Previously...
The corridors of the Asian Paranormal Council echoed with farewell. Moksh handed his silence to Pragya, Albert gave him one last push forward, and the Glider awaited—obsidian, alive with power. A golden portal split the air. Albert's voice chased after him as he rode into it:
"Give Tara a hug from me."
The portal snapped shut. And Moksh was gone.
Now —
Arrival in Delhi The Teleportation ChamberThe golden vortex sputtered, its radiance receding into silence. The teleportation chamber of the Indian Paranormal Council headquarters exhaled, leaving Moksh standing on a floor of flawless marble. The air was thicker here—densely woven with incense, faint with sandalwood, and vibrating with the hum of wards etched into the walls.
His boots echoed like verdicts in the hushed chamber. For the first time in years, Moksh was home. But home did not always mean welcome.
The Atrium of WhispersThe corridors stretched before him, stately and spotless. On either wall hung portraits of former council heads—stiff uniforms, proud eyes, the guardians of order immortalized in oil and lacquer. Their gazes seemed to weigh each soul who walked past.
At the chamber's heart, one frame hung empty. Its brass edges tarnished, the wood faintly warped with age. Yet dust told a different story—an outline of a portrait never placed, as if the wall itself waited.
Moksh paused, gaze lingering. A flicker crossed his features—memory, unease, something sharp that he quickly buried.
A seat unclaimed. A destiny unspoken. Still waiting.
He exhaled and walked on.
The atrium opened into a wide hall—and the entire staff of the Delhi headquarters was waiting.
Uniformed officers in crisp grey stood shoulder to shoulder, trousers pressed so sharp they looked metallic, gold buttons gleaming beneath the blue ambient glow. Their salutes cracked like synchronized lightning. Behind them, scribes clutched rune-etched ledgers while junior investigators shifted nervously at the edges.
But beneath the choreography thrummed whispers like subterranean fire.
"That's him…"
"The new commander."
"He doesn't look like the stories."
"Didn't he abandon comrades once…?"
"Then why bring him back?"
"Because Albert swore he was the Elite(9th)."
The word—it circulated in hushed awe. Elite.
The unseen force, whispered in council myths, who could turn tides of war, bend strategy and execution alike. They reverenced the legend—yet skepticism curled sharp around the man.
Moksh met their eyes one by one, unflinching. Neither refuting, nor confirming. The silence itself was power.
The Council ChamberThe great chamber awaited him—crescent council table carved with the insignia: shield and wings beneath Delhi's skyline. Walls shimmered faintly with protective glyphs, enclosing the room like an ancient engine of judgment.
At its head stood Council Chief Rao, the silver-haired exorcist whose voice had once driven specters from palaces. His eyes cut with practiced sharpness.
"So. You are Moksh."
The words weren't a greeting. They were a weighing.
"The Grandmaster himself signed your transfer. Most unusual… for someone whose record is so—complicated."
The room stilled, eyes trained on Moksh. For the slightest instant, his jaw tightened. A ghost flickered across his eyes—faces from old battles, scars never spoken aloud. Then, like steel tempered by flame, his composure returned.
"People may call it complication," Moksh said, voice smooth but edged. "I call it survival. And survival speaks louder than rumor."
The chamber didn't breathe.
Kavitha, diplomat and investigator, struck next—her voice silk around steel.
"Not everyone believes survival is enough. Not when your methods deviate from tradition. Our order is built on discipline. Not improvisation."
Moksh let silence stretch, then met her gaze directly. His reply was quieter now, but sharper for it:
"Order without adaptability breeds blindness. You survive anomalies not with walls, but with vision. Test me as you wish—my work will answer louder than rumors or tradition."
Something shifted in the air. Silent respect, unacknowledged but present. A junior officer unconsciously straightened. A scribe lowered her eyes in deferential quiet. Even Rao's stare flickered, not softened—merely recalibrated.
Respect remained unspoken. Yet it was there.
The Missing AlliesLater, as the ceremony ebbed, Moksh leaned toward his aide, voice quieter.
"Where are my two assistants? The ones who held this council with Albert?"
The aide hesitated, then spoke gently.
"Gone south, sir. To the anomaly borders. The Council has survived only through their command. Captain Aarav Sen—the soldier who shielded dozens under fire. And Scholar Meera Kulkarni—the riddlebreaker who could unravel anomalies like poems. They kept the council alive in your absence. But they said only one elite is worthy of this seat—Moksh Bose."
Moksh's jaw dipped, eyes lowering in brief gravity. Loyalty sharper than chains, forged even through absence. He carried that weight silently, as he always had.
The Delhi NightWhen the formalities broke and officers dispersed to whispers, Moksh stepped into the night.
Delhi greeted him not as myth, but as memory: streetlamps burning gold in monsoon mist, rickshaws rattling across uneven roads, the call of fruit sellers threading the warm air, and chai stalls perfuming the streets with sharp cardamom.
The heartbeat of the city thudded with a rhythm he knew too well. And there it was—his family's old home.
The façade was weathered, plaster streaked by monsoons long past, yet it stood—indomitable, stubborn. Above the door, a brass lamp flickered, dim but steady.
Inside, the rooms smelled of sandalwood and ink. Books leaned on each other in towers of memory. Desks sprawled with maps and sketches from another time. Tea cups, faintly stained, still rested on shelves like relics of rushed nights before missions.
Moksh's boots thudded softly as he walked deeper. He brushed his hand against the old desk, wood worn smooth by years of plans drawn beneath lamplight. His eyes lingered on faded photographs, on shelves cluttered with echoes of voices.
Here there were no whispers. No suspicion. No command to prove.
Here, he was not the elite. Not the commander.
Here—he was only Moksh.
He stood at the window, city glow rising beyond rooftops, the pulse of Delhi alive and unforgiving. His reflection seemed older than the man he remembered.
Tomorrow, doubts would circle back. Tomorrow, Rao's judgment and Kavitha's skepticism would sharpen again. Tomorrow, his test of loyalty and leadership would resume.
But tonight, Moksh allowed himself one moment of unarmored silence.
One breath.
One steady resolve.
Because in this house of memories, under the brass light, he was not a fractured myth.
He was whole.
He was home.