The days following Tanishka's death were a cold, empty void for Arjun. Grief had burned away, leaving only a razor-sharp shard of purpose: Sunil Agrawal. He existed in the hidden workshop beneath his penthouse, the outside world irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the plain red suit hanging before him and the target it represented.
Munna worked tirelessly. The call finally came after the bomb blast. "Boss. Agrawal. Zeni building downtown. Top floor fortress. Six floors of mercs. Wired tight."
"Keep your men away, Munna," Arjun's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Clear the area. This is personal." He ended the call.
He pulled on the plain red suit. It felt like a second skin, a vessel for the cold fury boiling within. The featureless red mask covered his face, dark lenses hiding the burning hatred in his eyes. He felt the hum of the Raktabeej power, eager, restless. Tonight, it would feast.
He moved across the Pune rooftops under a moonless night, an almost invisible red blur. He reached the 6-floor Zeni building. From the outside, it looked deserted.
He reached the ground floor. Four guards sat at consoles. He dropped silently.
Before the first guard could even register the flicker of red, Arjun's elbow shattered his sternum. The second reached for a sidearm; Arjun moved faster, breaking the man's arm in three places with a contemptuous twist, then slamming his head into a console, showering the room in sparks and silencing him permanently. The third raised his rifle – Arjun walked through the bullets, blood spraying from instantly sealing wounds. He grabbed the rifle barrel, crushed it, and used the mangled weapon to cave in the man's chest. The fourth guard screamed into his radio, trying to run. Arjun appeared before him, a silent red wall. A single hand placed flat on the man's chest resulted in a sickening crunch. Four dead in under ten seconds. Arjun killed all the people. The only sound was the crackle of damaged electronics.
He moved to the stairwell. Shouts echoed from below. They knew he was here. Good.
He reached first floor – barracks. Six men burst out, firing pistols and submachine guns down the narrow corridor. Bullets tore through Arjun, stitching lines across his chest and legs. He ignored them. The blood barely stained the red suit before the holes sealed. He walked towards them, an unstoppable crimson nightmare.
He grabbed the nearest man, using him as a human shield against the gunfire, feeling the bullets thud into the unfortunate guard's body before throwing the corpse into the others. He moved among them in the tight confines, a whirlwind of broken bones and silenced screams. He used their own weapons against them, crushing limbs, shattering skulls against the concrete walls. The violence was intimate, visceral. He felt bone give way under his fists, felt the brief, hot spray of blood that vanished from his suit. He left the corridor choked with corpses and the smell of gunpowder. Six more dead.
The second floor was a technological death trap. Laser grids crisscrossed the lobby. Automated turrets whirred from the ceiling. As Arjun stepped off the stairs, the room exploded in light and noise. Red laser beams sliced the air. Turrets opened fire with high-caliber rounds.
For Arjun, it was an inconvenience. He moved, vibrating his body, the lasers passing harmlessly through his intangible form. The turret bullets hammered against his regenerating body, momentarily staggering him but doing no lasting damage. He identified the power conduits along the walls. Moving in a blur, he ripped them out with contemptuous ease. The lasers died. The turrets fell silent. Four more guards, relying on technology, emerged from cover, only to be met by a silent red fist that extinguished their lives instantly.
The third floor held Agrawal's elite guard – eight mercenaries in tactical armor, armed with military-grade weaponry. They were waiting, spread out in a large open-plan office space, using desks and pillars for cover. They opened fire the moment he appeared, a coordinated barrage.
Arjun didn't dodge. He absorbed the impacts, his regeneration working overtime, blood misting the air around him before vanishing. He charged straight into the kill zone. He grabbed a heavy metal desk and threw it with impossible force, crushing two mercs against a far wall. He snatched a dropped assault rifle, emptied its clip into two more targets with inhuman speed and accuracy, then discarded the weapon as useless metal in his grip. He moved through the remaining four like a force of nature, his attacks brutal, efficient, breaking armor and bone with equal ease. The fight was louder here, filled with the roar of gunfire, the crunch of impacts, and the wet sounds of lethal brutality. But it ended just as quickly. Eight professionals, executed.
He stood in the wreckage, the silence ringing. Only one floor left.
He took the stairs slowly, letting Agrawal hear his deliberate, heavy footsteps approaching. He reached the fifth floor – a massive, bank-vault-style steel door. Arjun placed both hands flat on the cold steel. He pushed, focusing his power. The steel groaned, buckled, then tore off its hinges with an earsplitting screech, crashing inwards.
Inside, Sunil Agrawal stood alone, backed against the far wall, pale, sweating, terrified. He held a small pistol in trembling hands.
Arjun walked slowly into the room, the red mask hiding any expression, the dark lenses reflecting Agrawal's terror.
"You..." Agrawal stammered. "Who... what are you?"
Arjun didn't answer. He kept walking. Agrawal fired wildly. The bullets sparked harmlessly off Arjun's chest. Arjun reached him, snatched the pistol, crushed it, and let the pieces fall.
He grabbed Agrawal by the throat, lifting him off the ground, pinning him against the wall. Agrawal choked, clawing uselessly.
"Remember her?" Arjun's voice was a low, chilling whisper, electronically distorted. "Tanishka Chaudhary? The girl you crippled? The woman you murdered?"
Agrawal's eyes widened in terrified recognition. "No... please... it was just business..."
"You took her from me," Arjun continued, his grip tightening. "You took my light. So I took your men. Floor by bloody floor. Did you hear them scream?" He leaned closer. "Now... it's your turn. But yours will be slower. More painful."
He didn't kill him quickly. He made Agrawal feel every broken bone, every agonizing moment, mirroring the pain Tanishka must have felt. The sounds from within the vault were horrific, inhuman, punctuated only by Agrawal's strangled, gurgling screams that eventually faded into silence.
Finally, it was done. Arjun stood over the broken, lifeless body of Sunil Agrawal, his red suit unstained, his breathing even. He felt... satisfaction. Relief.
He turned and walked out of the vault, out of the building choked with death. He melted into the Pune night, leaving behind a fortress of silence and blood. No one would ever know who unleashed the red storm. The police would find a massacre, a brutal execution with no witnesses.
Pune slumbered, oblivious to the bloodbath that had unfolded inside the Zeni building. Arjun stood on a distant rooftop. He had removed the mask, letting the cool night air wash over his face, but it did little to dispel the chilling emptiness within him. Agrawal was dead. His men were dead. The revenge he had craved, the singular focus that had driven him since Tanishka's murder, was complete.
He had unleashed the monster, embraced the brutal efficiency granted by the Raktabeej blood, and become the very thing Tanishka had feared. He had killed, not just the mercenaries in the heat of battle, but Agrawal, slowly, deliberately, savoring the fear and pain. The action had been precise, lethal, and ultimately… meaningless. It hadn't brought Tanishka back. It hadn't eased the gaping wound in his soul. It had only deepened the stain.
He looked down at his hands, unmarked, perfectly healed. They were the hands of a killer. He had thought that avenging Tanishka would give him purpose, closure. Instead, it had merely confirmed the transformation within him was complete. The humble, focused researcher, the adoring husband – those fragments felt like echoes, phantoms imprisoned in the reconstituting tissue. What was left was arjun, the epitome of a hard, undying force. He arrived back at the penthouse with the first crack of dawn on the horizon. The luxurious apartment felt cold, empty. Tanishka's presence lingered like a phantom limb – her favorite book still open on the side table, the faint scent of her perfume in the air. He walked through the silent rooms, each step heavy. He stopped before a large portrait of them taken during their brief, happy time at Pawna Lake, her face radiant, his own reflecting a peace he now realized was irrevocably lost.
He had kept his promises. He had found the driver. He had brought Tanishka back, however briefly. He had avenged her death. But in keeping those promises, he had become something unrecognizable.
He went into his private study, the room filled with the remnants of his obsessive quest – medical texts, ancient manuscripts, geological surveys. The book Munna had retrieved, the tribal text detailing the Raktabeej legend, lay on his desk, untouched since he'd extracted the location of the stone. He had dismissed it then, focused only on the practical application, the cure.
Now, with his revenge complete and his future stretching before him like a desolate wasteland, he found himself drawn to it. He sat down, the first light of morning filtering through the window, and opened the fragile, ancient pages.
He began to read. Not just the passages about the stone, but the entire text, the myths, the warnings, the prophecies surrounding the demon of infinite regeneration. He read about the nature of Raktabeej's power, not just its ability to heal, but its connection to primal life force, its inherent chaotic potential, its tendency to consume the wielder if not perfectly balanced. And the book spoke of rituals, of control, of the immense power – and immense danger – contained within that single drop of blood he now bore. He read about the demon's eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth, about the darkness that was sure to follow such strength. Was that his fate now? To be an unstoppable force, healing from every wound, but trapped in an endless cycle of violence?
He finished the book as the sun climbed high into the sky, casting long shadows across his desk. He closed the ancient volume, a new understanding settling within him, colder and clearer than his earlier rage.
His revenge hadn't brought closure because it wasn't the end. It was merely a beginning. The Raktabeej blood wasn't just a power source; it was a legacy. A dark inheritance. He couldn't go back to being Arjun Shetty, the hopeful scientist. He couldn't erase the blood on his hands or the power humming in his veins.
He was Rakta. And his hunt was far from over.
[THE END but To be Continued]
Support me: vanshbosssrahate@oksbi (UPI ID)
Author: Vansh Rahate
Editor: Vansh Rahate
Story by: Vansh Rahate
Under: Alaukika Studios