The chamber was silent except for the faint clatter of threads swaying in the dark. Silver cords stretched across the cavern like a spider's web, glowing faintly with stolen energy. At the centre, upon his twisted throne, sat the Puppeteer.
The Warden's mask lay cracked at his feet, the final remnant of a servant who had failed. The Puppeteer's long fingers hovered above it, trembling with restrained rage.
"They broke him," he whispered, his voice thin and sharp, like glass sliding over stone. "That fragile team of mortals… they tore down my creation."
He clenched his fist, and the threads above rattled violently. Shadows writhed in the corners, flinching at his fury.
For a moment, he sat perfectly still, his face hidden behind his own porcelain mask. Then, with a sudden movement, he hurled the broken fragment of the Warden's mask across the chamber. It shattered against the wall, scattering shards that hissed before dissolving into smoke.
"Useless. All of them are useless." His voice echoed, low and venomous. "But perhaps… this failure is a gift."
He rose from the throne, robes of black and crimson unfurling like wings. His hand traced across the web of threads, each one vibrating with whispers of lives he'd touched, bent, or broken. One line glowed brighter than the others—Mukul. Even from afar, the boy's will resonated like a thorn in his control.
"You defied my Warden," the Puppeteer murmured, almost admiringly. "But every move you make pulls you deeper into my game."
He tapped the thread. It quivered, sending ripples across the web, and the other lines shivered in response. Names and faces flickered across the strings—Ansh, Kavya, Raghav, Priya. Their struggles, their fears, their strengths—all laid bare before him.
"Your unity saved you once," he hissed. "So let me see how strong that unity is… when I cut you apart, piece by piece."
The Puppeteer spread his hands, and the chamber darkened. From the depths rose another figure, stitched together from fragments of shadow and bone, taller, broader, radiating raw menace. Not a servant like the Warden, but something more primal. Something unrestrained.
The new creation opened its hollow eyes, pale fire burning inside. It did not speak—it only growled, a deep, guttural sound that rattled the web.
"Yes," the Puppeteer whispered, satisfaction bleeding into his tone. "You are not bound by rules. You are not confined to chains of loyalty. You are chaos given form. They won't predict you. They won't stop you."
He stepped closer, his mask catching the faint glow of the threads. Behind its smooth surface, his smile curved cruel and sharp.
"The Warden tested their strength," he said softly. "But you will test their bonds. Strike at their hearts. Make them doubt each other. Break them from within."
The new lieutenant knelt, shadows curling around its form, awaiting command.
The Puppeteer raised one hand, plucking Mukul's thread again. The faint hum of resistance sparked under his fingers, and it made him laugh—a low, unsettling sound that filled the chamber.
"Mukul Sharma," he murmured. "You think you've won a victory. But what you've done is far worse. You've earned my attention."
He tightened his grip on the web, and the threads trembled violently, as though the world itself recoiled.
"This game has only just begun. And I promise you—when I'm finished, there will be nothing left to bind you together."
The laugh that followed was long and hollow, weaving into the threads like a curse.