✦𑁍 Chronicle Note: 1843 CE – Year of the First Tear 𑁍
The Mandalic Dharmic Federation is stable.
The Constitution breathes.
Trade routes hum.
Armies drill, not for conquest, but for deterrence.
It is exactly at such times—when a realm begins to think itself secure—that something from outside tests its foundations.
This time, the test did not come with flags or cannons.
It came with claws from another realm.
I. Peace, Paperwork, and a Lion Who Hates Files
Kesarinagara glowed in the late afternoon light.
The new boulevards hummed with: bullock carts loaded with grain, scholars in simple robes, merchants in rich turbans, soldiers in disciplined formations.
In the inner palace, Narasimha stared at a mountain.
Not of rock.
Of files.
Sri had arranged them in meticulous tiers: tax reports, temple regulation drafts, education reform follow-ups, military rotation schedules.
He rested his forehead on the table."Devi, what sin did I commit in a past life," he mumbled, "that I am now condemned to calculate grain yields and resolve disputes about drainage ditches?"
Kaveri, seated opposite with her own neat stack, didn't even look up.
"You conquered half a subcontinent and then wrote a Constitution," she said, deadpan.
"This is the interest rate on that karma."
Rajendra peeked in through the doorway, grinning.
"Sister says Appa is practising his 'martyr face' again," he whispered. "The same one he used at our handwriting lessons."
Rudrama, leaning against a pillar, added,
"Careful, Rajendra. If Appa hears you, he'll make you calculate irrigation percentages with him."
Narasimha lifted his head, gave his children a mock glare—and then a real sigh.
"I was born to wield a sword," he muttered, "not a quill."
Venkanna, seated nearby with a palm-leaf manuscript, smiled.
"A true Chakravartin," he said, "must master both. Steel keeps enemies outside your borders. Letters keep rot from growing inside."
Before Narasimha could frame a witty reply, the door to the chamber slid open.
A Trinetra agent, in the plain clothes of a clerk, slipped in and bowed low.
He carried a sealed cylinder. "Forgive the interruption, Maharaja," he said. "Urgent message from the western district. Trinetra flag: 'Anomaly—unclassified'."
Narasimha's humour vanished."Unclassified?" he asked, taking the tube. "That word I do not like."
He cracked the seal and unfurled the coded sheet.
Sri, drawn by tone, came closer.
Narasimha read silently, lips tightening.
Sri watched his face."What is it?" she asked.
He answered slowly. "A village," he said, "barely two days' ride from here. Repeated attacks, mostly at night. Livestock slaughtered first, then… people. Witnesses describe: something large, not fully seen, claws, fire, and… vanishing. Trinetra reports no bandit signs, no rival state movement, no cult activity detectable."
He handed the sheet to Sri."At first, local officials dismissed it as panic," he said."But now the village headman has sent a rider directly to Kesarinagara.He should be here any moment."
As if summoned, a commotion rose outside.
A guard's voice: "Clear way! Messenger from Vadanuru village, urgent appeal!"
Narasimha stood."Bring him," he ordered.
II. The Rider from Vadanuru
The rider staggered in, dusty and exhausted.
He bowed, swaying on his feet.
Narasimha gestured, and a guard darted forward with water.
"Drink," the Emperor said."Then speak."
The man gulped gratefully, then prostrated himself.
"Mahārāja!" he gasped. "We… we are finished if you do not come. Something… some rakshasa has fallen on Vadanuru. At first, we thought it was a wild beast. But… it walks like a man, yet not. It…"
His words tumbled out. "Eyes like burning pits, body like cracked rock, claws that shred bullock hide like cloth—""Bandits sometimes wear fear-masks," a councillor interjected. "This could be—"
The rider shook his head frantically."No, Swami," he said. "We tried everything.
We rang temple bells, chanted mantras, and lit lamps in every house. It tears through our walls. And then—" he shuddered, "—it vanishes. Not runs. Vanishes. One moment, it is ripping a door from its hinge. The next… nothing. Our arrows pass through. Our swords burn when they touch its hide. We have lost a quarter of the village. If this continues… There will be no Vadanuru left."
The hall murmured.
Narasimha frowned.
Some nobles smirked sceptically.
"It could be hysteria," one murmured. "A panicked villager seeing bandits and imagining more."
Another said, "Perhaps a rogue aghori or tantric with parlor tricks."
Narasimha did not answer at once.
He turned his head slightly."Gouru Venkanna," he said quietly. "What do you feel?"
The old sage had been sitting very still, eyes half-closed, as the messenger spoke.
Now, he drew in a long, slow breath.
In that moment, the court seemed to dim around him.
"Silence," he said softly.
Narasimha gestured, and the hall quieted at once.
Venkanna closed his eyes fully.
Those nearby felt… something.
As if the air itself had thickened, listening.
Within his mind, Venkanna let his awareness drift: past the stone of the palace, over the fields around Kesarinagara, skimming across rivers and groves.
He sought the signature he had glimpsed, faint and foul, during his meditations that week—a disturbance he had not yet placed.
There.
A knot of cold and heat together.
Not like a fever.
Not like a battlefield's lingering aftertaste.
Something… else.
It pulsed near a cluster of homes and temple smoke.
Venkanna's brow furrowed.
He saw, not with eyes, but with the language of energies: a rent in the fabric of the subtle world, like a crack in a vessel holding water. From it seeped a presence that did not fit into the usual categories of: yaksha, preta, pisacha. It felt… alien, coarsely burnished by a dimension of torment.
Venkanna opened his eyes. "This…" he said slowly, "is no mere banditry. Nor a simple wandering preta. Something has punctured the veil near Vadanuru."
Narasimha's spine tingled. "You are certain?" he asked.
Venkanna nodded gravely. "I have walked this land in spirit for many years," he said.
"I have sensed: yakshas guarding groves, nagas sleeping in rivers, the fading echoes of devas who once visited shrines. This presence is not of our usual Narakas. It smells of… a foreign Hell."
The word hung in the air.
Narasimha straightened.
"Then we will not treat it as a village quarrel," he said.
"To ignore such a wound so close to our heart would be folly."
He turned to the rider.
"You have done well," he said. "Rest. Food and care will be given. I will come myself."
Kaveri's head snapped toward him.
"You—personally?" she asked softly.
Narasimha gave her a wry smile.
"Kaveri," he said, "if a sickle of death swings this near our capital, should the king sit and debate irrigation charts?"
He looked at Sri."Prepare orders. A hundred Tiger Corps, light and fast. No cannons—they will be slow. I want: veterans who have seen strange things, archers with the steadiest hands, and a small group of temple-initiated warriors who know protective mantras."
Sri hesitated only a moment, then nodded. "As you command," she said.
Rudrama stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"Appa, let me come," she said.
"I—"
"No," Narasimha said at once, gentle but firm.
"Not yet. There will come a time when you lead such expeditions. Today, your dharma is to watch how we respond from the capital. Study the reports. Ask Sri and your mother about every decision we make. That is how a future queen learns to face what cannot be seen."
Rudrama's jaw tightened, but she bowed. "Yes, Appa."
Rajendra, who had been hoping not to be asked to come, exhaled silently in relief.
III. Vadanuru – A Village on the Edge
By dusk the next day, Narasimha and his chosen hundred rode toward Vadanuru.
The village lay not far from a small river, surrounded by modest fields.
From a distance, it looked peaceful: smoke rising from a few cooking fires, silhouettes moving between huts. But as they drew closer, the wrongness became clear. Entire stretches of the village were scorched, walls ripped out as if by claws, and roofs collapsed inward. The smell of char and something acrid—like burnt metal—hung heavy.
Survivors clustered near the temple at the centre, huddled around braziers and lamps. When they saw the Lion Banner, some wept openly.
"Mahārāja!" an old woman cried, falling at his feet. "We thought… we thought the gods had abandoned us."
Narasimha dismounted and lifted her gently.
"If the gods are slow," he said softly, "then let the king move faster."
His gaze swept the surroundings.
The Tiger Corps began to spread out, securing perimeters, setting signal posts.
"Any attacks during the day?" Narasimha asked the village headman.
The man shook his head, eyes haunted.
"No, Mahārāja," he said.
"Always at night.
It… likes the dark."
One of the temple warriors muttered, "Many such beings do." Narasimha shut his eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath.
He let his prana sink, then rise.
He had, by now, decades of: training, battlefield intuition, aura-sensing. He reached out with that sense.
He felt: the fear of the villagers, the steady focus of his soldiers, the quiet hum of the small temple's deity. And beneath it… A smear. Like oil on water. Cold and hot at once.
He opened his eyes. "It will come again tonight," he said."I can feel it. It likes the panic it creates.Such entities often feed on fear."
He ordered barricades, torch posts, layered archery points.
The hundred Tiger Corps took positions: some on rooftops, some behind earthen walls, some within temple thresholds.
The temple warriors began soft chants of protective mantras, low and constant.
Night fell.
The village held its breath.
IV. The Thing from the Other Hell
It began as a tremor.
Not in the ground—in the air.
Torches flickered.
Dogs whimpered and tried to crawl under anything they could find.
Children woke and began crying, though no sound had yet come from outside.
Narasimha felt the pulse again—stronger.
"Positions," he said quietly.
The word rippled through his men.
Then, near the edge of the ruined lane, space… twisted.
No portal, no refined circle.
Just a rip—like a wound tearing open.
From it, something stepped through.
It was tall—twice a man's height.
Its skin looked like black stone charred by centuries of flame, veins of molten orange pulsing underneath.
Horn-like ridges curled back from its brow.
Its eyes were pits of burning embers.
Its mouth, when it opened, showed rows of teeth like broken blades.
Around its body, the air wavered with heat, yet the night grew colder.
This was not a rakshasa from local tales.
This was a demon from another Hell—one of the countless lower dimensions that in some universes were ruled by beings like Mephisto, in others by nameless tyrants.
Here, it was a hunter, pushed through a crack by cultists far away—or perhaps drawn to the bright spike of Narasimha's soul.
It stepped fully into Vadanuru's street, claws sinking into the earth.
A woman screamed.
The thing turned, eyes focusing on the densest cluster of warmth and fear near the temple.
It roared.
The sound was… wrong.
Not just loud.
It scraped at the soul, growing not just in ears but behind eyes.
Some villagers clapped their hands over their ears and sobbed.
Narasimha's aura flared instinctively, wrapping the people closest to him in a blanket of will.
"Archers!" he commanded. "Loose!"
A volley of arrows, steel-tipped, flew from rooftops and concealed positions.
They struck the demon's hide.
Most bounced.
A few sank in—and then ignited, burning to ash against the creature's skin.
The demon turned toward the archers.
Flames gathered in its maw.
Narasimha didn't wait.
He leaped forward, sword drawn.
His body moved with prana-infused speed, legs coiling and uncoiling like a great cat's.
He slammed into the demon's flank, blade glowing faintly as he channelled life-force into the strike.
The sword bit.
Not deeply—but enough.
Black-red ichor sizzled.
The demon snarled, lashing out.
A clawed hand swept toward him.
He ducked, rolled, came up under its guard, and slammed a prana-charged elbow into its ribs.
The shock reverberated up his arm.
This thing was dense.
Behind him, temple warriors began louder chants, their voices weaving protection around the huddled villagers.
"Tiger Corps, pattern Trishula!" Narasimha shouted.
His soldiers moved as drilled: three-pronged formation, flanking and rear harassment, never clustering enough to make an easy target. They struck with spears tipped in special alloys, some coated in ritual ash and herbs. Again, small damage.
The demon roared and vanished. It did not leap. It simply blurred out of existence—and reappeared halfway down another lane, near a cluster of huts.
"Move!" Narasimha shouted, already sprinting.
His lungs burned, muscles straining—but his body, strengthened over the years, answered.
The demon reached for a hut, ripping its roof off like paper.
A child's cry cut through the chaos.
Narasimha's vision narrowed.
He launched himself forward, Asura aura flickering at the edge of his being.
His eyes burned gold, pupils thinning.
He slammed into the demon's wrist, sword carving a deeper groove this time.
The creature howled, dropping the roof.
Narasimha shoved the cowering family back with a barked order and turned just as the demon's other hand scythed across.
It hit him full in the chest.
For an instant, he was airborne.
Then: Stone. He crashed through a half-collapsed wall, feeling ribs crack—not shatter, but bend.
His vision went white, then red.
He coughed.
Blood flecked his lips.
His immortal boon kept him from true death, but pain did not care about boons.
He forced himself up, stumbling.
The demon advanced, sensing the brightest soul in the vicinity.
To it, Narasimha was both a threat and a meal.
It raised its claw, ready to bring it down.
Narasimha raised his sword in a guard that he knew, even as he lifted it, would not be enough in time.
So this is how it feels, he thought wryly, to almost die when you know you cannot.
He braced.
The demon's claw descended—
—and a circle of golden-orange light flared into existence between claw and king.
The impact smashed against the circle with a thunderous shock, sending sparks raining across the lane.
The circle held.
A woman's calm, firm voice rang through the night.
"That will be quite enough."
V. The Sorcerer in Saffron and Gold
From a swirling portal of the same golden-orange light stepped a figure.
She wore saffron robes layered with simple, practical cuts.
Her head was shaved, gleaming faintly in torchlight.
Around her neck hung a pendant etched with interlocking circles.
Her eyes were old and sharp.
Behind her, two other sorcerers stepped out, hands already weaving mandalas.
She flicked her fingers.
More circular shields blossomed, interposed between the villagers and the demon.
The demon snarled, sensing power it recognised—not from this plane, but from the interdimensional currents it once swam in.
"Back, spawn of lower Hell," the woman said.
Her hands traced complex patterns.
Golden threads of energy lashed out, forming chains that wrapped around the demon's limbs.
It struggled.
The chains strained, but held.
The sorcerers behind her moved in sync, adding their own bindings and wards.
Narasimha staggered upright, staring.
He had seen siddhars walk across coals, Yogis slow their breath to a whisper, and priests call down temple blessings. This was different.
This was geometry and will made visible.
He stepped forward, sword still in hand.
The woman glanced at him once, assessing."Stay close if you insist on fighting," she said. "And try not to get killed. Your soul is… noisy."
He might have bristled at the tone—under other circumstances.
Now, he only nodded. "Soldiers!" he shouted. "Regroup behind the shields! Strike only when I signal!"
The demon strained, then did something Narasimha had seen once already: it blinked.
For a moment, its form blurred, trying to slip out of this plane.The chains anchored it.
The woman snarled softly."Thought so," she murmured.
"A phase-shifter. Clever. You don't belong to our Narakas at all, do you?"
The demon roared, flames building in its throat.
The sorcerers responded with whirling runes that cooled the air, containing the blast.
Fire erupted—but curved back, seared by its own rebound.
The demon howled in pain.
Narasimha saw an opening.
His ribs protested, but he moved anyway.
He slid under one of the glowing chains, using it as partial cover, and slashed at the demon's knee with a full prana surge.
This time, his blade carved deep.
The demon staggered.
"Good," the woman said curtly. "Once more. I'll pin."
She spun both hands.
Circles appeared on either side of the demon's head, compressing like vices.
The demon's attention was shattered for a moment under the psychic pressure.
Narasimha drew in breath.
He felt the ache in his bones, the burning of his muscles.
He pushed past it.
He let a hint of his Asura form flicker—just enough to infuse his strike with primal ferocity.
He sprang, both hands on the hilt, and brought the sword down in a descending arc at the demon's neck.
Golden prana met hellish flesh.
There was resistance, then a tearing, sizzling sensation.
With a roar that sounded like a collapsing furnace, the demon's head severed halfway—enough.
Its body convulsed.
The woman seized the moment.
Her hands slammed together.
"Begone," she commanded, in a language older than most kingdoms.
A portal—this one dark and cold—opened beneath the demon.
Bound and wounded, it was dragged down, its form disintegrating into motes of ash and embers that fell into the crack between realms.
The portal snapped shut.
Silence crashed over Vadanuru.
Only the crackle of dying fires and the ragged breathing of soldiers and villagers remained.
Narasimha sagged against a half-wall, chest heaving.
The woman turned to him, studying him openly now.
VI. Yao of Kamar-Taj
"You are not an ordinary king," she said.
Narasimha snorted weakly.
"Tell that to my paperwork," he replied.
"Most days it disagrees."
One corner of her mouth twitched.
She inclined her head slightly.
"I am Yao," she said. "Disciple and successor-in-duty of the Ancient One, guardian of Kamar-Taj.
We watch over the mystical threats to this world."
The name tickled something in Narasimha's memory—echoes from childhood stories of "northern monks" and "hidden monasteries".
Before he could reply, an old, familiar voice came from behind him.
"Kamar-Taj," Venkanna said quietly, having moved up during the battle's final moments. "I wondered how long before one of you stepped onto our soil openly."
Yao's gaze shifted, sharpened.
She bowed—a fraction lower than she had to Narasimha.
"Gosayi Venkanna," she said. "So you are still wandering this plane."
Narasimha blinked.
"You know him?" he asked.
Venkanna chuckled.
"In my youth," he said, "before you were born, Maharaja, I travelled farther than most imagine. I visited Sharada Peetha's sub-libraries. I… brushed against the wards of Kamar-Taj. I did not stay. Your people needed me more."
Yao nodded. "Your name is known in certain circles," she said. "You walked the line between: internal siddhi, and external sorcery, with more balance than most."
Narasimha looked between them. "Someone," he said dryly, "will explain what exactly just tried to turn my village into an appetiser and why a hidden order from the north is here to clean it up."
Yao folded her hands behind her back. "Very well," she said. "You have just had your first open encounter with what we call a Hell-demon—a being from a lower dimension, not one of your traditional Hindu Narakas.
Think of it as: a predator from a neighbouring forest, slipping through a hole in the fence between worlds."
She gestured to the spot where the demon had first appeared. "This crack," she said, "was… interesting. Not random. The barrier between your ancient Lokas and the outer dimensions has been thick since the end of Dvapara Yuga. When your gods and rishis withdrew, many routes were sealed: Devalokas closed, asura gates narrowed, and access to svarga and other planes was made limited.
This was to allow Kaliyuga to unfold as it must: an age of men, not an age of gods walking your streets daily."
She continued, "Over time, spiritual practice declined, temples were broken, and invasions shattered patronage networks. Many of the ancient Indian orders that guarded the subtle world died out, went into hiding, or retreated into forests and caves.
Places like Nalanda and Takshashila were not just centres of secular learning.
They held: mystical treatises, siddha lineages, grimoires of mantra and yantra. Dark sorcerers—some mortal, some not—coveted them.
When foreign invaders came with fire and steel, some Indian traitors and outsiders whispered together: 'We can use these libraries to grasp more power…'"
Her eyes darkened. "Several great seats of learning chose to destroy themselves rather than be turned into weapons of darkness. Others hid their most dangerous knowledge in sub-dimensions. One such cache is the library of Sharada Peetha, now anchored partly in another plane. Kamar-Taj received fragments of this knowledge. We have, for centuries, safeguarded spells, records, and warnings from Indian mystics. But our primary work," she said, "has never been purely Indian. We defend the world—all of it—from interdimensional threats. We cannot be everywhere. We are few."
Narasimha listened, ribs aching, mind racing. "So," he said slowly, "Hindu myth was… true."
Yao's gaze softened. "Truth," she said, "with layers. Once, devas, rishis, yakshas, nagas… they walked this land more freely. Then, as each Yuga moved, the rules changed. At the end of Dvapara: Krishna's departure, the Kurukshetra war, the collapse of old dharmic frameworks…the gods deliberately withdrew from open play. Your Lokas sealed themselves more tightly. Now, only: weaker rakshasas, wandering pretas, and stubborn yakshas can slip through the divine barriers. And even they are fewer than in your puranic tales."
Venkanna added, "In Kaliyuga, the burden shifted to humans. Our saints held the borders for a time. But: lack of patronage, temple destruction, kings too busy surviving mortal armies… meant that guardian orders starved. Many lineages ended quietly. Those that remained became secretive. The mythical and common worlds drifted apart like continents."
Yao nodded. "Kamar-Taj tried to fill some gaps," she said. "But our magic works differently. We do not primarily awaken the soul's own siddhi as your ancient yogis did. We: channel energy from other dimensions, drawing on: the Mirror Dimension, the Dark Dimension (carefully), countless others. It is versatile. But in Bharat, much of the old knowledge depended on inner tapas, not borrowed power. That path… is harder in an age where being a full-time guardian does not feed a family."
She looked at Narasimha keenly. "You," she said, "are… an anomaly."
VII. A Soul That Disturbs the Balance
Narasimha raised an eyebrow. "Anomaly is not usually a compliment," he said.
Yao actually smiled. "In your case, it is," she replied. "When you were born, the pattern of the subcontinent changed.
Kamar-Taj noticed a spike: in certain astral alignments, in the density of dreams from this region, in the intensity of dharmic will emanating from one point. We did not know who you were then. We only knew… something had stirred."
She paced slowly. "The more you: asserted dharma, unified realms, created a Constitution that bound power, the more… threads reconnected. Ancient spiritual leylines—paths of subtle energy—began to hum again. This is good. But it also: weakens some seals, makes small cracks more likely where the fabric was already worn. This demon used: a point of karmic strain and fear, a thinning between planes, to force entry into your realm."
Narasimha frowned. "So my existence," he said, "is causing both: healing of dharma, and new vulnerabilities?"
Yao shrugged lightly. "Any great change," she said, "tilts the board. You are: blessed by higher powers, carrying an echo of something. Your soul-pressure on this world is enormous. The universe adjusts."
Venkanna added, voice gentle, "That is why, Maharaja, I have been… cautious about how quickly to reveal certain truths to you. You walk a thin line between: king, warrior, and something more."
Narasimha exhaled. "So what now?" he asked. "Will more such creatures tear into my villages while you northern magicians are busy juggling dimensions elsewhere?"
Yao did not bristle.
She nodded, accepting the sting. "Yes," she said plainly. "More will come. Not every week. But as the decades pass, Kamar-Taj will: be stretched thinner, have to prioritise threats that endanger the whole planet. You are… unusually gifted.We must decide: do you remain just a political and military figure? or also become someone who can stand in the mystic frontlines?"
She reached into her robes and drew out a small talisman: a metal disc etched with intersecting circles and a central eye-like glyph.
She tossed it lightly. Narasimha caught it. "This," she said, "is a contact sigil. Channel a little of your will into it, and it will open a speaking channel to Kamar-Taj. Do not abuse it. We will not come for every minor haunting."
Her gaze hardened slightly. "Nor can we." She took a breath. "I offer you something else as well," she said. "An invitation. Your potential for the mystic arts is… high. Comparable to some of the greatest I have seen. If you train in Kamar-Taj, you can: perceive the multiverse more clearly, wield energies to rival even some gods, stand against dimension lords, should they threaten Earth."
She tilted her head."I am not saying this lightly.You have: a disciplined mind, a powerful soul, a dharmic compass. With effort, you could one day stand beside—perhaps even rival—the Ancient One himself."
Narasimha looked down at the talisman.
He imagined: leaving Kesarinagara for months, bending reality in a monastery high in the mountains, returning to find… what? His realm might manage. He had built systems.
But still. "My dharma," he said slowly, "is already heavy: as Emperor, as protector, as reformer. I cannot disappear for years to learn to spin glowing circles."
Yao nodded. "I did not expect you to," she said. "Not fully. But you can: visit in short periods, learn enough to sense dimensional fractures faster, stabilise small tears, protect your realm when we are too far. You can also: send trusted disciples—like your Council of Siddhars—to train."
Venkanna spoke up."This," he said, "could be the missing piece.We have: law ,army, intelligence, and education.
We lack a formal structure to handle: curses, relics, spirit anomalies, interdimensional wounds."
Narasimha's mind jumped back to his earlier designs: the "Mystic Departments" he had planned on parchment but never fully animated.
Council of Siddhars. Temple Guardians. Occult Bureau. Relic Protection Units. Spirit Interaction Office.
Perhaps their time had come.
VIII. Birth of the Occult Mandala
Under a sky slowly clearing of demon stink, Narasimha straightened.
His body still hurt, but his voice was steady.
"Very well," he said. "Here is what I will do. In the Mandalic Dharmic Federation, we will add a new pillar."
He looked to Venkanna. "You once told me," he said, "that a civilisation which ignores its subtle wounds will one day find its visible structures collapsing from unseen rot. We will not make that mistake."
He turned to his nearest officer. "Send word to Kesarinagara," he ordered. "I am: founding a Mystic Department—under the Ministry of Mysticism. Under it will be:
The Council of Siddhars – realised souls and yogis who will advise on spiritual threats.
Temple Guardians – a formal, trained order assigned to major shrines and pilgrimage routes.
The Occult Bureau – investigators skilled in: identifying curses, tracking forbidden rituals, liaising discreetly with Kamar-Taj and other hidden orders.
Relic Protection Units – charged with recovering and securing dangerous artefacts before fools or villains misuse them.
Spirit Interaction Office – responsible for: handling reports of hauntings, negotiating with non-hostile entities, ensuring dharmic balance between humans and subtle beings."
He looked at Yao. "We will not burden Kamar-Taj with every demon and ghost," he said. "We will build our own frontline. But we will also: honour your work, learn from you where appropriate."
He held up the talisman. "When I use this," he said, "it will be: only when a threat risks the world, or when magical knowledge beyond our scope is required."
Yao studied him, then inclined her head. "That is acceptable," she said. "You do not sound like a man dazzled by power. Good."
She glanced at the ruined houses, at villagers beginning to emerge from hiding. "For tonight," she said, "we will: help patch the subtle fabric here, seal the crack more firmly. After that, this is your land. Your responsibility."
She looked at Venkanna. "You will help him choose candidates?" she asked.
Venkanna smiled. "I already have names," he said. "Siddhars forgotten in hills, tantrics who refused to sell their arts to tyrants, learned acharyas who can tell a ghost story from a real preta."
Yao stepped back toward her portal.
Before she left, she turned once more to Narasimha. "A warning," she said. "As you grow in power, influence, spiritual weight, more such beings will notice you, test you, try to use you." She looked almost amused. "Consider this demon… a greeting card from the wider multiverse."
Narasimha snorted. "I prefer messages written in ink," he said. "Not in claws."
"Get used to both," she replied. "Your path will not stay confined to this peninsula forever. One day, your decisions will ripple into places where: men in metal suits, super-soldiers, and green rage-monsters complain about paperwork too."
He stared at her. "Sometimes," he said, "I think the gods have a very strange sense of humour."
Yao's eyes twinkled. "You have no idea," she said.
With that, she traced a circle.
The portal widened.
She and her fellow sorcerers stepped through.
The circle closed.
Vadanuru was, once more, just a village in the night.
But now, its soil held: the lingering echo of a demon's scream, the first official footprint of Kamar-Taj in the Mandalic Federation, and the decision of a king to open a new war-front—one that most of his subjects would never see.
IX. Above, Again
High above, the Trimurti and Tridevi watched.
Lakshmi spoke first. "Our child," she said, "does not chase this new power blindly. He: sees the danger, accepts the duty, and… complains about paperwork even to sorcerers."
Parvati laughed softly. "He is still human," she said. "That is good. Let him grumble. As long as he does what dharma demands."
Saraswati's gaze was bright. "Now," she said, "the Mandalic Federation has: law, arms, intelligence, education, and… mystic defence."
Brahma nodded slowly. "In Kaliyuga," he said, "the gods will not descend to fight every demon and alien. Men will have to: train, unite, craft systems. He is building exactly that."
Vishnu's voice was soft. "When the age of heroes begins in earnest," he said, "and sorcerers from Kamar-Taj, Avengers, X-Men, and beings from other stars clash and argue… there will be, quietly in the background, a Dharmic Lion whose empire has already learned to deal with: demons, cosmic politics, and the burden of power bound by law."
Mahadev smiled faintly. "Good," he said. "Let the Adbhuta Vibhaga grow. Let the lion learn not only to roar at armies, but to bark back at shadows."
In Vadanuru, villagers lit extra lamps that night.
Not just to drive away fear.
But to honour: the king who had fought like an asura to protect them,
The strange bald woman who had drawn circles in the air and made a demon fall into nothing.
In Kesarinagara, scribes began drafting mandates for the Mystic Department, invitations to hidden siddhars, and protocols on how to report "unusual phenomena" alongside crop yields. Somewhere high in the Himalayas, in a hall filled with relics and ancient texts, the true Ancient One paused in his meditation and smiled faintly. "So," he murmured, "the lion of the south has finally seen one of our little fires."
He turned his gaze inward, toward futures filled with capes, shields, and portals. "He will need that talisman sooner than he thinks," he said. "But for now… let him breathe.
He has just stepped into a larger world.
Best to let him adjust before we show him how deep the rabbit hole truly goes."
✦ End of Chapter 53 – "When the Veil Tears Near Kesarinagara" ✦