like his father did.
Then one day, her fell in love. To a girl who is way beyond him. That is when he realized that he would control his life for the first thing. She was from a village nearby whereas Sanjay was from a big city with gold and everything.
He would date her secretly and slowly after sometime later. They decides to get married. So, they eloped. Eloped hard and find till they meet Ivy Rani.
Ivy Rani agree to take care of them, if Sanjay is agreeing to help her. The couple agree. For them love to mean everything.
Until one day, as the couple was touring the place, Sanjay's parents' private investigator found them. They came running to bring him back. They wanted to end the marriage immediately. Her parents were lost gone since the girl ran away. The police were searching for them, thinking it was worse than excepted.
Sanjay fought back. He never fought back before. First by words, then by stuff in the house.
And the girl, was killed in the fight. She experience a heavy blow on the head. His parents did not feel sorry at all. They thought that they did a good thing.
That's when it hit him. What is he exactly doing? What purpose does anyone have to control him? What purpose does his parents do?
And in a rage, he killed both of his parents.
He has never felt so miserable in his life. But Ivy Rani, make sure that the rage fuel into him and out came thunder. The magic that harvest was lighting stringer than any other, for which it can make a 20-floor building collapse into pieces.
He slowly evolved into a demon and become the leader of the Holy Demons. But being one demon was not enough.
Sanjay went on searching for the others who also feel the same way as he did.
Chapter 17
"I am Shreya."
'From Ahmedabad, the fallen healer or dealer of despair, the woman, uses pharmaceutical knowledge to create customs poisons and addictive designer drugs for high-profile targets.'
Y70
Writing
Dr. Shreya Patel had been raised in Ahmedabad with a single commandment: excel. Her family was a dynasty of doctors—parents, uncles, siblings, all polished by white coats and surgical reputations. From the time she could hold a pen, her future had already been signed. She studied anatomy while others read novels, memorized drug dosages while others dreamed. Play was a distraction, leisure a sin.
A man arrived in her ward one day. He was not extraordinary—middle-aged, weary eyes, a body weakened by pneumonia. But his case was strange. Every antibiotic triggered violent reactions. He convulsed, sweated, bled through the pores of his skin. Shreya spent nights combing through literature, searching for an answer. But the man refused treatment, muttering that medicine was poison, that doctors were liars. He spat pills into the trash, tore IV lines from his arms, glared at her as though she were the enemy.
Despite her warnings, he worsened. One morning he collapsed, gasping, his lungs drowning in fluid. She fought for him—compressions, injections, intubation. But the man clenched her wrist with icy hands, whispering his final words: "You cannot heal what does not want to live." Then he died, his body stiffening on her table.
The world should have understood. Instead, it turned on her. His relatives stormed the hospital, screaming murder. They claimed negligence, incompetence, cruelty. They dragged her name through newspapers, poisoned her reputation in court. The case should have been dismissed, but the city wanted blood. Overnight, Shreya's license was revoked.
The fall was merciless. Her family, desperate to protect their own standing, cast her out. Her siblings called her a disgrace, her parents severed ties. The hospital barred her doors. Even the police joined the chorus of abuse, summoning her to interrogations where fists replaced questions. "Why did you kill him?" they jeered, striking her until her ribs bruised. "Why did you murder your patient?" Each repetition drove the words deeper, until she began to hear them in her sleep.
Is this why she had spent decades cutting and stitching? So strangers could accuse, family could abandon, justice could laugh? Each day she drifted closer to despair, closer to the edge where only the void waited. She walked through streets where whispers followed her, where neighbors crossed the road to avoid her gaze. To them, she was not a doctor but a killer who had failed even at murder.
She might have ended herself, had fate not intervened. Or perhaps not fate, but Sanjay. He found her on the hospital steps one night, hunched in the shadows, a bottle of pills in her palm. His eyes burned with a darkness she recognized—the same abyss she stared into daily. He offered her his hand, and with it, a taste of something unnatural. Demon's blood.
It coursed through her veins like fire, searing away the weakness. Her despair sharpened into focus, her trembling hands steadied. She returned to the surgical suite not as a healer but as an executioner.
Her first victims were those who had betrayed her—the administrators who revoked her license, the surgeons who testified against her. She lured them with promises of reconciliation, then strapped them to her operating table. Scalpel in hand, she carved them open with clinical precision, peeling back skin and bone. She did not aim to heal; she aimed to horrify. Organs displayed like trophies, arteries plucked like violin strings. The sterile white of the ward became a canvas of crimson.
The city called it a massacre. To Shreya, it was her masterpiece.
From then on, she abandoned the pretense of medicine. She brewed poisons instead of antibiotics, crafted designer drugs that ensnared politicians and businessmen. A few drops turned laughter into paranoia, trust into addiction. High-profile targets fell one by one, choking on the invisible strings she had stitched around them. Where once she had cured disease, now she spread despair like an epidemic.
But her vengeance was not blind. She reserved her cruelest creations for those who hid behind wealth and power, the same kind who had stripped her life bare. Sanjay watched her work with grim approval. To him, she was no longer the fallen doctor but the dealer of despair.
Yet even as she followed him, even as she aligned herself with his crusade, Shreya carried one ember of unfinished business.
Somewhere in Gujarat, she had a cousin—her only companion in childhood, the only one who had once believed in her gentleness. The cousin had vanished years ago, swallowed by the same system that consumed them all. Shreya whispered to herself that she would find her. Not to heal, not to reconcile, but to prove that she had survived, that she had become something stronger than human.
Chapter 18
"I am Saketh."
'From Mumbai, the shadow banker and financial broker, the man, who realizes that honesty is slow, and that truly great wealth is only activated by exploiting the fear and greed of others.'
Y70
Saketh Bhatia is a broke businessman who had once believed in honesty. He grew up in Mumbai's bustle, watching his father run a small hardware shop, dealing in screws, nails, and trust. Customers knew his father's face, respected his word. It seemed enough—that decency could build a life.
But Mumbai is not a city for the honest. Saketh's father died in debt, squeezed dry by loan sharks and landlords. The shop was dismantled, piece by piece, until the shutter rattled down one last time.
At the funeral, Saketh vowed he would do better. He studied finance, burned midnight hours to pass exams, secured a position at a respected firm. He wore suits, shook hands, repeated slogans about integrity.
For years, he clawed his way upward. Yet the truth became impossible to ignore honesty was slow. Clients flocked to men who bent rules, who whispered bribes, who doctored numbers. Saketh's straight path led to mockery.
"Too soft," his colleagues sneered.
"Too clean."
He watched promotions pass him by, watched wealth slip through his fingers.
The turning point came in the form of a deal—illegal, but lucrative. A broker offered him a chance to manipulate a real-estate project, to funnel investments into hollow accounts.
Saketh hesitated for days, but hunger won. He signed the papers, crafted the lies. Within a month, his salary tripled. No one questioned him; instead, they praised his ingenuity. The shame he expected never came. Only exhilaration.
From that day, Saketh abandoned his father's ghost. He embraced the shadows, manipulating stocks, siphoning funds, selling panic like merchandise. When markets trembled, he profited. When people lost homes, he bought them cheap. His office became a den of schemes, each spreadsheet a battlefield. He discovered a terrible truth: greed was the purest currency and fear its most reliable partner.
But wealth brought no warmth. His apartment remained silent, his bed cold. He bought art he did not admire, wine he could not taste, jewelry no one wore. Sometimes he wandered the streets at night, past families huddled together in tenements, past children asleep on sidewalks. He told himself they were weak, that they lacked the courage to seize what the world offered.
Slowly his mother and father memories began to disappear. "They were weak" he said to himself.
One day his cousin Shreya came and asked to join the Tolly demons. He agreed. They both had one enemy. Humans and nothing else. And they're called deeds of whatever happens.
And so, he meet others. He began obsessed with the financial of people and their life. He magic became the gold man which body would turn into gold and with a clicked be destroyed into pieces.
These golds people filled not only passion but also heartfelt of joy in his heart.
Chapter 19
"I am Bhavya."
'From Andra Pradesh, the manipulative artist or master of fabrication, who uses art and media to frame and destroy reputations for control.'
Y70
Bhavya Varma did her PhD in art studio. Nobody accepted her as a female or a human. Her childhood in Visakhapatnam was painted with colors, sketches on walls, canvases propped against broken windows. Art was her escape, the one realm untouched by money or politics. By her twenties, she had clawed her way into galleries, standing beneath lights as critics praised her work. For a moment, she thought he had found a place in the world.
There only one girl who did. Her name was unknown. She used to send letter to Bhavya saying how beautiful there were. She fell for this person in particular.
But the art world is crueler than any battlefield.
One accusation—plagiarism. A whisper, a rumor, then a headline.
Overnight, her reputation disintegrated. They said she had stolen techniques, copied masters, forged inspirations. She begged, she protested, but the elites had already decided. Her canvases were confiscated, her name reduced to a punchline. Patrons withdrew; galleries shut their doors. She was left with ashes where her life's work once burned bright.
But in the silence after the destruction, a thought began to grow. If the world would not celebrate her art, then she would create a new kind—one they could not ignore.
She turned his skills to darker mediums. She learned the language of digital manipulation, the craft of forgery. Where once she painted beauty, now he painted ruin. She created false videos, fabrications so seamless they toppled reputations overnight.
'A politician caught in scandalous acts that never occurred, a businessman implicated in crimes that never existed, an artist accused of theft with forged evidence stronger than truth.' Thought race through her head like it never were. Slowly she started to create her canvas.
Bhavya found exhilaration in the chaos. Each ruined life was a canvas, each destroyed reputation a masterpiece. She did not need galleries; the world itself became her exhibition. Newspapers printed her illusions, television screamed her fabrications, social media spread her brushstrokes of lies.
She grew addicted to the power. With a few clicks, she could turn heroes into villains, friends into enemies. She destroyed rivals for sport, watched their lives collapse under the weight of her creations.
But one day. High power wasn't enough. They caught her. They called her in a big way nobody could ever experience. They arrested her, they trialed her. They did everything. And suddenly she is homeless. All that rage, everything should have vanished, but it kept growing, inside of her.
Hearing this Ivy Rani took her case and save Bhavya. It seems that the girl who send her letters was accused with sexual relationship with Bhavya and was then killed.
This made her blood run hot. What is her crime? Loving the art that she have created? It was enough to kill all those who did her wrong. Police, Lawyer, and even judge could not spare her wrath.
Bhavya was found by Shreya and decided to put everything in the past. She became a painter and when bullet enter her body she would return them. Nothing could ever stop her. No even bullets of art.
Chapter 20
"I am Saina"
'From Utter Pradesh, the wrath of the soil, the leader of a decentralized, anonymous cell focused on sabotage against the wealthily elite.'
Y70
Saina Devi is a farmer in her father land. She had tilled the soil of her family's land in rural Uttar Pradesh since she was old enough to carry a sickle. The earth was her inheritance, her mother, and her family. She grew wheat and mustard, vegetables and dreams, each crop a promise that life could be sustained with sweat and patience. Her sister was the most beautiful woman in the village. Nothing to say. And that to learn from her beauty is courage.
But this happiness did not last for long.
A wealthy industrialist set his gaze on her fields, wanting to turn them into a factory complex. Papers arrived stamped with government seals, declaring that his land had been acquired. Compensation was offered insulting, a mockery. Saina's father refused to sign, clutching the soil in her fists as though his grip alone could keep it safe.
Then came the men. They arrived in trucks, wielding sticks and rifles, bulldozers trailing behind them. Saina and her family fought them with nothing but her body, her neighbors by her side. But resistance met bullets. Amid the chaos, her sister was struck down, a lifeless doll crumpled in the dirt.
Saina screamed until her throat tore. She held her sister's body as the men laughed, as the industrialist's overseers looked on with cold indifference. The police did nothing; the courts dismissed her family pleas. There is nothing that the justice system could do.
Grief fermented into fury. At night, Saina buried her sister beneath the banyan tree, vowing that her spirit would never be forgotten. By day, she began to gather others—the dispossessed, the broken farmers, the widows of suicides, the men who had lost everything to greed. In secret, they trained. They crafted crude bombs, sabotaged machinery, learned to turn the tools of labor into weapons of war.
Factories began to burn. Power lines fell. The rich awoke to fields on fire, to poisoned reservoirs, to crops that withered overnight. They tried everything to destroyed Siana. They burns down her family into pieces. She scream even louder.
Her sad voice was giving her enemy the power. She realized then. Saina did what nobody could do but only dreamed of doing. She destroyed the Politian's home who was sitting at the head of the state.
She no longer sowed seeds of food but seeds of terror. Her cell was decentralized, impossible to track. Each village whispered her name with reverence, each landlord with fear. She lived in the forest, dressed in earth's colors, blending with soil and shadow. Her hands, once soft from harvest, grew calloused from detonators.
The industrialist who had stolen her land lived in fear, his empire rattled by explosions and strikes. Yet the law called her a terrorist, a criminal. Posters with her face fluttered in marketplaces, offering rewards for her capture. Saina laughed at them, for she had already died the day her sister's body grew cold.
Then came Sanjay one day. He was trying to do what he does when he noticed her. She agreed for power, more power enough. She used to take the men, grab their leg and pull it down the ground with great difficulty. She was not done with them even as they were buried down the soil.
Saina was not done yet. She wanted the same revenger as demons did. - To destroy humans.
Chapter 21
"I am Rakesh"
'From Kolkata, the king of necessity, controls the supply chains of essential good in marginalized communities, creating artificial scarcity and profiting from suffering.'
Y70
Rakesh Malik had grown up in Kolkata's slums, where scarcity was a language, everyone spoke. Water arrived in rusted tankers once a week, food rotted before it could be bought, medicine was rarer than gold. His parents dreamed of a small shop, a place where honesty might buy them dignity. Together, they scraped coins until a modest stall stood at the corner of a busy lane, selling rice, lentils, and soap.
For a while, it worked. Neighbors came daily, trusting the Maliks for fair prices. Rakesh, as a boy, watched with pride as his father counted coins, as his mother handed out grain.
But envy breeds easily.
Local strongmen began demanding "fees" for protection. When his father refused, the men smashed the shelves, scattering lentils into the mud. His mother wept as the strongmen kicked her aside, laughing while neighbors turned away.
The shop died a slow death. Debts piled. Rakesh's parents grew thin, their dreams collapsing into silence. By the time he was old enough to inherit, there was nothing left. He tried to build a new, selling vegetables from a cart, repairing radios, anything to stay afloat. Each time, the strongmen returned. Each time, they broke what he built. Each time, he lost.
One night, beaten and bleeding in the gutter, Rakesh found his parents dead by the people who once protected him. He then made a vow. If honesty only led to ruin, then he would become master of dishonesty. If scarcity ruled his life, then he would rule scarcity.
He began small—hoarding sacks of rice during shortages, selling them later at double the price. People cursed but paid, for hunger silenced pride. Soon he controlled more than rice: fuel, kerosene, even medicine smuggled from clinics. He bribed the strongmen, then replaced them. The boy once robbed of everything became the man who decided who lived and who starved.
His empire spread through alleys and slums. Mothers begged him for milk; fathers sold their labor for a vial of antibiotics. Each transaction fattened his purse; each tear hardened his heart. He called himself the King of Necessity, for nothing moved in the underworld without his hand.
Yet his power was not absolute. At night, he sometimes heard echoes of his parents' voices, remembered the stall that once stood on the corner, remembered the day it was smashed. He told himself their dream had been naïve, that survival was worth any price.
When Sanjay's storm lit the sky, Rakesh saw opportunity. The Holy Demons needed supplies—fuel for chaos, medicine for allies, food for armies. Who better to provide than the man who already controlled it all? He aligned himself with their cause, not for ideology but for survival.
And so, from the alleys of Kolkata, the King of Necessity rose. He did not build with hope, but with hunger. And hunger, he knew, never died.
His power was controlling the person inner core organ. He could make a heart stopped working by looking at the person. He can destroyed brain. But the main organ was the stomach. He would make it loose acid so badly that the person cannot digest things.
Chapter 22
"I am Rajesh"
'From Delhi, the dealers of shadows, uses charismatic influence and spirituality to extract wealth and loyalty from vulnerable followers, manipulating them into performing dangerous and criminal tasks.'
Y70
Rajesh Tandon was born into the shadows of Delhi's labyrinthine alleys, where crime was not a deviation but a birthright. His father was a small-time smuggler of liquor and opium, his mother a silent accomplice who stitched lies as deftly as she stitched torn shirts. From childhood, Rajesh learned that survival meant deception, that loyalty was a currency traded only when profitable.
At first, his role was minor—carrying packets under his shirt, watching for police while men exchanged goods. But children grow, and Rajesh grew sharper than most. He learned the rhythms of the streets: which cops could be bribed, which needed silence, which rival gangs would fold under pressure. He built networks where others-built walls, weaving connections like spider silk until he became indispensable.
By twenty, he commanded his own crew. His warehouses were filled with weapons stamped with foreign insignias, each crate a promise of violence. He became known not merely as a criminal, but as a kingpin: Rajesh the Dealer of Shadows.
But his empire was not built without blood. Rivals who challenged him disappeared into the Yamuna, their bodies surfacing days later. Informants were hanged in alleyways as warnings. Police inspectors who resisted bribes found their families shattered. Rajesh's rule was absolute, enforced with fear sharper than any blade.
Yet power breeds paranoia. He trusted no one fully, not even his own men. Nights were spent with pistols under pillows, meals tasted by underlings before reaching his lips. He saw betrayal everywhere, in every smile, in every handshake. Friends became enemies overnight, and Rajesh slept less with each passing year.
Then his parents died, hearing about their sons deeds.
In the rare moments of quiet, he sometimes remembered his childhood—his mother's hands trembling as she stitched, his father's drunken rages. He told himself he was different, stronger, that he had conquered the very world that had enslaved them. But deep inside, a voice whispered that he had only built a larger cage, gilded with gold and soaked in blood.
When Sanjay's movement stirred, Rajesh hesitated. What need had he for ideology, when he already ruled his world? Yet the Demons were not ordinary rebels. They sought not just wealth, but chaos—an environment where Rajesh thrived best. They promised upheaval, and upheaval meant profit.
And so, Rajesh extended his hand to Sanjay. He smuggled weapons for the cause, turned supply lines into arteries of insurrection. His warehouses became armories; his crews became soldiers. In their war, he found both purpose and refuge: purpose in destruction, refuge in knowing that if the world burned, he would always be the one selling the flames.
Rajesh's body became steel. Like Bhavya, he could take bullets in. But what make him special is that he can build weapons from his hands and face.
Rajesh Tandon, the Dealer of Shadows, had never believed in gods or demons. But in Sanjay, he saw both—and he intended to profit from them until the very end.
This made him feel worthy again.
Chapter 23
"I am Maanvi"
'From Kolkata, the enforcer of injustice, dances tills enemies are disposed.'
Y70
Maanvi Sharma was not born a dancer. She was born into a police household, where her father wore khaki and carried a baton that smelled of blood.
She grew up learning that law was not justice, that money bent rules more effectively than force. As she matured, she learned the steps of another dance—the dance of corruption.
Her beauty became her weapon. She moved through elite gatherings, first as entertainment, later as executioner.
When a rival politician needed to vanish, she was invited to perform. By the end of the night, the man would be found floating in the Hooghly, his last memory the chiming of her anklets. Maanvi's name was never written in reports but whispered in the corridors of power.
Each killing became an art form. She studied her victims, mimicked their fears in her movements. Her dance told their story, but the finale was always the same death delivered with elegance.
A knife slipped between ribs during applause, poison kissed onto a glass of wine, a silk scarf tightening around a neck in the rhythm of a twirl.
Yet she did not kill blindly. She killed for the system that raised her. Every disposal was sanctioned by men in power, every death a favor paid to corruption. She was the Enforcer of Injustice, a guardian not of the people but of the very rot that destroyed them.
Maanvi's father, one day, saw this. He tried to warn her about it. Killing people for fun is not good. He tried to get her arrested. But instead, she dance, killing each one of them with their sword. Her father tried to save his daughter, but it was too late. The girl who hated her father sliced him up.
Her soul withered under the weight of obedience. Yet she smiled, painted her lips crimson, and stepped onto the stage again and again. She told herself it was survival. She told herself it was destiny. But in the pit of her heart, she knew she had become both jailer and prisoner, dancing in chains she had chosen.
Kolkata's nights are thick with smoke and sweat, the sound of rickshaw bells clanging against the laughter of men who believe the city belongs to them. In one corner of the city, where the rain pools black against the cobblestones, a woman in red silk takes the stage.
'She dances with poise, her anklets ringing with rhythm. Her audience is small, private men in pressed suits and hollow eyes. They do not know they are watching their own requiem.'
When Sanjay's rebellion reached Kolkata, she did not resist. She saw in him a mirror of herself—a soul bound by chains, turned weapon by rage. She shed her silk sari, donned black garb, and swore her steps would no longer serve the corrupt but the vengeful. Her anklets still ring, but now they echo like funeral bells.
Maanvi dances still, but every movement is blood, every spin a judgment, every bow an execution. Kolkata remembers her not as a dancer, but as a storm.
Maanvi's magic work when she dances. She dances with the ground start to turn into weapons. Her hands turn into knifes and her legs start to move around with the bells around her legs screaming.
Maanvi is a dancer and nothing else. She once prove it.
Chapter 24
"I am Tarun"
'From Kashmir, the arbitrator of lies, sells biased judgments of people through money and property.'
Y70
Tarun Singh wore robes of honor. He sat in courtrooms lined with wood polished to a sheen, spoke words of law, and signed documents with a steady hand.
People came to him with folded petitions, hoping truth would be defended. For a while, he believed it. For a while, he thought his pen carried the weight of justice.
But the world taught him otherwise. A land dispute case was brought before him, a farmer begging for protection against a powerful industrialist.
The evidence was clear—the land was stolen. Yet in the silence of his chambers, Tarun was visited. Not by gods, but by men in tailored suits who placed a briefcase on his desk. Inside was money enough to silence his doubts, enough to shield his family from ruin.
And a threat, soft as snowfall: "Rule against him, and your child disappears."
That night, Tarun broke. He ruled against the innocent, condemning them to homelessness. Their tears stained the floor of the court as he banged the gavel. From then on, every judgment was for sale.
Property, inheritance, freedom, and sometimes lives—all could be bought if the price was high enough. Tarun became infamous, though never openly accused.
The powerful cursed his name, the poor celebrated him. He drank whiskey poured by trembling hands, dined in silence while thinking of the families his words destroyed. His robes grew heavy, not with respect, but with sin.
As years passed, his lies became doctrine. He rewrote laws in his head, convincing himself that justice was never real, that fairness was a fable told to children. The only truth was survival, and survival was for those who could pay.
But every gavel he struck, every signature he scrawled, carved something out of him. He stopped looking in mirrors, for the man staring back was not Tarun Singh the judge—it was Tarun Singh the betrayer, a man who sold truth for coin.
When Sanjay came, Tarun did not resist. The Holy Demons offered him absolution—not through forgiveness, but through purpose. Lies could be sharpened into weapons, and Tarun wielded them like blades.
Now, in Kashmir's shadowed valleys, he travels not as a judge but as a peddler of doom. He sells verdicts to warlords, bends laws into nooses, and drowns justice under a tide of deceit. His court is no longer bound by walls, but by fear. His gavel strikes like thunder, and every echo means another soul has been buried under the weight of his words.
People tried to murder him. But it was no uses. He was a powerful demon by then, that even his own family surrender to demon hood.
Tarun when he screams, his opponents ear start to bleed. He brings a long set of voices from the valley's dead body. And when they sings, it is sound of the injustice that Tarun have carry toward him.
Tarun Singh is no longer a man of justice. He is its gravedigger.
Chapter 25
"I am Anushya"
'From Tamil Nadu, the ghost assassin, a disfigured being who trade people souls for money.'
Y70
Anushya Ramalingam was not born a ghost. She was flesh, blood, and fire once. A soldier, hardened in battlefields that turned men into monsters. She was trained to kill quickly, efficiently, leaving no trace but silence. Her loyalty was unshakable—until loyalty killed her family.
A political operation went wrong. She was ordered to protect a convoy, unaware that her commanders had marked her village as expendable. By the time she returned, flames had devoured her home. Her parents—all burned, collateral damage in a war they never chose.
She tried to fight back, but truth is heavier than bullets. Her superiors disowned her, branded her unstable, left her to rot with scars on her face and rage in her chest. Disfigured, disavowed, she became a ghost in truth.
At first, she worked as a mercenary, killing for food, for coin, for the shallow hope of survival. But soon she found a new currency: souls.
Not literal, but symbolic—the lives of men who begged, wept, and bargained in their final moments. She collected their pleas like trinkets; each kill another fragment of humanity stolen.
Tamil Nadu's sun is merciless, bleaching bones white where corpses lie forgotten. In its villages, whispers tell of a figure who moves at night, unseen but always nearby. Children are warned: "Do not stare too long into the dark. Do not call her name. She is the Ghost Assassin, and she will take your soul."
She became myth. A woman with burned skin and hollow eyes, appearing in shadows before striking.
Politicians hired her to erase rivals. Corporates paid her to silence whistleblowers. Each death enriched her, but more than money, it fed her hunger. For every life she took, she imagined balancing the scales for her own losses, even if the balance never came.
Her methods were silent and precise. A knife sliding between vertebrae, a silenced shot in the dark, poison smeared on lips disguised as a kiss. Victims vanished without trace, leaving only rumors. People said she traded souls to demons. People said she was already dead.
When Sanjay's path crossed hers, she saw in him the same void she carried. He did not flinch at her scars, nor fear her silence. He welcomed her rage, gave her cause, and named her one of his Demons.
Since Anushya was his final demon. She was pampered by the other demons. She could dislocate her bones and muscles around. She could turn into a child and then a full 6ft tall adult. Even demons feared her.
Now, Anushya is the Ghost Assassin of Tamil Nadu. She kills not just for money, but for power, for vengeance, for the sheer inevitability of death that stalks every man who thinks himself untouchable. In her presence, prayers die on tongues, mercy turns to ash.
She does not believe in gods anymore. She believes only in the blade, and in the silence that follows. And when people whisper her name, they do so trembling—for to speak of her is to invite her.
Anushya is no longer human. She is the grave that walks.