The village of Pazhani had seen better days.
The monsoon had left the fields soggy, the granaries half-empty, and the roads crawling with bandits who called themselves the Black Fang.
They came at dusk—five riders, faces wrapped in cloth, blades drawn, demanding grain, gold, and girls.
The villagers had no warriors.
No weapons.
No hope.
Until a boy with a goat-tooth necklace walked into town.
The Arrival of the Storm
Dhira arrived just before sunset, followed by five very loud, very dramatic, very loyal shadows.
They called themselves Team Dhira: The Chappel of Goats.
No one asked why.
No one dared.
The villagers watched as the six strangers set up camp near the banyan tree.
Dhira helped repair a broken fence.
His followers, meanwhile, gathered the children and began telling stories.
The Legend Grows
"So there we were," said the first follower, crouched dramatically, "in the jungle of the south, surrounded by elephants."
"Not just elephants," added the second. "A whole herd. Fifty. No—seventy."
"And Boss?" said the third. "He didn't even flinch. He walked up to the biggest one and said, 'Move.'"
"It was Airavata!" gasped the fourth. "The king of all elephants! Mount of Lord Indra himself!"
"And Boss," said the fifth, eyes wide, "fought him. Bare-handed. No weapons. Just vibes."
"And he won," said the first. "Didn't even break a sweat."
The children gasped.
"He beat Airavata?"
"With one hand," said the second.
"While eating a mango," added the third.
"And humming a goat lullaby," said the fourth.
"And wearing only one sandal," said the fifth.
The kids stared at Dhira, who was currently trying to teach a goat how to climb a tree.
He waved.
They screamed in awe.
The Real Fight
That night, the Black Fang returned.
Five riders.
Torches in hand.
Swords drawn.
They laughed when they saw the villagers gathered with sticks and farming tools.
They stopped laughing when a mango pit hit one of them square in the eye.
"Who—?"
Dhira stepped forward.
"Hi. I'm the guy who beat Airavata bare-handed."
The bandits blinked.
"What?"
"Long story," Dhira said. "Short version: leave."
They didn't.
So the Chappel of Goats charged.
The Chaos Unleashed
The fight was not elegant.
It was not graceful.
It was chaos.
One of the followers tripped over a chicken and accidentally headbutted a bandit.
Another tried to throw a spear and hit a tree.
A third got stuck in a grain basket and rolled into two enemies like a cannonball.
Dhira, meanwhile, moved like a storm.
He disarmed the leader with a flick of his staff.
He used a goat as a springboard to leap over a cart and land behind two attackers.
He didn't hurt them.
He just made sure they couldn't hurt anyone else.
Aftermath
By dawn, the Black Fang was gone—tied up, bruised, and thoroughly humiliated.
The villagers cheered.
The children ran to Dhira, eyes wide.
"Did you really fight Airavata?"
"Bare-handed?"
"While eating a mango?"
Dhira looked at his five followers.
They grinned.
He sighed.
"No," he said. "It was two elephants. And I had both sandals on."
The kids screamed again.
The elders chuckled.
They knew it was a joke.
But they liked Dhira.
And they liked his ridiculous, loyal, mango-loving gang.
Because they had helped when no one asked them to.
And that, in a world full of takers, was enough.