The black smog writhed like a living serpent as it poured from the boy's eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, coiling in the air before twisting into its grotesque, semi-human shape. The villagers screamed, clutching their amulets and children, watching the thing's shadow peel away from flesh and bone. Rudra stood still—calm, almost solemn—his expression unreadable as the specter turned its eyeless face toward him.
Then, with a howl that fractured the stillness, the Bhramharakshas dove. It lunged into Rudra's orifices in black rivulets of smoke, vanishing within him like ink into water. For a moment, the wind stopped. The jungle whispered nothing.
Inside him, the creature landed in darkness. It blinked into an endless void, no stars, no sound—just the slow, heavy pulse of something eternal. Confusion muttered through its formless self. "Where… is this?"
Then it saw.
Whatever stood before it—or behind it—was not for mortal, ghost, or god to behold. The Bhramharakshas's scream tore through layers of silence like glass splitting from within. It begged. It pleaded. The sound echoed outward, through Rudra's throat, out of his body, raw and strangled—a chorus of ancient terror.
And then came the noises. Not words, not human, not divine—just the slow, deliberate unmaking of something that once believed it could never die. The villagers fell to their knees as a low, resonant hum spread through the air, and when it stopped, the jungle sighed again. Rudra opened his eyes. They were calm, oceanic, untouched.
The demon was gone.
Rudra dusted his hands, tapped his stomach with casual bravado, and muttered, "Too much salt for my liking." The villagers blinked in disbelief, still trembling from what they'd witnessed, the smell of burned ash and fear still hanging in the cold air. The boy's mother rushed toward him, eyes wide and brimming with desperate hope.
"What—what happened? Is he…?"
"He's gone," Rudra said, his tone flat, almost detached. "You're alright. He won't bother the boy again."
She broke down into tears of relief, clutching her child's face as the boy weakly stirred, pupils slowly returning to normal. But the crowd, still gathered at a wary distance, needed answers. An older man stepped forward, voice quivering. "What was that thing, traveler?"
Rudra rubbed the soot from his fingers, the crimson glow of the dying ashes fading in his palms. "Just some priest spirit," he said lazily, eyes wandering to the horizon. "Got himself killed by Soviets a few decades back, probably while trying to protect something. Died wrong, came back worse. Saw the kid's light and thought he could nest inside."
A murmur passed through the crowd—fear, reverence, disbelief all mixing like storm clouds. Rudra didn't linger in it. He turned on his heel, muttering, "Guess my job's done," as he began walking toward the weathered tent where he'd been staying, boots crunching against the frost-bitten dirt. His mind flickered briefly—Where the hell are Riley and Serenkhand?—but before he could sink into that thought, the woman caught up to him again.
"Please, take this," she said, pressing a small wooden bowl into his hands. Inside were bright, frozen slices of a golden fruit, native to the Mongolian steppe, glistening with sweetness and gratitude. "Thank you, stranger… for saving my son. He's only three."
Rudra froze. His brows knit slowly. The boy sitting up behind her—thin, freckled, already with the awkward length of adolescence—was no three-year-old. Twelve, maybe thirteen. His stare lingered on the mother for a long, uncomfortable second. No words left his mouth, only that heavy, assessing silence that said more than speech ever could.
Then he nodded once, curtly, and stepped past her. The cold wind carried the smell of burnt ash as the tent flap closed behind him, leaving the village in uneasy gratitude—and him, once again, alone.
[Achievement Unlocked: "Exorcist of the Steppes"]
Somewhere else, far from the faint smell of ash and exorcised terror, Riley was doing what Riley did best—running his mouth and pretending it was conversation instead of mild flirting. He lounged beside Serenkhand on a patch of sun-warmed grass, boots kicked off, arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the endless Mongolian sky.
"So, back home in Australia, right," he began, his accent lazy and full of swagger, "we've got these big bastards—kangaroos. Muscular as hell, jump like five meters easy, and if one kicks you, mate, you're done. They're kind of like our version of—uh—"
Serenkhand, sitting cross-legged beside him, her long braid catching glints of sunlight, followed his line of thought with patient confusion. "Of marmots?" she asked innocently, pointing to a cluster of furry brown shapes peeking out from their burrows in the grassland ahead. "They are my favorite animals. They stand up and squeak when you walk close."
Riley blinked, staring at the marmots like he'd just been caught cheating on a test. "…Yeah. Totally. Marmots. We've got… uh, huge marmots that can kick your ribs in."
Serenkhand looked at him, head slightly tilted, eyes squinting as if trying to decipher whether he was joking or just strange. "You mean… kangaroos," she said finally.
He grinned, leaning back again. "Exactly. Same thing, just angrier and with better legs."
She smiled politely, clearly not understanding the innuendo or the tone at all, which only made him dig in deeper—telling her about Australian summers, barbecues, deadly spiders, drop bears, and how kangaroos could "box like real blokes." Serenkhand listened with genuine fascination, nodding softly, occasionally glancing at the marmots like she was imagining them in boxing gloves.
And Riley, noticing that little spark of wonder, kept talking—not because she got the jokes, but because she looked happy when she didn't.
Time seemed to hiccup around Riley for a brief, surreal second. The grass froze mid-sway, the marmots paused mid-squeak, and even the wind held its breath. Suddenly, two tiny versions of himself appeared on his shoulders, bickering like cartoon devils and angels.
The one on his left—the Good Angel Riley—folded his arms and tapped his chin, voice sharp and disapproving. "Mate, seriously? She's married. Hands off. Not even a foot in the door. You're embarrassing yourself."
Riley's eyes widened. "I—yeah, I know, I just—"
"Don't argue," Angel Riley cut in, wagging a finger. "You really don't want to mess with this. Keep it friendly. Talk about kangaroos. Talk about the weather. Not… whatever you're doing right now."
Meanwhile, on his right shoulder, the Bad Devil Riley leaned back lazily, smirking, whispering in that irresistible Aussie drawl. "Oi, mate, don't listen to that wanker. If you're gonna flirt, do it like a pro. Compliment her eyes, tell a story, make her laugh. You got charm—use it."
Angel Riley pinched his nose in frustration. "Charm? She's married! Focus on talking, learning about her culture, not drooling over her!"
Bad Devil Riley just shrugged. "Mate, subtlety is key. But don't be afraid to show interest. You're a bloody Aussie bloke—confidence is your weapon."
Riley blinked, caught between guilt and temptation, heart thumping, unsure which miniature version of himself to obey. Somewhere in the frozen Mongolian grasslands, time seemed to hum with quiet judgment, leaving him to stew in his own absurd indecision.
Finally, with a sigh, Riley muttered, "Alright, alright… balance. Talk first, swoon later… maybe."
The two Rileys froze mid-argument, gave him a simultaneous glare, then disappeared. The wind returned, the marmots squeaked, and the world resumed as if nothing had happened—except Riley, now red-faced and flustered, had a newfound mental checklist for surviving both married women and his own chaotic impulses.
Serenkhand tilted her head slightly, curiosity soft in her gaze. "What are your powers?" she asked, voice calm but probing. "Red burns, Red cuts… but I have yet to know yours."
Riley blinked, caught off guard by how seriously she asked. He straightened, puffed his chest a little, and tried to look heroic, like he'd just been handed the spotlight in an action movie. "Well," he said, voice brimming with faux gravitas, "I… jump really high. Like… kangaroo high. You know, skyscraper-high if I really put my mind to it. And—" he paused, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper, "—I can shoot… uh… stuff. Stuff that flies. And hits things. Sometimes."
Serenkhand's brow quirked, lips twitching like she was trying not to laugh. "Stuff that flies?"
Riley spread his arms wide, exaggerating each word. "Yeah! Totally deadly stuff! Like… rocks, sticks… sometimes my boomerang. You wouldn't believe how far it goes. Boing! Straight into the bad guys!"
She nodded slowly, tilting her head again, her expression somewhere between amusement and polite confusion. "I see… quite… unique."
Riley grinned, puffing out his chest again, clearly proud. "Yep. Jumping kangaroo, projectile master—basically unstoppable in a fight. Don't even try me."
Serenkhand smiled faintly, shaking her head. "Perhaps… the world is bigger than I imagined."
Riley puffed up even more. "Exactly! And someday, maybe I'll teach you how to do the kangaroo jump too. It's… life-changing, mate."
Serenkhand only raised an eyebrow, letting him bask in his ridiculous triumph, secretly amused by how seriously he took his own goofiness.
She hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I don't think I told you about my husband… His name is Vodka. I believe he might have mentioned it to you already."
Riley froze mid-step, jaw slack. "Wait… his name is Vodka?"
"Yes. Is that strange?" she asked, tilting her head innocently.
"You're telling me… a Russian guy… his actual name is Vodka?" Riley's voice climbed in disbelief.
She nodded calmly. "Yes. Vodka Grisslybar."
Riley's eyes widened. "Vodka… Grizzly Bear?"
She corrected him softly, "Grisslybar, not Grizzly Bear."
Riley ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. "Wh… who was his baby-name consultant? J.K. Rowling?"
The girl merely shrugged, unbothered, while Riley shook his head, muttering to himself as if trying to digest the absurdity.
Throwing his hands up in exasperation, Riley exclaimed, "You don't get it—it's like Red being named Curryjeet Singh!"
Serenkhand tilted her head, considering. "Well… I remember he did mention he's one-third German… so maybe Hans Fuhrer," she said cautiously.
Riley waved his hand dismissively. "And one-third Iranian… Reza Khamenei… Wait—no, that's not the point!" He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The point is—Vodka as a name is just… what?!"
Serenkhand blinked at him, clearly amused by how worked up he was over something so mundane.
Serenkhand chuckled softly, shaking her head as she leaned back against the fence. "Vodka… he's obsessed with chess. Always has been. Even before we married, he'd spend hours on the board, plotting moves like a general preparing for battle."
Riley blinked, still half in disbelief over the name.
"And our marriage…" she continued, her smile softening, "we've been married for three months now. It's… peaceful, in its own way. He's serious, but gentle, and I suppose he tolerates my nonsense."
She laughed again, a light, musical sound that made Riley glance at her, realizing the subtle warmth in her words. "Three months may not seem long," she said, "but it's enough to know that even a man named Vodka can be… well, human."
Riley raised an eyebrow, muttering under his breath, "Only in Mongolia…"
Serenkhand didn't hear him—or maybe she chose not to. She just smiled, continuing her story, unaware that the detail of their recent marriage would ripple forward in ways none of them could yet imagine.