Old bastard Demon Shree Yan, surrender now You can't escape .
We've already surrounded the plains with our forces — now, your end is near.
You bastard Demon you use me as a tool and killed My entire family, now I will see you dead
All around, people were shouting — each carrying their own anger, pain, and rage.
But Shree Yan remained calm, showing not a single expression.
The ground was stacked with thousands of corpses and a river of blood ran through the scene. Bodies were brutally torn apart, with intestines spilling out.
Shree Yan's clothes were soaked in blood, fluttering in the wind like a tattered flag.
Yet, there was no trace of fear on his face — he was completely expressionless.
Hand over the gun thunglung dungma now you can't escape, we on the top of bulding and we've already surrounded the plains with our police forces.
The officer's voice thundered through the rooftop air.
"Your crime… is that you murdered your own father!" he barked, his eyes flashing like steel under sunlight.
But Thunglung Dungma did not flinch. His gaze burned with defiance, his breath heavy with rage and sorrow.
"This isn't my fault," he said, his voice trembling between pain and fury. "I didn't commit a crime. That man—he made my life a living hell. Killing that wretched father was justice."
He took a step closer to the edge, the wind howling around him like an unseen witness.
"If you won't believe me," he whispered, eyes glimmering with a broken resolve, "if you won't stand by me… then I'll end it here—right now."
The city fell silent.
Only the wind answered.
Thunglung Dungma leapt from the building. His eyes carried no fear — only the burning weight of anger.
The police officers stared in shock from below as he fell.
He closed his eyes, embracing death with a strange serenity, his body slicing through the air like a shadow fleeing the world.
He turned back and said,
"The blue sky… it rises even above the peaks of these mountains."
From somewhere far above, a faint light touched his face. His hair was white, as if he had lived for countless years and carried immeasurable experience.
And his eyes… they seemed endless, with no bottom, no edge — a depth that one could never reach.
Below him lay a field of corpses, rivers of blood flowing endlessly across the earth. His body was stained with the blood of those he had slain, his hands heavy with the weight of countless lives.
But today, the sky is swallowed by black clouds.
A lone traveler, walking the demonic path,
looks down and sees—
thousands of corpses, a river of blood flowing across the ground.
Blood stains his body,
and in his hands, the weight of lives he has taken.
Yet he continues walking—
along this lonely, cursed path.
"I must drown myself in this road," he whispers,
"and "I have no regrets—
from the demonic path I have walked."
Then he turned forward.
Before him stood a crowd — some middle-aged, some adults in their prime, and others still young.
When they saw him turn toward them, they all instinctively took a step back.
One of them shouted, his voice trembling yet defiant,
"Demon! What's your final move now? Your end is here! The heavens themselves have written your death. Hand over that rana quietly, and I'll grant you a peaceful death — without pain."
"Death — at your hands?" Shree Yan's voice was calm, too calm.
Then, a faint curve appeared on his lips — a laugh, hollow and merciless, echoed through the crimson-stained air.
He laughed once. Then again. Louder.
Each note of his laughter carried something that froze the hearts of those around him — not madness, but emptiness.
The men trembled, weapons drawn.
"Demon! Why are you laughing?" one of them yelled. "Your end is certain — the heavens themselves have decided it!"
Shree Yan's eyes glowed faintly in the dying light — twin voids that reflected no emotion.
"How insulting," he said coldly. "You speak as though death itself would dare to touch me."
Then, with deliberate calmness, he raised the rana — that forbidden relic — to his mouth and swallowed it whole.
"Now," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "how will you take it from me? I've already consumed it."
A murmur of shock swept through the soldiers.
"You monster! Now die!" they shouted, rushing toward him in blind fury.
But Shree Yan did not move.
He simply stood there — waiting.
Waiting for them to come closer.
Waiting for the right moment.
When the first sword struck his body, a faint smirk appeared on his pale face.
Now, he thought. This is exactly what I wanted.
In a heartbeat, a searing white light erupted from within him.
The explosion swallowed the battlefield — a storm of fire, blood, and dust engulfing everything in its path.
Screams were cut short, replaced by the deafening roar of destruction.
As his body began to dissolve in the blaze, Shree Yan's final thought surfaced, cold and unfeeling:
If death is inevitable, why die alone? Better to let the world burn with me.
When the light faded, nothing remained — no cries, no movement, no life.
Only the scorched earth, and the faint echo of a man who had chosen oblivion over mercy.
A sudden blaze of light seared the air — and in that glow a figure stood. Its face was hidden, a shadow more than a man, yet it smiled. Thunglung Dungma stared up, bewildered, unable to summon the courage to move. Then the figure was gone.
In the next instant he was somewhere else — inside a house. Panic rose like ice in his chest. Where am I? he thought, heart pounding.
A dull ache began to throb at the base of his skull.
Memories flooded him — not his own, but Shree Yan's: a cascade of images, sensations, and cold, unfeeling resolve. His eyes went hollow, then shifted; they were no longer his own but Shree Yan's.
For ten minutes he sat in silence, every breath measured.
At last Thunglung Dungma dared to ask himself the question tearing at him: Whose body have I taken?
He realized, with chilling clarity, that the man whose life he now inhabited was already dead — this was a past life he had been sent into. Why had someone placed him here? Who had sent him into this life?
He touched the stranger's chest and felt the residue of a single, desperate goal: eternal life. The original owner had failed to achieve it.
Thunglung Dungma's resolve hardened like frost. If that man could not live forever, then he — Thunglung Dungma — would complete what remained unfinished. And he would find the mysterious figure who had thrust him into this cruel world and demand answers..