"Driver… take me to Lifeline Prophecies," said the man, his voice tight with urgency.
The car glided through the city, silence thick inside. Minutes later, it pulled up before a towering white mansion—pristine, imposing, untouched by chaos. Above the entrance gleamed the sign:
Lifeline Prophecies.
The man stepped out.
His shoes hit the polished stone steps with precision, but his confidence cracked with every stride.
He walked through the grand doors, past the quiet opulence, until he reached the reception.
"I need to see Rudra," he said sharply to the attender. "Tell him… Surya has arrived."
The attender gave a slight nod and disappeared into the mansion's inner halls.
Inside—Bathed in the cold glow of chandeliers and shadowed candlelight—Rudra Deva Raya sat on a golden throne embedded with with precious stones.
Not ornamental. Not ceremonial. This was a seat of power.
Rudra reclined slightly, fingers laced under his chin, elbows resting on the armrests. Both legs crossed. In a meditating posture.
His red coat shimmered under the light like wet blood. The throne wasn't just behind him. It belonged to him.
"Sir, Mr Surya has arrived," the attender announced.
Rudra's eyes narrowed.
"Hmmm… Let him come," he muttered.
The sharp clack of polished boots echoed through the marble corridor, each step soaked in impatience. The sound grated against the silence like a blade against bone.
Moments later, the door burst open. And a man came running.
"Rudra, I'm ruined…" Surya choked out, voice trembling, eyes red.
This was Surya—the so-called king of Surya Pharmaceuticals. But right now, he looked nothing like one.
His appearance was still flawless: a pristine crimson blazer, perfectly fitted trousers, and designer shoes that screamed wealth. Every stitch screamed luxury. But none of it mattered.
Because fear had stripped him bare. And Rudra… Rudra hadn't even flinched.
"So, what should I do, Mr Surya?" he asked, voice calm—too calm.
"You should have learned… it's either My Way Or Highway."
"Sir, save me! You're the only one who can save me! Please… do something!" Surya cried, desperation cracking his voice.
He was on his knees now, grovelling.
Begging in front of Rudra a man with skin the colour of burnished bronze, the kind that spoke of blazing South Asian suns—
—but his aura? Cold. Unforgiving. Like a predator watching a wounded animal crawl.
And Rudra just stared, like the plea was noise, not words.
"I already told you—there was no future for Surya Pharmaceuticals. You should've heeded my warning and sold it when you had the chance. But you did nothing."
There was something about Rudra that could offend anyone—
The cold bite in his voice, the deliberate weight of every word,
The way he didn't raise his tone, yet still crushed the other man with it.
Annoyance leaked from him like poison—calm, sharp, and lethal.
He wasn't angry.
He was smiling.
And somehow… that felt even worse.
"Sir, do something! Tell me something—anything—that might save me!" Surya begged, his voice cracking, palm stretched out pathetically towards Rudra, still on his knees.
Rudra leaned forward slightly, eyes lazily drifting to the man's trembling hand.
"I already told you, Surya… there is nothing."
"Look at this," he said, pointing to the palm. "The fate line—it cuts here and vanishes immediately."
His voice was like sharpened silk—smooth, precise, and merciless.
"You're finished."
Then his gaze turned cold, the smile still carved into his face like it was etched in stone.
"But don't forget to pay my fees."
He paused.
"Otherwise… you'll disappoint me even more."
"Is this all you care about—fees? Seriously, Rudra?" Surya shouted, desperation turning to rage.
"Did you forget I pumped millions into your account? And even now, you're asking for fees?" he said grabbing Rudra's collar.
There was a warning— No body raised voice against Rudra.
Unspoken, but whispered through his circle like a warning carried on wind.
A boundary no one dared to test.
No one annoyed Rudra.
Not if they wanted to walk away whole.
WHACK!
The slap came fast. Too fast.
Then—THUD!
Rudra's foot smashed into Surya's stomach, sending him flying like a ragdoll. He crashed into the wall with a sickening thud, sliding down in a heap.
Rudra walked up, slow and unbothered.
He grabbed Surya by the collar, one-handed—like he weighed nothing. Like he had done it before hundred times.
Then—CRACK!
His fist shattered Surya's nose, blood spurting as the bone split.
Because before all this—before the Lifeline Prophecies, before he became the undisputed king of the Palmist world—
Rudra was already someone feared.
He was a gang member.
But not just any member—he was the leader of the Dragons.
Feared. Ruthless. Respected.
Until one unfaithful night…
He was betrayed.
Chased through blood-soaked alleys by none other than his co-founder—JoJo.
He was almost dead… until fate intervened.
That night, the broken man was found by Master Krishna Deva Raya.
He didn't just give him shelter—he adopted him as one of his own.
He gave him a name.
Rudra Deva Raya.
A name that belonged to Krishna's bloodline.
The gang life was left behind.
But the thirst for revenge?
That remained.
And when the time was right—when his strength eclipsed even legends—
He erased the Dragons from existence.
His own creation.
Wiped clean, like they had never existed.
Because Rudra never forgets.
And Rudra always settles his scores.
And now—
Standing before Rudra Deva Raya…
This pathetic man—Surya—had the audacity to raise his voice?
His defiance was laughable.
A dying gasp trying to pass as a scream.
Because standing before Surya…
Wasn't just a palmist.
It was a ghost of the underworld.
A king who had killed his past to build his throne.
And Surya?
He had just signed his own end.
"You didn't give me those millions as charity," Rudra growled, eyes cold, voice low.
"That was my fee."
He leaned in closer, breath calm but laced with threat.
"And don't forget, my dear Surya… I was the one who told you to start this business.
Otherwise, you'd still be selling pastries in that pathetic little bakery of yours."
He let the silence hang—heavy, suffocating.
Then, without even looking back—
"Chrish," Rudra said, snapping his fingers.
His voice was calm—too calm. The kind that made the air itself hold its breath. The kind that came just before a storm shattered the sky.
From the edge of the room, a shadow stirred.
Chrish—his right-hand man—stepped forward.
Silent. Composed. Deadly.
"Sir," Chrish replied, his voice barely above a whisper—
Yet it carried the weight of finality.
No emotion. No hesitation. Only obedience.
"Mr Surya's time has run out," Rudra said coldly.
"Wipe his existence off the face of this earth."