For three and a half months, the Nyay Rakshak delivered weekly updates, their scrolls detailing Keechak's relentless oppression—extorting villagers, intimidating merchants, and defying King Virata's feeble attempts at control.
Bahubali pored over each report in his private chamber, waiting for the opportune moment to act. "Keechak's arrogance knows no boundary," he murmured, his eyes like smoldering coals. "His time will come."
The opportunity arrived when a Nyay Rakshak messenger reported that Keechak planned a hunting trip in the forests beyond Virat's borders. "Maharaj, he leaves in a week, accompanied by a small retinue of soldiers," the messenger said, bowing.
Bahubali's lips curved into a grim smile. "Perfect. Let him stray from his lair. Prepare a final report on his movements, and inform no one of my plans." The messenger nodded, vanishing into the shadows.
A week later, Bahubali, cloaked in the dark robes of a Nyay Rakshak, his face concealed by a black mask, rode alone to Virat's dense forests. His mighty horse moved silently through the undergrowth, its hooves muffled by moss.
Bahubali waited in a clearing, hidden among banyans, his Ajay bow—a divine weapon blessed by Mahadev—strung and ready.
The forest hummed with life—crickets chirping, a distant deer rustling—but Bahubali's focus was razor-sharp, his prayers to Shiva anchoring his resolve.
As dawn broke, Keechak's hunting party appeared, their laughter coarse and careless. Keechak, a hulking figure in polished armor, rode at the center, his gada slung across his chariot, his soldiers joking about their spoils.
Bahubali's eyes narrowed. Raising his Ajay bow, he chanted softly, summoning the Nagapash Astra.
Serpentine ropes of divine energy shot forth, binding Keechak's soldiers in an instant, their bodies frozen mid-step, unable to move. They gasped, struggling against the invisible coils, their weapons clattering to the ground.
Keechak, untouched, roared, his voice shaking the trees. "Who dares strike my men? Show yourself, coward, and face my wrath!" His eyes scanned the forest, his gada raised, gleaming with menace.
Bahubali stepped from the shadows, his Nyay Rakshak robes flowing, his masked face a specter of justice.
Keechak's gaze locked onto him, his face twisting with fury. "Coward! Hiding behind a mask? Remove it, or I'll crush your skull!"
Bahubali spread his arms, his voice calm but taunting, resonating with authority. "If you're so capable, Keechak, come remove it yourself."
Enraged, Keechak leapt from his chariot, his massive gada swinging in his hands. He charged, swinging the weapon with bone-shattering force, but Bahubali dodged with a slight tilt of his body, the gada grazing his cloak.
Keechak attacked again, a flurry of consecutive strikes, each one a thunderclap, but Bahubali moved like a shadow, sidestepping each blow with the grace of a dancer. "Is dodging all you can do?" Keechak bellowed, his face red with frustration.
Bahubali, silent, dodged another swing, then lunged forward, his fist slamming into Keechak's gut. The punch dented the commander's armor, and Keechak winced, staggering slightly.
Undeterred, he swung again, but Bahubali's agility outmatched him, each dodge followed by a precise strike—fists hammering dents into Keechak's armor at his ribs, chest, and shoulders. The metal groaned under the assault, and Keechak's breaths grew ragged.
Fed up, Keechak roared, discarding his gada and tearing off his battered armor, the plates clanging to the ground. "Fight me like a man!" he snarled, charging with bare fists.
The two warriors clashed, fists flying in a brutal dance. Keechak's strength was immense, his punches like battering rams, but Bahubali's Vajra body and skill gave him the upper hand, weaving through strikes with preternatural speed. He landed blow after blow, each one weakening the tyrant.
Finally, Bahubali saw his moment. As Keechak lunged, Bahubali sidestepped, delivering a decisive punch to Keechak's temple. The commander staggered, his eyes glazing, and collapsed to his knees.
Bahubali swiftly moved behind, his arm locking around Keechak's neck in a relentless chokehold.
Keechak thrashed, gasping, but Bahubali's grip, fueled by Dharma's fire, held firm until the tyrant's struggles ceased, his body limp in death.
Rising, Bahubali faced the bound soldiers, their eyes wide with fear. His voice was cold, unwavering. "Take Keechak's body to Virat. Tell your king to rule justly, or the same fate awaits him. The Nyay Rakshak sees all, and dharma spares none who defy it." With a gesture, he released the Nagapash Astra, the soldiers collapsing, free but trembling.
Bahubali whistled softly, and his horse emerged from the forest's edge, its mane gleaming in the dawn light.
He mounted swiftly, his masked figure a shadow against the trees, and rode back toward Magadha, the weight of justice settled in his heart.
As he galloped, he touched his rudraksha, murmuring a prayer to Mahadev. "Bholenath, guide my path, as I uphold your dharma."
In Magadha, the palace awaited his return, unaware of the silent victory won in Virat's forests.