The Third Watch of the Night
Dark clouds loomed over the sky as light rain soaked the cold earth. A desolate cremation ground lay silent, its air thick with the lingering ash of extinguished pyres. A dense fog spread across the land, and beneath an ancient banyan tree with its twisted roots gripping the soil, a sinister ritual was taking place.
The tantric performing the ritual looked like a man who had abandoned both the fear of death and the desire to live. His bloodshot eyes, lined with dark veins, reflected nothing but emptiness. With a hoarse voice, he continuously chanted mantras—strange, mysterious, and incomprehensible.
As he sprinkled red vermillion into the blazing fire before him, his eerie gaze fell upon his disciple sitting nearby. His disciple, trembling yet resolute, watched as the tantric began invoking the Vansh Nashak Tantra—a ritual designed to eradicate an entire bloodline.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the fire, a young warrior named Veerbhadra assisted in completing the ritual. In front of them, a group of men dragged forward a trembling figure—Somraj. His entire body was smeared with red vermillion, fragrant garlands hung around his neck, and his wide, terrified eyes reflected the horrors of his impending fate. He was the chosen sacrifice.
Veerbhadra's deep voice thundered as he chanted a chilling mantra, gazing fiercely into the flames—
"Mahakalpa Rakta Pishachini, come forth!"
With that, he took a razor-sharp dagger and sliced through Somraj's wrist, letting the blood spill onto the intricate geometric patterns drawn on the ground—an ancient yantra of destruction.
The land of the cremation ground was now soaked in blood and ash. In the center, a large triangular symbol had been drawn, its edges marked by clay pots filled with human bones and ashes. Suspended from black threads above them were small dolls, each representing a member of the family that was to be annihilated.
Draped in saffron robes and adorned with a garland of skulls, Veerbhadra stood like a demonic sage, his eyes gleaming with an eerie glow. He held a human skull filled with blood, while his disciple Karalanath sat before him, his face smeared with black kohl, reciting incantations.
Suddenly, Veerbhadra swung a trident into the air and let out a deep, primal roar—
"Om Kreem Kali Mahakali, Sarvanasham Kuru Kuru Swaha!"
At once, the atmosphere turned unbearably heavy. A dying pyre nearby suddenly reignited, as if unseen forces had breathed life into it. Dry leaves whirled in the air, and tree branches swayed violently.
Karalanath whispered cautiously, "Guruji, is it time for the sacrifice?"
Veerbhadra's eyes turned crimson. He shook his matted locks and declared,
"Yes. The spirit that will destroy this lineage forever shall now awaken!"
Somraj trembled, his bound mouth muffling his desperate cries.
Veerbhadra stepped forward, slashed the neck of a black rooster, and let its blood drip into the center of the yantra. Then, he recited the final mantra to summon Mahakalpa Rakta Pishachini, the bloodthirsty spirit of destruction—
"Kreem Kreem Mahakaleshwari, Chanda Pishachini Swaha!"
As the last syllable echoed through the air, a thick, dark smoke rose from the center of the yantra. It slowly took the shape of a woman—Mahakalpa. Her eyes burned like embers, and her long, flowing hair moved unnaturally as if caught in an invisible storm. Her voice, deep and terrifying, thundered through the cremation ground—
"Who must I destroy, Tantric? You know I never return empty-handed. And if you think you are powerful enough to command me, remember—you too shall die!"
Veerbhadra remained unfazed. He picked up a clay doll, symbolizing the cursed family, and hurled it at her feet.
"Destroy every descendant of this lineage. Let their wealth turn to dust, and let no one remain to carry their name!"
Mahakalpa let out a bloodcurdling shriek, and suddenly, blood began dripping from the doll. Somraj's body convulsed violently as an unearthly energy surged through him. He tried to scream, but before he could, Veerbhadra swung his sword, severing his head in one swift motion.
Somraj's severed head flew into the air, his lifeless eyes still locked onto the horrifying spirit before him. Meanwhile, his body convulsed, spilling blood in all directions. As soon as the blood touched the yantra's markings, Mahakalpa dissolved into a dense cloud of smoke and vanished into the night.
The tantric, his voice heavy with finality, turned to Veerbhadra and spoke—
"This Vansh Nashak Tantra is powerful, but every curse has a way to be undone. To prevent that, I must make a sacrifice—my own soul. If I fail, Mahakalpa's summoning will be incomplete, and we will all perish."
With those words, the tantric walked into a cave, leaving Veerbhadra standing alone with a sinister smile. He reached down, picked up his guru's ancient staff—crafted from human bones—and stepped into the dense fog, vanishing into the darkness.
Who was Veerbhadra? What was his true purpose?
Find out in the next chapter…