Two months had passed since the God of Darkness ended Aryan Kapoor's reign in the Satpura cube, snapping the neck of the proxy of Sound. His empire—India, Bangladesh, Nepal, Pakistan, Bhutan, Singapore, Myanmar, Thailand—spiraled into disarray. In Mumbai, corrupt tycoons found their secret ledgers exposed on digital billboards, their empires crumbling under public outrage. Dhaka's underworld froze as traffickers vanished, leaving behind whispered confessions scrawled in shadowy ink on alley walls. In Kathmandu, politicians resigned, haunted by visions of darkness that exposed their bribes. Across eight nations, the God of Darkness became a legend—a silent protector of the weak, a relentless punisher of the corrupt. From Delhi's crowded bazaars to Yangon's rain-soaked streets, parents warned, "The God of Darkness sees your sins, spares the innocent, binds the guilty."
In Pune's Koregaon Park, the God of Darkness sat in his shadowed apartment, the air thick with swirling tendrils. His heavy leather jacket, a conduit for his power, felt heavier still, weighted by a shift within him. Two months ago, he'd sworn never to kill, dismantling corruption through fear, exposure, or exile. The Satpura cube had broken that vow. The 25 fighters—some crushed by his shadow soldiers, others dead by their own cyanide—haunted his dreams. Saving 2000-3000 contracted souls by taking their bonds had been a victory, but the blood on his hands changed him. His golden eyes burned with a new resolve, his chaotic heart hardened by necessity.
He'd always wielded shadows to terrify, to reform. But some evils—cartel lords who enslaved children, ministers who starved slums for profit—defied redemption. In Dhaka, a trafficker laughed at his shadows, unyielding. For the first time, the God of Darkness let a tendril tighten, stopping the man's heart. The body, unmarked, was found at dawn, terror frozen in its eyes. In Mumbai, a tycoon who'd bled the poor met the same fate, his confession livestreamed before silence claimed him. Each death shook the God of Darkness, guilt clawing at him, but the faces of those he saved—orphans, families—fueled his resolve. "The irredeemable don't get mercy," he whispered, shadows coiling like a storm. "Not anymore."
Telepathically, Ria's voice cut through. Chaos King, you're different now. India calls you a god, but killing… is this you?
His reply was heavy. I tried sparing them, Ria. But some won't stop. They prey on the weak, and I can't allow it.
Rathore joined, voice grim. You're a myth—protector, avenger. But the Council's scared. Kapoor's fall left a void, and they're plotting. Watch your back.
The God of Darkness nodded to the empty room, his shadows probing beyond India. Ripples stirred—sudden loyalty shifts in Bangkok's elite, eerie calm in Nepal's underworld. "They're moving," he muttered, sensing a faint hum, like Sound reborn, echoing from Mumbai. "The Council's next play."
Across the globe, in a hidden chamber beneath the Persian Gulf's shimmering waves, Khalid Al-Mansour, proxy of Saudi Arabia, UAE, Qatar, and neighboring Gulf states, prepared for a Council meeting. His obsidian room pulsed with encrypted projectors, ready to cast 23 holograms of the Council of 25—rulers of 200 nations, now one short with Kapoor's death. In Beijing, Lin Wei's steel-clad chamber hummed, her projector primed. In Tokyo, Hiroshi Tanaka's blue-lit bunker awaited, his watery aura restless. The God of Darkness had shattered their illusion of invincibility, and tonight, they'd forge a desperate plan to counter him, starting with Kapoor's son, Arjun—a pawn to wield Sound's power and stall the shadow's wrath.