Arjun moved like a shadow through the quiet corridors of the temple. The flickering lamps cast wavering light on the faded murals — scenes of gods battling demons, of righteousness conquering darkness. Now, he was part of that ancient war, except his battlefield was the crumbling sanctum beneath the apocalypse's shadow.
His heart beat steady — a drum of resolve. The blessing of Hanuman flowed through his veins, steadying his nerves, sharpening his senses.
Every footstep was calculated, every breath measured. He needed to be unseen, unheard.
Ahead, the sanctuary's inner chambers led to the quarters where the fake saint held court — a place masked by incense and prayers but soaked in fear and cruelty.
Arjun crouched behind a stone pillar, peering down the corridor.
Two of the saint's followers patrolled — their faces hard and distrustful.
His Police Instinct tingled — subtle signs of tension in their gait, the glint of a concealed blade.
He waited, then slipped past silently when they moved away.
Inside the chamber, Arjun found what he sought: crates of supplies labeled for distribution but hoarded, ledgers scribbled with names and amounts — evidence of the fake saint's control over resources, extortion, and lies.
But worse was what lay beneath: a small wooden box, locked and splintered at the edges, inside which were scraps of letters—pleas for mercy, whispered confessions, chilling hints of torturous rituals performed under the saint's orders.
His pulse quickened.
Proof.
He stuffed the letters into his jacket.
Varun and Dhani crept through the dim back corridors, their footsteps muffled by shadows. Dhani's fingers glowed faintly, magic coiling around him like smoke.
The mute man was hidden here — a prisoner.
Varun clutched a crude pipe bomb, fashioned from scavenged materials, the fuse barely flickering. His eyes flicked around — traps, hidden watchers, and cruel implements lay scattered.
"We need to be quick," Varun whispered.
Dhani nodded, conjuring a thin veil of wind to mask their movements and cool the air around them, dulling any scents that might betray them.
They reached a locked kitchen pantry where muffled groans echoed.
Varun set the pipe bomb carefully near the door, aiming to create a distraction without harming the mute man.
The explosion shattered the quiet, sending a blast of smoke and dust into the hallway.
He heard the distant explosion and tensed.
The temple's silence was breaking.
He slipped further, deeper into the saint's private chambers.
There, he found more chilling signs — shackles, remnants of drugs, and disturbing symbols etched into the walls.
Dark magic.
His instincts screamed — this was no mere conman, but a man wielding forces of darkness under a guise of sanctity.
Varun and Dhani seized the moment. The guards rushed to the explosion, leaving the pantry door unguarded.
Dhani's elemental power shimmered as he loosened the lock with gusts of wind.
Inside, the mute man lay curled, weak but alive.
"Come on," Varun urged softly.
The mute man's eyes met theirs — full of fear but flickering with hope.
Suddenly, footsteps thundered back.
The fake saint's enforcers had returned, alerted by the blast.
Aware of the danger, Arjun retraced his steps, blending into shadows.
He slipped outside, the letters in his pocket burning with promise.
This evidence could unravel the fake saint's web.
But he knew confrontation was inevitable.
Varun lit another pipe bomb, tossing it behind the enforcers.
Explosions echoed as traps sprung, wires snapping, elemental gusts swirling — Dhani's magic making every move count.
The fight was brutal and chaotic.
Varun's skill with improvised explosives and traps kept them one step ahead.
Dhani's powers controlled wind and flame — bursts of fire licking at enemies while gusts knocked them off balance.
The mute man, still fragile, was their priority.
Varun and Dhani fought fiercely, driven by desperation and hope.