Arush moved his hand with a frantic, obsessive rhythm, the pads of his fingers hitting his legs with a mechanical tap. It was a percussion of the soul—a code being hammered into his own flesh to keep the reality from splintering. His lips moved in a feverish tremor, spilling a whisper of Sanskrit and Marathi syllables that drifted like ash in the cabin. These were words nobody could hear, a prayer for a ghost that wasn't dead yet, or perhaps a warning to the God currently nesting in his skull.
Karma looked at Arush with a gaze as sharp as a razor's edge. He saw the change. The boy who was once just an aspiring author had become a vessel of jagged movements and calculated silence. Anxiety or some kind of trauma... what is this friction? Karma's mind raced, but his face remained a mask of iron, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the dashboard.
Outside, the tires scratched over the asphalt with a rhythmic hiss, the smell of burning rubber dissolving into the air in minute, acidic amounts. Inside the cabin, the AC unit hummed, blowing out oxygen that felt frozen, recycled through fans of clinical coldness. Arush sat in that artificial winter, the frost of his own breath misting in front of his face as he repeated the introduction in his head until the words lost meaning, becoming nothing more than hollow vibrations: "Hi, my name is Arush. I was the captain for the mission at Shyamamrd."
Sanvi sat beside them, her eyes tracing the neon lights of the street stalls—vibrant streaks of violet and green passing by like ghosts. The scent of the city bled through the vents: delicious, heavy smells of clove, kimchi, and charred onions from the night markets. It was the smell of a world that was still alive, a sharp contrast to the file in her lap. For a split second, a single paragraph shattered her reality. Her skin turned a deathly, translucent white. The blood in her fingers began to clot, a violent stasis that sent agonizing cramps up her arms as if the ink on the page were a poison.
SUBJECT INFERNO: MISSION LOG - SHYAMAMRD
Status: Disgraced. The captain was found in a state of severe intoxication during the breach. His inability to maintain the perimeter allowed a surge of negative energy. Result: Massacre of 180 villagers and 21 soldiers of the strike squad.
Sanvi's breath hitched, the paper crinkling under her white-knuckled grip. A voice, ancient and distorted, whispered in the back of her mind: "It wasn't his fault... it was ours." A volley of regret, sharp as arrows, pierced her chest. The fear was a glowing, dim light forged in the terror of the public's reaction. How will he react? How will the world react? The questions were a weight she couldn't carry.
"How much time is left?" Arush's voice cut through the cabin, dry as bone.
Karma checked his phone, his thumb hovering over a screen blurred by his own tension. "10 minutes."
Arush looked at him, a smile fading into the shadows of the car like a guttering candle. He stretched his muscles, the coldness of the AC creating a visible frost in his breath. "Why did you want to do that?"
A bead of cold sweat ran down Karma's spine, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He reached into his cotton jacket, pulling out a napkin to wipe his brow with a hand that shook almost imperceptibly. He glanced at Sanvi, then forced a smile at Arush. "Because we wanted the Captain to tell the details. The world needs the truth."
Arush didn't smile back. He lifted a finger, pointing it like a barrel at Karma's heart. "I was not alone in that mission. Where is Vaidere?"
Karma's leg began to tap profusely, matching Arush's rhythm but lacking his control. A sound emerged from deep within his thorax, a strained, rattling vibration. "He is working with AATD and another branch called USCE... Unauthorised Supernatural Cult Elimination."
The tires screeched, the brakes jamming as the car lurched to a halt in front of a monolith of glass. The NSEA headquarters. Arush looked at Karma, his voice dropping into a low, bestial growl that vibrated through the leather seats.
"Stay with that lie."
He stepped out of the car, the "frozen oxygen" of the vehicle replaced by the heavy, humid air of the city.
Upstairs, So Jung stood behind the reinforced glass of the observation deck, his gaze fixed on the figure walking toward the entrance. He turned to his agent, his voice a low hum of suspicion. "This guy... he really hunted down a beast with a density of 10 lakh NM/m?"
The agent looked into her tablet, her face a map of confusion and awe as she scrolled through the encrypted data. She nodded. "Yes. The Negative Energy per meter was off the charts. He didn't just kill it; he erased it from the cycle."
Arush moved through the lobby. The building was a cathedral of glass and steel, an architectural lie of transparency. Soldiers stood at every corner, clutching rifles designed to tear through high-ranking Sinners in seconds. The air in the lobby tasted of ozone and expensive cologne.
Then, a voice erupted—a sound like a tectonic plate shifting. A chuckle followed. "Hi, Mr. Arush."
A tall, blonde man stepped forward. In the shifting sunrays hitting the glass, his hair flickered from gold to a necrotic black. He approached with a professional smile, hand outstretched.
"Who are you?" Arush asked, his muscles coiling.
The man took a deep breath, glancing at So Jung. "This guy is fun." He turned back to Arush, his voice dropping into a calm, rhythmic tone. "I am Author. From the USA branch of NSEA."
Arush reached out. The moment their palms met, the air screamed. Arush felt the nerves in his hand being wrenched, contracted toward a central point of agonizing pressure. Author wasn't just shaking his hand; he was trying to fold Arush's reality, testing the structural integrity of the "Subject Inferno." Arush sensed the raw, unbridled aggression behind the man's smile.
Author's eyes, bright and welcoming a second ago, turned to pits of agony. Arush's hand swelled, the skin turning a violent, bruised red as he fought the grip, the "Nothingness" in his veins pushing back against the "Author's" script. So Jung's hand drifted toward the hilt of his blade, sensing the killing intent.
"Mr. Author," the agent's voice cut through the tension. "Get to the meeting area. Mr. Arush will be giving us the presentation in ten minutes."
The words fell on Arush's ears, and the pressure vanished instantly. Author withdrew his hand, his smile returning as if he hadn't just tried to crush the Captain's soul. He walked away, calling over his shoulder, "Let us see your courage, Arush. We would love to hear your voice."
Karma stood in the back, a seed of doubt blooming in his chest. Did So Jung know? Was this a match they had planned?
Sanvi whispered from behind him, "Did they know about the mission?"
Karma covered his mouth, his eyes darting toward Arush. "Stay close to him... and be alert."
Arush stood in the center of the hall, the words he had prepared starting to dissolve under the pressure of the gaze of the elite. Then, a whisper echoed in his skull.
"I have changed things."
It was Kurozaro. The voice of the God of Debt.
Arush tightened every muscle in his body, looking around frantically. Karma, Sanvi, the soldiers—they were all there, but something was wrong. Through the glass, he saw it. Embedded in the concrete of the courtyard was a katana with a golden handle, its blade coated in thick, wet blood.
"Are you okay, Arush?" Karma's voice sounded muffled, as if underwater.
Snap!
Sanvi snapped her fingers in front of his face, breaking the illusion. The katana vanished. The blood was gone.
"Yes," Arush said, his voice a flat line. "I am."
He turned and walked into the presentation room.
In the abyss of Arush's inner world, Kurozaro looked up at a sky he had decorated with black stars. He laughed, the sound creating waves in a void that was grounded, not growing.
"The land won't be filled with fillers," Kurozaro whispered into the dark. "But it will cost a sacrifice. Don't you think, Mehung?"
A giggle emerged from the black flames. A soldier in ancient, war-torn armor forged himself out of the fire. He kneeled, the metal of his greaves clanking against the nothingness.
"My lord... serving your vessel will be my pleasure."
Kurozaro looked at the armored shadow. "Would they like the sight of you?" He laughed again, the waves of his voice shaking the foundations of Arush's sanity.
The room was a tomb. It was filled with the "Cold Blood" of the top five Dealers.
So Jung. Author. Martinez. Warner. Thorne.
They sat with their agents, their eyes fixed on the screen showing the carnage of Shyamamrd. Behind in the corner, Karma took a frantic sip of water, looking at Sanvi as she entered the room, her face a mask of tragedy. Everyone's eyes stricken like needles onto Arush.
Arush walked to the podium. His eyes were closed shut. He began to speak, his voice devoid of emotion.
"I am Arush. The Captain for the mission at Shyamamrd."
The Dealers flipped through their files. Arush continued, the details spilling out like a confession. "We got a reading of 100,000 NM/m. I was deployed with Vice-Captain Vaidere, the Strength Specialist Sanvi, Commander Ywu, and 30 soldiers."
He reached the final paragraph. The lie. The sacrifice.
"The Subject Inferno... was drunk. Due to this reason, the massacre was caused, killing 180 villagers and 21 soldiers."
The room went silent. The air grew heavy, thick with the "Ozone smell of nothingness." Arush looked over the file, his eyes numbing. He felt a chill crawl through his body, a frost that started at his spine and moved to his brain. In the corner of the room, standing silently behind the Dealers, was the ghost of the White Tiger he had killed.
Mehung appeared beside the ghost, his new armor forged from black leather and bound with red threads of fate. He kneeled before Arush. Only Arush could see the energy flowing through Mehung's body, a violent crimson current flowing around his waist and soul.
Sweat ran down Arush's spine, his vision blurring.
So Jung looked up from the file, his grip tightening on the table. "So," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You were drunk?"
Arush looked So Jung in the eye. He felt Mehung's hand on his shoulder—a cold, heavy weight that felt like an endorsement from the Abyss.
"Yes," Arush muttered. "I was."
The room exhaled. Sanvi gripped her papers so hard they tore, her knuckles white. Instead of tears, small, jagged crystals fell from her eyes—regret manifesting as physical shards that shattered on the floor like glass.
Arush turned to the elite, a dark, hollow smile touching his lips. "The Sinner had many things... he killed my people while my soldiers stood their ground, taking him down. They died while their Captain gave him a loose hand."
The Dealers began to clap. A slow, rhythmic sound that felt like nails being driven into a coffin. Arush stood there, the "Subject Inferno," basking in the applause of men who traded in blood, while a shadow general and a ghost tiger stood guard over his broken reputation.
The presentation was over, but the debt was just beginning to be collected. Arush walked out, his hand still rhythmically tapping his leg, whispering words into the silence that was no longer empty. The Hinder of the Unknown had arrived
-ARUSH SALUNKE