The journey back home was a quiet one. Subham and his friends were all lost in their thoughts, the weight of their experiences hanging heavily over them. The police had met them at the hospital, their questions relentless.
"So, you're saying you encountered a ghost at Bhangad Kila?" the officer asked, skepticism clear in his voice.
"Yes, sir," Subham replied, his tone steady despite the absurdity of his statement. "We saw it. It attacked us. It killed our friends."
"And this ghost," the officer continued, leaning forward, "just disappeared? And you have no physical evidence of this encounter?"
Subham nodded. "Yes. It's hard to explain, but it's the truth."
The officers exchanged glances, their disbelief palpable. Yet, with no concrete evidence and no signs of foul play, they had no choice but to release them. The official report would likely file it away as an unexplained incident, another mystery to be forgotten in the annals of history.
Returning home, Subham felt a sense of relief wash over him, but it was tinged with a lingering unease. The events at Bhangad Kila had left an indelible mark on all of them, one that would take time to heal.
A few days passed, the routine of daily life slowly returning. One morning, as Subham was getting ready, he noticed something peculiar on his palm. A strange symbol had appeared, intricate and unfamiliar. It looked ancient, almost like it had been etched into his skin.
"What is this?" Subham muttered to himself, tracing the symbol with his finger. It felt warm to the touch, almost pulsing with a life of its own.
As he stood there, bewildered, a sudden chill filled the room. Subham turned around, his heart racing. There, standing in the corner of his room, was the old man from the temple.
"You," Subham breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "How did you get in here?"
The old man smiled, his eyes twinkling with a mysterious light. "I go where I'm needed, Subham. And it seems you need some answers."
Subham swallowed hard, trying to steady his racing heart. "What is this symbol?" he asked, holding up his palm.
The old man stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the symbol. "It is the mark of Psychodeus, the dagger you wielded. It represents the god of souls. This mark signifies that you have been chosen."
"Chosen?" Subham repeated, confusion clouding his features. "Chosen for what?"
"To be the bearer of Psychodeus," the old man replied. "The dagger has bonded with you. It has granted you certain... abilities. That's why your recovery was so rapid. The dagger's power is now a part of you."
Subham's mind raced as he tried to process this information. "Why me? I didn't ask for this."
"Destiny rarely asks for our permission," the old man said gently. "You have been given a great responsibility. The power of Psychodeus is not to be taken lightly. It can absorb and trap souls within itself, preventing them from causing harm. How you choose to use this power is up to you."
Subham stared at the symbol on his palm, the weight of the old man's words sinking in. "What do I do now?"
The old man placed a reassuring hand on Subham's shoulder. "Live your life, Subham. But be vigilant. The power you wield will attract others—both good and evil. You must be prepared for what comes next. With this power, you have the potential to be a hero, to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
"A hero?" Subham echoed, the idea both thrilling and daunting.
"Yes," the old man affirmed. "Use your power wisely, and you can make a difference in this world."
Subham shook his head, his heart heavy with frustration. "I don't want to be a hero. I never asked for this power. I just want my life to go back to how it used to be."
The old man's expression softened. "I understand, Subham. The burden of power is not one to be taken lightly. But you have been chosen for a reason. The power of Psychodeus can do great good. It can help souls find peace and protect the living."
"But at what cost?" Subham muttered, looking away.
"Only you can decide that," the old man replied softly. "But remember, the power is now a part of you. You cannot simply walk away from it."
With that, the old man turned and seemed to fade into the shadows of the room, leaving Subham alone with his thoughts.
Subham spent the rest of the day in a daze, the symbol on his palm a constant reminder of the strange turn his life had taken. He couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and fear at the prospect of the power now residing within him. He decided to keep the information about the dagger and its powers to himself, not wanting to burden his friends further.
That evening, as he sat at his desk, Subham decided to try and return to some semblance of normalcy. The routine tasks and familiar surroundings provided a slight comfort. When his friends checked in on him, he reassured them with a brave face, hiding the truth of his newfound powers.
As night fell, Subham lay in bed, staring at the symbol on his palm. The journey that had begun in the haunted corridors of Bhangad Kila was far from over. He couldn't shake the feeling that the old man's words had set him on a path he couldn't avoid, even if he wanted to.