The sky of the Patala did not have a sun. It had a bruise.
A swirling, violet nebula hung perpetually overhead, casting a sickly light over the jagged obsidian peaks of the Underworld. There was no wind here. No birdsong. Only the distant, rhythmic thrum of war-drums beating deep within the earth.
In the center of the Black Citadel, sat a throne carved from the spine of a dead Leviathan.
And on the throne sat a shadow.
The Asura King did not move. He did not breathe. He simply existed, a singularity of malice that made the air around him heavy enough to crush steel.
In his hand, he held a small, flickering purple flame. It was the soul-remnant of the Necromancer who had failed at St. Xavier's High School.
"Disappointing," the King whispered.
His voice sounded like tectonic plates grinding together.
He closed his fist.
Snuff.
The purple flame vanished. The Necromancer was erased from existence.
At the foot of the throne, a dozen high-ranking Asura Generals kneeled, their foreheads touching the cold stone floor. None of them dared to look up. They were creatures of nightmare—hulking Rakshasas, multi-armed Nagas, and armored Yakshas—yet they trembled like children.
"The Vessel has awakened," the King rumbled. "Agni and Vayu have been reclaimed by the humans. The seal on the Patala remains closed."
A General with the head of a tiger raised his eyes slightly. "My Lord... send me! I will tear the city apart! I will bring you the boy's head!"
The King didn't even look at him.
"You would fail, General. The humans have their 'Hunters.' They have technology. And now... they have the Avatar."
The King leaned forward, his eyes glowing like dying stars.
"Brute force has failed. Fear has failed. We do not need a hammer to crack this nut. We need a needle."
He raised a finger and pointed to the darkest corner of the throne room.
"Come forth, Maya."
The shadows in the corner rippled. They didn't disperse; they poured onto the floor like liquid ink.
The ink rose, twisting and churning, until it took the shape of a woman.
She was beautiful, in a terrifying way. She wore armor made of shifting glass. Her face was a blank canvas—one second she looked like a young girl, the next an old crone, the next a faceless mannequin.
Maya. The Shapeshifter. The Asura of Illusion.
She walked toward the throne, her footsteps making no sound. She bowed, her movements fluid like water.
"You called, My King?" Her voice was a chorus of a thousand whispers.
"The humans are holding a tournament," the King said. "A display of their young warriors. The boy will be there."
"You want me to kill him?" Maya asked, her face shifting into a bored expression.
"No," the King said. "Killing him makes him a martyr. I want you to break him. I want you to infiltrate their ranks. Wear their faces. Learn their secrets. Sow distrust among them until they turn on each other."
The King smiled, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too numerous.
"When the boy is alone... when he trusts no one... then you will cut out his heart and bring me the Chakra."
Maya smiled back. Her face shifted.
For a split second, she looked exactly like Aryan Sharma.
Then, she shifted again, looking exactly like Riya Sen.
"I understand," Maya purred. "I will become their friend. I will become their shadow. And when they look in the mirror... they will see me."
She bowed low.
"The game begins, My King."
Maya stepped backward and dissolved into mist, vanishing from the throne room.
The Asura King leaned back, closing his eyes.
High above in the human world, the sun was shining. But down here, the long night was just beginning.