With an unsettling calmness, Anumors approached the bag and unfastened it, his movements deliberate and devoid of emotion.
What he unveiled within that blood-soaked sack was enough to chill even the blackest of hearts. With the same hands that had extinguished thousands of lives, he reached inside and withdrew two severed heads.
The first belonged to Nisha, Zain's beloved sister. Trails of dried tears streaked her pallid cheeks, a haunting reminder of the anguish she had endured in her final moments. The second was that of Aarav, Hitesh's son.
As the Black Death's poisonous gas had filled the venue, choking the life from the guests one by one, the Head Reaper had seized the opportunity to carry out his grisly task – the brutal slaughter of these two innocents. Acting upon the instructions of the very child who had hired Anumors, the vile butcher had claimed their lives, severing their heads from their bodies with his cursed blades.
The sight of his beloved sister's severed head shattered the last vestiges of Zain's restraint. A guttural scream tore from his lips as he rushed toward Anumors, Nisha's name a strangled cry of anguish.
Simultaneously, Neha, still reeling from the trauma of witnessing the brutal massacre, let out a piercing wail upon laying eyes on her daughter's desecrated remains.
Her anguished screams echoed through the blood-drenched halls as Anumors extended his arm, offering the head of her daughter to her with an air of cold indifference. Nisha's once-vibrant face, now frozen in death, seemed to mock the loving mother's pain.
Zain's small frame collided with his mother, his tiny arms wrapping around her as he too joined in the rites of mourning. Heart-wrenching sobs wracked their bodies, their tears mingling with the crimson that stained the floor.
As Neha held her daughter's severed head against her heaving chest, Zain buried his face against her, his vision blurring from tears until all he could perceive was the horrific sight of Nisha's lifeless features. The sister he had vowed to protect, the radiant soul who had been his world, was now merely a distorted memento of the depravity they had encountered.
In that moment, the bitter essence of loss threatened to consume them both, their shared grief a searing brand that would forever mark their souls. The warm, nurturing embrace that had once symbolized their family was now a hollow, Horrifying mockery – a mother clutching the remains of her child while her son's innocence was forever shattered.
If the heinous crime committed by the Head Reaper against Nisha was not depraved enough, he proceeded to mock the grieving family with a twisted, sadistic glee.
"Oh, how sad," he sneered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "You don't have your precious daughter anymore...but hey, look on the bright side - you've got yourself a new football to play with! Or i must say foothead."
A revolting cackle erupted from his cracked lips, each peal of laughter like a dagger twisting in their already shattered hearts. Leaning forward, he fixed his gaze upon Zain, perverse delight dancing in his eyes.
"How utterly tragic that you wandered off to the bathroom, little one," he mocked, relishing every agonizing word. "If only it hadn't been so conveniently close to the entrance, I might have come for your head as well. We could have been a complete, happy family of severed head..."
Before the vile butcher could spew forth another sadistic taunt, Anumors' fist collided with sickening force against his jaw, the blow instantly rendering him unconscious. The Black Death's rage was evident, a burning rage born from witnessing such a despicable act compounded by the Head Reaper's cruel mockery.
As the broken family wept over Nisha's remains, a flicker of long-buried emotion stirred within Anumors' blackened soul. Glimpses of a time before he had embraced the mantle of the Black Death, when the world had not yet forced him to become an avatar of death, flashed through his mind - humanizing memories that triggered an unfamiliar pang of empathy.
The air in the blood-soaked hall grew thick with anticipation, an almost palpable tension that seemed to still even the particles of dust suspended in the dim light. Anumors, the dreaded Black Death, stood over the grief-stricken Zain, his presence casting a shadow that seemed to consume what little warmth remained in the room.
The Black Death's lieutenants, hardened killers who had witnessed countless atrocities, found themselves holding their breath. Their eyes, hidden behind black shade, were fixed upon their master with a mix of fear and reverence. They had seen him end countless lives without hesitation, but this... this was unprecedented.
Anumors' hand, stained with the blood of innumerable victims, moved with uncharacteristic slowness towards his mask. The simple motion sent a ripple of shock through his subordinates.
Zain, still reeling from the horrors he had witnessed, looked up at the towering figure. His young mind struggled to comprehend the significance of what was happening, but some primal instinct told him he was about to witness something extraordinary.
The mask, a visage that had haunted the nightmares of an entire nation, began to move. The sound of its release, a soft click barely audible over the boy's ragged breathing, seemed to echo through the hall like a thunderclap.
Anumors paused, his fingers gripping the edge of the mask. For a fraction of a second, doubt flickered across his concealed features. Was he truly prepared to reveal himself to this child? The moment passed, resolve hardening in his hidden eyes.
With deliberate slowness, he lifted the mask. To bear witness to the face concealed beneath that soulless visage was a privilege so rare, so sacred, that it was akin to glimpsing a blue moon amid the darkness of night.
Of all those who stalked the lands, breathing and bearing witness to the Black Death's face, only his inner circle of twelve cold-blooded killers had ever been granted that honor. For him to unveil his face was the ultimate gesture of trust, one that left his comrades in a state of disbelieving awe.
First came the chin, strong and set with determination. Then the lips, surprisingly full. The nose appeared next, straight and aristocratic. Each revealed feature seemed to contradict the monstrous legends that surrounded the Black Death. Finally, the mask fell away completely, clattering to the floor with a finality that made Zain flinch.
The truth hit him like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. The face behind the Black Death's mask—it was impossible, unthinkable, yet undeniable. This wasn't some nameless shadow, some faceless killer lurking in society's darkest corners. No, this was someone who walked in daylight, someone whose name was spoken with reverence across the nation.
A perfect man. A paragon of virtue. Someone whose face had graced countless headlines, whose words had shaped policies, whose presence had commanded respect in the highest circles of power. The cognitive dissonance was overwhelming—how could these two existences occupy the same space? How could hands that had guided nations also be stained with the blood of countless victims?
The perfect mask of respectability and the grotesque mask of the Black Death—they were two sides of the same coin, a truth so shocking it threatened to shatter everything he thought he knew about reality. The man who had been a beacon of hope to millions was also the shadow that haunted their nightmares.
In that moment of revelation, the boundary between light and darkness, between good and evil, blurred into an incomprehensible gray—leaving him to question not just what he knew, but who he could trust in a world where monsters wore the faces of heroes.