10:00 PM.
The Head Office of Biswas Palace.
Habib Biswas sat upon his seat of honor. The table before him was laden with a feast fit for a king—dishes of various delicacies, still steaming with heat.
The room was a testament to luxury. Intricate woodwork adorned the walls, and on one side stood a massive bookshelf, towering twice the height of a man.
Despite the opulence, Habib Biswas's mood was foul. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the table—Tick... tick... tick...—a testament to the sleepless nights he had endured preparing for this very moment. Tonight was crucial.
Suddenly, a knock on the door.
"Come in..."
Ten figures glided silently into the room. Their bodies were shrouded in black Haori[1], their faces hidden behind masks. Not a wisp of their identity was visible.
In unison, they bowed deeply. "Subordinates pay their respects to the Family Head..."
Seeing them, a sliver of a smile finally cracked Habib's wrinkled face.
"Listen," he said, his voice grave. "Tonight's mission is not simple. This secret meeting is a threat to many families. They could declare war on us tonight."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Your task is to safely escort Sukumar Talukdar, Mansi Delal, Monir Chaprashe, and Foysal Ahmed to this location."
Then, his tone hardened into cold steel.
"If a situation arises where your own lives are at risk—flee. And if their lives are at risk... let them die. Remember, your lives are more valuable to me than theirs."
The ten assassins breathed a collective sigh of relief. At least they were not being sent as sacrificial lambs.
"If you complete this small mission successfully, each of you will receive 5,000 Contribution Points. And if you display exceptional skill on the field, the reward will increase."
Habib glanced at the clock. It was past 10:15 PM.
"Now go..."
"Subordinates take their leave..."
With those words, they dissolved into the shadows, vanishing as if they had never been there.
Habib Biswas looked out the window at the Crimson Moon and muttered to himself,
"Tonight will be bloody... just as bloody as the Crimson Goddess herself."
✦✦✦
11:00 PM.
The 'Shadow Council' Room of Forazi Manor.
This secret chamber was a palace of darkness. In the center stood a round table made of ebony wood, around which sat the three stars of the villege's Underworld—Labib Forazi, Miyoku Cheng, and Zidan Hossain.
Scented candles burned on the table, their soft light casting a mesmerizing illusion over Lady Miyoku Cheng.
Her presence alone made the air heavy with a strange, hypnotic power. Her skin was like flawless porcelain, glowing faintly even in the dim light.
Her eyes were unlike the women of this region; they resembled the sharp gaze of a Phoenix—slightly slanted, elongated, and deep black. In that gaze lay the mysteries of a thousand years of the Orient.
She wore a blood-red silk robe embroidered with golden dragons. In her hand, she held an ornate fan, with which she fanned herself in slow, rhythmic motions.
Her lips were red as ripe cherries, but her smile held a toxic sweetness. She was like a blooming orchid—beautiful to behold, but deadly to touch.
"Should we not unleash the hunting dogs now? It is past eleven. My sixth sense tells me they have already dispatched their forces," Miyoku said thoughtfully, bringing the silk fan to her lips. Her voice had a melodic chime, like the sound of breaking glass bangles.
Labib Forazi sipped his expensive drink and smiled faintly. "Do not be so impatient, Lady Miyoku. The prey has only just left its burrow. It will take time for them to return..."
Zidan Hossain had been silent in the shadows until now. He shifted his massive frame. "Then the plan remains unchanged? We will ambush them. A three-pronged attack from three sides. There will be no escape route."
The fire of greed lit up in the other two's eyes. Miyoku snapped her fan shut and placed it on the table. The sound was like the cocking of a pistol trigger.
"Excellent," Miyoku said, cruel joy in her phoenix eyes. "We will corner them and push them toward their territory. Then, seizing the opportunity, we will capture one or two of their 'Resource Zones'. I have had my eyes on the Talukdar's northern mines for a long time..."
They laughed in unison. The sound seemed to make the candle flames tremble. Maids brought in dinner and fruits. Picking a grape, Zidan Hossain suddenly changed the subject.
"Lady Miyoku, what news of the 'Disgrace' of the Ahmed Family... Ruhan? To survive this long with a Soul Mastery lower than a dog... isn't it a strange joke of nature?"
Miyoku Cheng toyed with a fruit knife in her porcelain hand, a smirk playing on her lips. A smile so enchanting it could stop a weak man's heart.
"Perhaps..." she stabbed the knife into a fruit, "he is his father's most beloved, yet most useless pawn. Like a wingless bird—unable to fly, just waiting to fall from the heights..."
They burst into laughter again, clinking their wine glasses. They did not know that the pawn they thought was a 'wingless bird' was preparing to shatter their carefully built empire tonight.
✦✦✦
1:45 AM.
The ten 'Elite' assassins of the Biswas Clan split their forces with practiced efficiency.
Two remained anchored at the territorial border as a rearguard, while the remaining eight plunged into the neutral zone to escort the invited VIPs—Sukumar Talukdar, Mansi Delal, Monir Chaprashee, and young Foysal Ahmed.
The return journey began smoothly. The carriage wheels ground against the narrow earthen road winding through the dense, suffocating forest.
They were barely two kilometers away from the absolute safety of the Biswas borders.
Then, the natural world went dead.
The forest did not fall silent all at once—it collapsed into silence.
The insects stopped first, then the wind, until even the sound of the carriage wheels grinding along the narrow dirt road felt intrusive, like something that did not belong. Inside, Monir Chaprashee's eyes snapped open as his Soul Realm trembled violently, a warning that came just a fraction too late.
"Amb—"
From above the canopy, three spheres of condensed fire descended—not fast, not wild, but with a terrifying certainty, like something that had already decided where it would land.
"Ember Burst Spirit."
BOOM!
They struck the front vanguard, and the world turned into pure heat and light.
The explosion didn't scatter—it consumed. For a single heartbeat, armor glowed molten against human skin, and then both ceased to exist as separate things. The lead guards were erased where they stood, their forms collapsing into blackened remnants before the shockwave even finished expanding.
Before the flames could settle, movement followed.
From the left flank, shadows dropped low and fast. From the rear treeline, more figures emerged, closing in without hesitation. Twenty-five presences pressed inward, their combined Prana thick enough to choke the air itself.
"Break their line."
On the right side, one of them stepped forward, his arms wrapped in unstable arcs of lightning that crackled and screamed against the night air.
"Thunder Fang Spirit."
The attack did not explode—it hunted.
A wolf of lightning tore forward, its body bending unnaturally mid-flight as it ignored the raised shield in front of it. The guard barely had time to register the shift before it struck his neck.
A sharp, final crack.
His body seized once, violently, nerves burning out faster than pain could register, and then he dropped, smoke rising faintly from his collar as the life left him instantly.
Outside, the formation was already collapsing, but inside the shattered carriage, the Clan Leaders remained untouched by urgency.
Sukumar Talukdar lifted his hand slightly, and from the ground beneath him, dust rose in a controlled spiral, thickening into a dense, rotating veil that swallowed incoming projectiles whole, grinding them down into nothing before they could reach him.
"Amateurs," he said, almost bored.
Beside him, Mansi activated his ring, and a sphere of compressed water formed instantly around his body. When a stray ember struck its surface, it did not penetrate—it triggered a violent hiss as the outer layer vaporized into scalding steam, cloaking him completely. Within that shifting veil, his gaze moved sharply, already mapping the battlefield.
Monir did not wait.
He stepped forward from the wreckage, drove his palm into the center of the road, and released his Prana in a single, decisive surge.
"Quake Pulse Spirit."
The earth answered immediately.
The ground didn't crack—it broke open, violently, as jagged stone spikes erupted upward in a chain reaction that tore through the enemy's midline. The coordinated advance shattered as several attackers lost footing; one was driven clean through the thigh and pinned in place, his scream cutting through the chaos.
For a moment, the battlefield had structure again.
Then the enemy adapted.
"Wipe the guards."
From the upper branches, the wind users moved.
"Air Claw Spirit."
There was no flash, no visible strike—only the absence of resistance.
A guard on the right flank raised his sword in defense, and for a split second, everything held.
Then the blade separated.
A clean line appeared across his torso, and his body followed it a moment later, sliding apart before he even understood what had happened. Around him, the same invisible precision tore through the remaining guards, cutting them down in motions too clean, too quiet to track.
The numbers collapsed rapidly—six became four, four became two.
Near the rear, the last guard staggered, one arm severed, blood pouring freely as he tried to remain standing through sheer will alone.
The enemy commander didn't press the advantage.
Instead, he raised his hand.
"Bolt Dart Spirit—fire at the road."
The attack didn't target the leaders—it struck the ground between both sides.
Lightning slammed into the dry earth, detonating the ground into a dense wall of dust that swallowed everything. In an instant, visibility dropped to nothing. Sound dulled. Direction lost meaning.
Inside the choking haze, the surviving guard fell to his knees, coughing violently.
"They're not pushing…!" he managed, voice breaking. "They're bypassing us—they're heading for the Resource Zones—"
Understanding came immediately.
This was never about killing them.
This was about stripping them.
Within the dust, Sukumar casually brushed dirt from his sleeve, as if the battle had been a minor inconvenience.
"Then there is no reason to remain."
No urgency entered his voice—only decision.
"Flash Step Spirit."
Prana surged, clean and controlled, and in the next instant, four figures vanished forward, their bodies dissolving into streaks that cut through the chaos and left the battlefield behind entirely.
They did not look back.
Behind them, the forest remained broken—broken and soaked in blood—while the true objective of the night unfolded beyond the smoke, exactly as planned.
Meanwhile, the fifteen enemies split into three groups and advanced towards the three Resource Zones of the Biswas Family. The looting began.
Suddenly—
High above the obsidian spires of the Biswas Palace, the fabric of reality silently ruptured.
There was no deafening blast, no blinding flash of fire. Instead, the barometric pressure shifted so violently that the air itself felt as if it were suffocating.
The silence that followed was heavy, ringing in the ears like a physical weight.
In an instant, the sky wept a Pale Green Mist.
It cascaded downward, swallowing the entire estate in a one-kilometer radius. But this was no ordinary vapor. It was a dense, physical manifestation of the Time Path.
Whoever dared to look directly into the swirling green fog was struck with a violent, nauseating vertigo. It felt as if their very consciousness was being forcefully dragged backward. Their thoughts began to lag behind themselves—like echoes arriving too late.
Standing before the grand arched window, Habib Biswas placed a steady hand against the cold glass. He did not flinch. He did not step back. Instead, a shadow of profound, dangerous calculation darkened his weathered face.
"So, the whispers were true," Habib exhaled, his breath fogging the pane. "He truly holds a Rank 3 'Time Path Spirit'."
Behind him, the atmosphere in the opulent study was fraught with tension.
The three surviving guards were on their knees, clutching their chests and gasping for air.
Sukumar, Mansi, and young Foysal were attempting to steady their erratic breathing, their Prana reserves still violently agitated from the bloody ambush they had barely escaped.
Monir Chaprashee, ever the stoic killer, stepped up beside Habib. He narrowed his eyes at the swirling temporal anomaly outside.
"The mist cannot breach the palace's defensive arrays," Monir noted grimly, watching the fog lap harmlessly against an invisible barrier at the window.
"It is merely hovering at our gates. So what is the purpose of this theatrical display? Is he trying to intimidate us with a ticking clock?"
Habib Biswas turned away from the window, his gaze as cold and unyielding as a tombstone.
"Intimidation?" A low, humorless chuckle escaped his throat.
"The Elders of Shitapur do not deal in the currency of fear, Monir. Let him play with the seconds outside. We... we are playing for the epoch."
He straightened his collar and strode purposefully toward the colossal mahogany bookshelf that spanned the entire length of the room's back wall.
He reached out and pulled a thick, leather-bound tome, sliding it precisely into a vacant slot on the shelf above.
He repeated this exact motion twenty-three times. It was not a random sequence; it was an intricate, mathematical matrix—a complex lock mechanism bound by the rigid logic of the Matrix World, known only to the Biswas bloodline.
As the twenty-third book clicked into place, the very foundation of the palace groaned.
GRIND—RUMBLE!
The massive bookshelf split perfectly down the center, the two halves receding smoothly into the stonework.
A cavernous, subterranean tunnel was laid bare. As if sensing the presence of its true master, rows of ancient torches lining the descending stone walls flared to life on their own.
But they did not burn with normal fire—they ignited with a ghostly, toxic green luminescence that cast long, skeletal shadows across the floor.
Habib Biswas paused at the threshold. A feverish, almost fanatical smile stretched across his lips, transforming his regal visage into something incredibly predatory.
He looked back at his guests, the ghostly green flames reflecting in his eyes.
"Come, my friends," Habib murmured, his voice echoing down the dark descent.
"Let us begin the most iconic moment in our clan's history. What we claim tonight will not merely change Shitapur... it will rewrite the laws of this world."
[1]Haori: A traditional Japanese short coat or jacket worn over a kimono. It signifies formality as well as the wearer's status, taste, or group identity.
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