The clock read 11:30 PM, the city's night hum a distant murmur—stray dogs barking, the occasional scooter zipping through puddles, the faint strains of a neighbor's Marathi folk song. His chaotic heart, a cauldron of resolve and rage, simmered with the rival proxy's latest strike. The fake news had spread like a virus, turning the God of Darkness from a symbol of justice to a perceived monster. Social media buzzed with horror, hashtags like #DarknessKiller trending, memes depicting a bloodthirsty shadow devouring innocents. NDTV's anchors debated heatedly, "Is this vigilante a hero or a murderer?" The public, once awestruck, now recoiled in fear, temples overflowing with prayers against the "demon."
Ria's text flashed on his phone: It's everywhere. People are scared. Be careful. Amar's fist clenched, his golden eyes flaring. The rival proxy had played a clever hand, using deepfakes to twist his legend. But Amar was no stranger to manipulation; in his days at Vantablack, he had debugged code rigged to deceive, exposing hidden vulnerabilities. If they fake it, I'll fake it too, he thought, a grin curving his lips, his unbreakable will igniting. His powers, honed through endless nights, were ready for a counterstrike. He would turn the narrative, expose the puppeteers behind the lie, and reclaim his role as justice's beacon.
He began with the media heads. Closing his eyes, shadows unfurled from the room's corners, his senses stretching like tendrils across India. He targeted national tabloids and news channels—Times Now in Noida, Republic TV in Mumbai, India Today in Delhi. Teleporting through shadows, he materialized in the editors' homes, his form a silhouette of dread, golden eyes glowing like embers in the night. In Noida, the Times Now editor awoke to shadows coiling around his bed, Amar's voice a thunderous echo: "Retract the murder story, or suffer a fate worse than you've imagined." The editor, trembling, nodded, his voice cracking. "It was a tip-off, anonymous—deepfake footage. I'll pull it, run a retraction." Amar's pressure intensified, shadows tightening like a noose. "Not just retract. Expose the fake. Say it was fabricated to discredit the God of Darkness. Do it now, or the darkness will claim you."
The editor scrambled to his laptop, emailing his team with frantic instructions. Similar scenes unfolded in Mumbai and Delhi—editors and producers, roused from sleep, forced to confess the footage's fraudulence, their confessions streamed live on their own channels. Amar's shadow clones multiplied the effort, visiting 15 media moguls in one night, each coerced into airing retractions. By dawn, the narrative shifted: "God of Darkness Cleared—Fake Murder Footage Exposed as Hoax."
Next, Amar targeted the cyber-criminals behind the deepfakes. Using his shadow sense, he located their hideout in Bengaluru's Whitefield, a dingy basement filled with servers and screens. Teleporting in, he enveloped the room in darkness, his presence a suffocating weight. The hackers, three young men hunched over keyboards, froze as golden eyes materialized. "Confess," Amar commanded, his voice a cosmic rumble. "You faked the videos. The God of Darkness is innocent." Under the dread, they broke, recording a video admitting their role, naming the anonymous client who paid them—a rich man with ties to media empires. Amar forced them to upload it to socials, tagging major channels.
The rich man, a media baron owning two national channels, watched from his Delhi penthouse, his face twisting in fury. The video went viral, exposing his manipulation. "How?" he snarled, His assistant rushed in, eyes wide. "Sir, the hackers confessed—live. Our channels are implicated. Retract or face backlash?" "Retract", he said
Amar, back in his apartment by 4:00 AM, watched the news flip. Channels aired the hackers' confession, the narrative changing: "God of Darkness Victim of Deepfake Plot—Media Baron Exposed." Socials, exploded with #DarknessInnocent, memes mocking the rich man's scheme. Public support surged, temples in Varanasi offering prayers for the God's triumph, chai stalls in Pune buzzing with tales of divine justice. Amar's chaotic heart swelled with vindication, his unbreakable will a fortress against the rival's strike.
Yet doubt lingered—a whisper in the shadows. The proxy had struck cleverly, nearly unraveling his legend. Amar's golden eyes narrowed, his mind churning. How to strike back? The game had deepened, but his power was vast. The God of Darkness would not fade; he would rise, a storm to cleanse the rot.
The Man, Sitting at his desk, saw the news, in his anger he hurled his phone across the room, the screen shattering against marble. His eyes burned. This 'God of Darkness' is a threat. We need a new plan The assistant nodded, exiting swiftly.