Inspector Javed Ali didn't ask questions. He didn't need to know more.
All he knew was that a young boy had watched his family be slaughtered, and if he didn't act, the boy would vanish like so many others before him.
Under the cover of night, he brought Dev Anand—still shaken, silent, eyes far older than his years—to a place that had power, influence, and, ironically, protection.
The Shree Kshetrapal Dham Ashram.
A place no police dared question.
Javed gave a false name, slipped a small donation into the hand of the gatekeeper, and turned away. He never looked back.
Dev had no idea this would be the place where he'd slowly begin to see the truth of the rot beneath the surface of holiness.
---
Years Passed. And Dev Watched.
He grew up within the ashram's cold, whitewashed walls. A silent boy, one among many. No one asked where he had come from. No one cared.
But Dev never forgot.
He never forgot his father's cries.
His mother's bloodied smile.
The fire.
The screams.
The betrayal.
And so he watched.
He saw how teenage girls, often brought in under the name of "seva" or "god's blessing," would disappear into the Swami's inner chamber, never the same again. Their eyes hollowed. Their voices muted.
Inside the Swami Chamber, Swami Vairagyanand. By telling the girl, it was the path of Moksha, he raped them.
And leave them in their broken bodies, the way they cried at night, the bruises hidden beneath their sarees, the silence they were forced to wear.
And then it got worse.
It wasn't just the Swami.
Dev saw men in expensive clothes, local leaders like Kailash Yadav, arriving in cars with tinted glass and smiles stained with lust. These men were greeted with flowers and chants.
But Dev saw what followed after—the rituals twisted into tools of control, where the same girls were passed from man to man, all under the sacred banner of "divine blessings."
And the girls continuously raped by them.
No one fought back.
The girls couldn't.
They were trapped—cut off from families, manipulated, ashamed, and powerless. Forever to become the sex slave of the Ashram.
---
Dev said nothing, but he began to keep notes—names, times, movements, patterns.
He trained his body quietly—lifting heavy bricks, drawing water, strengthening himself in silence.
He found old scrolls and scriptures, learning not just their words but the truths buried behind the lies. He read of kshatriyas, of kings, of dharma.
And he remembered his father's blood.
His mother's last breath.
And he promised himself—
"One day… I will burn them all. Just like they burnt my house."
Many years had passed since the fire.
The boy once hidden in a hole beneath the floor was no longer a boy, he has become a Sixteen year old man. Dev Anand now stood tall, lean and lithe, his eyes calm like still water—but behind them burned a fire hotter than the one that had consumed his home.
He was no longer a faceless orphan of the ashram.
He was a weapon, forged in silence.
---
The Rise of the Next Generation of Corruption
Swami Vairagyanand, the aging godman, had grown fat with power. His ashram, Shree Kshetrapal Dham, stood not as a place of peace, but as a fortress of indulgence, feared even by the local administration.
It stretched across hills and valleys. There were guards, cameras, high walls, and worshippers from every state.
But the real change was coming from within.
Swami had begun grooming his heir—Swami Adityanand—his only son, a man even more depraved than his father
Unlike his father's robed pretense of holiness, Adityanand was bolder. While he kept a legal wife for social image, he treated other women as disposable toys, his "gopis," selected from within the ashram or brought in by local brokers.
While gopi managed the smile in public, but deep inside the chamber, they only cried in pain, when Adityanand brutally raped them.
And many times he also brought his friends to raped them together.
The rituals had become darker. The power games are bolder.
Meanwhile, Kailash Yadav, the kingmaker of local politics, had grown old and ruthless. He announced that he would step down and hand his political empire to his only daughter, Rashmi Yadav, a 21-year-old foreign-educated firebrand, trained in PR and politics.
She was clever, confident, and clean. But she didn't know her father's dark truth, he even planned to marry her with Adityanand, and became his legal wife.
---
While the world prepared for succession, Dev had been preparing for war.
He never revealed the depths of his skills. But by 16, he could take down grown men silently, disarm gunman with bare hands, and move through shadow like a whisper.
By day, Dev Anand blended into the ashram—humble, quiet, obedient.
By night, he became someone else entirely.
When the bells of the last aarti faded into silence, and the Swami's debauchery resumed behind closed doors, Dev vanished into the forgotten corridors of the old temple ruins—the one place where even the most fearless of the ashram's men hesitated to go.
There, under the cracked dome of a centuries-old sanctum, lit only by moonlight slicing through broken stone, Dev trained.
He mastered many types of weapons, sticks, knives, chains, even small firearms.
He also learned how to silently takedown other people, all things about joint locks, and control his breath.
He also does endurance training, going days without food or sleep.
And most importantly, his mind—sharpened by observation, pain, and memory.
His secret?
It was one ancient scroll.
At the center of the chamber lay an ancient scroll, weathered by time but still potent—etched with Sanskrit glyphs that burned with an unnatural energy when touched by his blood.
He had found it buried in a sealed alcove behind the ashram's oldest shrine—a place even the Swami had long forgotten. The scroll had no title, no known origin.
But its first line burned into his soul:
[Jeevan hi Mrityu hai. Mrityu hi Jeevan hai.
Jo Mrityu prapt karle, wahi asli jeevan ko dekh sakta hai.
Magar bina Mrityu ke… kaun Mrityu prapt kar sakta hai?"]
Dev didn't yet understand the full meaning. But the scroll was more than philosophy. It contained ancient combat techniques, long forgotten by modern warriors.
In the Scroll, there were Powerful Chakras of Battle.
He had unlocked only fragments. But what he had understood… had already made him near-invincible.
🌀 Dharmachakra — The Wheel of Equilibrium
"He who stands in the center of dharma, cannot be struck from any direction."
A movement so precise, it bent motion itself.
With this, Dev could deflect blades, redirect bullets, and turn a man's force back upon him.
But he had not yet mastered it fully—it required total ego-death, the death of fear and desire.
Still, when he moved now, it felt like wind obeyed him.
Adrishyachakra — The Wheel of Invisibility
"Shadow is not the absence of light. It is the presence of silence."
This technique called for control of the breath, mind, and heartbeat. It was said that those who mastered it could vanish even in plain sight, their presence felt only in the moment before death.
Dev had begun to glimpse it. He could now move without making a sound, and in darkness, he could pass inches from others without being noticed.
But the true Adrishyachakra was beyond stealth. It was becoming the night itself.
He trained by stalking snakes, studying their stillness.
By mimicking the silence of falling leaves.
He would lie under freezing water for hours, slowing his heartbeat to silence.
And still, he had not unlocked it.
"One day… I will become the wind," he whispered. "And then… you too will not know, Swami."
👁️ Trinetra — The Third Eye of Truth
"He who opens the third eye does not see with sight—but with spirit."
This chakra was the most mystical—and the most dangerous.
Legends claimed that Trinetra let a warrior see lies as smoke, intentions as color, and a man's soul as fire or ice.
It required meditation beyond sleep, pain beyond pain, and isolation from emotion.
Dev had touched it once—briefly.
While meditating for three days without water, he saw a flicker of red around Swami Vairagyanand, as if his soul was burning inward.
He also saw a black haze around Kailash Yadav, like rotting ash.
But after that, blood had poured from Dev's nose and he collapsed. He hadn't dared to attempt it again.
Yet he knew—Trinetra was the key. If he could see truth and deception, he could walk through any battlefield without confusion.
🔥Agnichakra — The Wheel of Fire
"Do not command fire. Feel it."
This was the rarest, most feared of the chakras.
The scroll warned that only those who had suffered fire and survived it in spirit could attempt to touch Agnichakra.
Dev, born of fire—who had watched his house burn, his mother burn, and his soul scorched by betrayal—felt it stir within him.
Late at night, he would sit before a flame. Not too close. Not too far.
And he would breathe. Match its rhythm. Match its hunger.
Sometimes… the flame bent slightly toward him, even when the wind was still.
One night, his palm flickered for a second—with a spark not from wood, but from within fire.
He winced. It scorched him.
But he smiled.
And there were many more Chakras, who he didn't even know the name of.
The Body as a Blade
To contain all this knowledge, Dev trained like no human.
He would run barefoot across the thorned forest until his soles bled, then coat them in ash.
He fought phantoms of his past—imagining the henchmen, the Swami, the men who had laughed when his father died.
He learned to eat once a day, sleep three hours, and survive a fight even half-conscious.
Every joint, every nerve, every breath… was weaponized.
He wasn't just training to fight.
He was training to break a world and build a new one.
One night, standing shirtless under the moonlight, bloodied from a knife drill, his breath calm, Dev stared at the scroll and said.
"I am just starting now. There is no end.
And when the end comes... then everything will end."