Mumbai feels the pressure of the night in the bones of its buildings. Steel groans. Concrete tightens. The air thickens, not with smoke or fear this time, but with something older, density, weight, the sensation of reality being held instead of merely endured.
The fires from the third night have dimmed to embers. Rescue crews move cautiously now, quieter, more deliberate, the fear of when the next round of demons will appear sharp in their minds. People sleep where they can, temples, basements, metro stations act as shelters for the survivors who remain in the city.
Above them all, the sky changes.
The ash clouds thin, reorganizing. They spiral slowly, forming vast, unseen vortexes that tug at the eye when no one is looking directly at them. Stars do not return. Instead, something else glows faintly behind the veil of cloud, like the memory of light rather than light itself.
At the heart of the city, the temple remains.
Its walls are cracked. Its steps are stained with soot and blood that has already begun to fade. The lamps burn on, steady and white-gold, immune to wind, to time, to doubt.
The lion does not sleep.
It stands at the threshold now, muscles coiled, tail still, eyes open and alert.
Waiting.
Inside the sanctuary, the girl sits once more.
But something has changed.
Her posture is the same, legs folded, hands resting lightly in her lap but the space around her feels fuller, as if the room itself is holding its breath. The crescent at her brow has dimmed further, its lunar glow receding inward, replaced by something deeper, warmer, less sharp. She is now a young woman. More mature and regal in her appearance.
Her heartbeat is slow.
With each pulse, the air ripples almost imperceptibly.
Far beyond the city, the demons feel it too.
Those that survived the third night have not regrouped in triumph or anger. They have scattered, clinging to shadows beneath collapsed highways, crouched in flooded subways, hiding in the ruins of factories whose machinery still hums with corrupted power.
They whisper again.
But this time, the whispers are afraid.
Something stirs behind their commanders now, something vast and intolerant, something that does not scream or posture or boast.
Deep in a place that is not entirely the Pit and not entirely anywhere on earth, a shape begins to move.
The hum over Mumbai deepens.
At the temple, the girl inhales.
The air around her bends subtly, curving inward like the surface of an unseen sphere. Dust motes drift, then halt, suspended in perfect balance. Light refracts strangely, not brighter, not dimmer, but denser.
The lion lowers itself, bowing its massive head to the stone.
The fourth night arrives.
A new sound spreads through the city, a low, resonant vibration that seems to come from everywhere at once. It hums through walls, through streets, through sleeping bodies.
People stir.
A man wakes in a hospital corridor and begins to cry without knowing why. A child in a shelter stops shaking and sits upright, eyes wide, calm settling over her like a blanket. A soldier lowers his rifle and presses his palm to the ground, feeling something steady beneath the chaos.
At the center of the temple, the woman opens her eyes.
They are no longer gold.
They hold what look like swirling galaxies.
Kushmanda has awakened.
Outside the city, the demons move again.
This time, they do not charge.
They advance behind something else.
The ground splits in the outer districts, asphalt tearing open as structures collapse inward. Space folds, swallowing light, sound, matter alike. From the distortion rises a construct of living void and compressed hellfire, its form constantly assembling and disassembling as if reality cannot decide how to contain it.
It does not roar.
It emits no heat.
Where it stands, gravity fluctuates.
Demons cluster around it, disciplined now, careful not to step too close. Their commanders kneel, heads bowed, weapons lowered.
The thing acknowledges them only by continuing forward.
Toward the temple.
Inside, the woman rises.
When her feet touch the stone, the floor does not crack or glow or flare.
It settles.
The sanctuary expands perceptually. The walls feel farther apart. The ceiling higher. The air richer. Every breath tastes faintly of rain after a long drought.
She steps forward.
With each step, a faint sphere of light pulses outward from her, invisible but undeniable. Broken pillars straighten slightly. Cracks in the walls soften.
Creation, recalling itself.
The lion follows at her side, silent.
Outside, the void-construct reaches the edge of the temple district.
The boundary that repelled demons on the previous nights opens.
The construct steps through.
The woman stops at the top of the temple steps.
She looks at the approaching anomaly with quiet curiosity, head tilting just slightly.
"You are not hunger," she says softly.
"You are not wrath."
The construct responds with a low resonant growl and pulse of energy.
The space between them compresses violently, gravity surging inward as if trying to crush her into a singularity. Buildings around the district buckle, windows imploding, metal screaming as it twists.
The lion digs its claws into the stone, muscles straining.
The woman does not move.
Instead, she exhales.
The pressure halts.
Then reverses.
The compressed space blooms outward, unfolding like a flower made of light and distance. Gravity smooths. Matter settles. The buildings and area around her does not shatter.
The construct stumbles in response to nullification of its powers.
The woman descends the steps.
With every stride, a faint, luminous outline forms around her, spherical and perfect, like an invisible shell.
Outside it, a soft warm power blankets the walls and buildings around her. .
The construct lashes out, tendrils of void snapping forward, tearing holes in the street as they pass.
They strike the sphere.
And stop. Held in the air.
The tendrils quiver, frozen in place, void screaming silently as it fights against the containment.
The woman reaches out with one hand.
She touches the void.
Light floods the construct. The void recoils, collapsing inward as its structure loses coherence. Space reasserts itself brutally.
The construct implodes.
It folds into itself and vanishes, leaving behind a perfectly round depression in the street, smooth as glass.
The demons watching break instantly.
They scatter in blind terror, fleeing in all directions, abandoning weapons, tearing through shadows with frantic speed.
The girl watches them go.
She does not pursue.
Her gaze lifts, past the city, past the clouds, atop a mountain in the distance.
She speaks in a clam determined tone as the words carry across the great distance.
"Creation is not yours to destroy."
The air hums in agreement.
Slowly, she turns back toward the temple.
People emerge again, more than before.
They do not kneel in unison. They do not shout or cheer.
They simply exist in her presence, steadied, grounded, held together by something they cannot name.
Inside the sanctuary, the young woman sits once more.
The lion resumes its vigil.
The spherical glow fades, leaving behind only a subtle warmth, like the echo of a hearth long after the fire has burned low.
The fourth night deepens.
Far beyond Mumbai, unease spreads.
Something fundamental has changed as a large horned demon sits on the edge of a mountain cliff. His golden brackets clink as he taps his fingers against the rocks. A growing expression of rage forming on his face. A growing sense of unease slowly taking form in his mind.
The war he started is not going as planned.