The night air was cold, biting against Ashtram’s skin like the cruel reminder of his helplessness. His steps were unsteady as he left the hospital, his mind drowning in a storm of agony. Niranya. His Jaan. She lay lifeless in that hospital bed, her breath hanging by a thread, and there was nothing he could do.
For the first time in centuries, Ashtram Raghuvanshi—feared by many, known for his ruthlessness—felt powerless. His body, accustomed to battle and bloodshed, now trembled under the weight of emotions he had never been forced to acknowledge. He could fight wars, conquer empires, and strike fear into the hearts of men, but he could not command death to stay away from the woman he loved.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms until they bled, but even that pain was nothing compared to the torment in his soul. His mind screamed at him to do something—anything—to bring her back. If fate had condemned him to this cursed existence, then he would fight fate itself to keep Niranya alive.
And in that moment, the only thought that came to him was a temple. The Shiv temple Niranya had once taken him to, where she had prayed with unwavering faith. She had spoken of Lord Shiva as the one who bore pain, who carried the burden of destruction and creation alike. A god who understood suffering.
Ashtram had never prayed before. But now, he will pray for his Angel.
---
His feet carried him forward, bare against the rough ground. He hadn’t even realized he had left his shoes behind. The uneven gravel cut into his skin, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.
The journey to the temple was long, each step feeling heavier than the last. The city around him blurred into nothingness, the neon lights and bustling streets a distant haze. His mind was consumed by only one thought—her.
When he finally reached the temple, the grand structure loomed before him, bathed in the silvery glow of the moon. It stood tall, its presence commanding yet peaceful. He climbed the steps, each one feeling like an eternity, his breath ragged, his heart hammering in his chest.
As soon as he entered, the air shifted. It was thick with the scent of incense and marigold, the distant echoes of temple bells ringing in his ears. The idol of Lord Shiva stood before him, towering and unmoving, a silent witness to his despair.
Ashtram staggered forward, his knees hitting the cold stone floor as he collapsed before the deity. His body was shaking, but he didn’t care. This was not about him. This was about Niranya.
His hands trembled as he clasped them together, his head bowing, his voice breaking.
"Main kabhi kisi ke aage nahi jhuka, par aaj... aaj main aapke charnon mein hoon, Mahadev. Main jaanta hoon, mere jeene ka koi arth nahi tha... lekin uske jeene ka hai. Usse jeene do, Mahadev."
("I have never bowed before anyone, but today... today, I am at your feet, Lord Shiva. I know my existence has no meaning... but hers does. Let her live, Mahadev.")
Tears burned his eyes, slipping down his face, but he didn’t wipe them away. He had never shed tears before. Not for himself. Not for anyone. But for Niranya, he would bleed if he had to.
His gaze lifted to the deity, his heart pounding against his ribs as desperation overtook him.
"Mujhse jo chahe le lo... lekin meri Jaan ko wapas bhej do. Uski saansein ruk gayi toh main bhi nahi jee sakta."
("Take anything from me… but send my Jaan back. If her breath stops, I won’t survive either.")
The silence of the temple was deafening. There was no answer. No sign. Nothing.
Gritting his teeth, Ashtram reached for the sacred water kept before the idol and poured it over his head, letting the ice-cold liquid burn through his skin like a brand. His fingers wrapped around the temple’s thick chain, the one used for sacred offerings. And without hesitation, he pulled it tight against his bare skin, letting the rough metal cut into his flesh.
Pain shot through him, a sharp, searing agony that tore through his body—but he embraced it. He welcomed it. Because if suffering was what it took to save Niranya, he would endure every torment.
"Yeh dard kuch bhi nahi hai jo main uske bina mehsoos karunga. Agar mujhe apni jaan deni pade, toh main bina soche de dunga."
("This pain is nothing compared to what I will feel without her. If I have to give my life, I will do it without hesitation.")
Blood trickled down his torso, but he didn’t flinch. He stayed there, kneeling before the god of destruction, his body trembling, his soul screaming.
And still, there was no answer.
---
The temple doors loomed behind him as he walked out, his feet still bare, his heart still drowning in agony. He had prayed, he had begged, but Niranya was still fighting for her life.
His vision blurred, but he kept walking. The road ahead stretched into the night, empty and endless. The cold ground beneath his feet was littered with tiny stones, each one stabbing into his already wounded skin. With every step, his body screamed in protest, but he refused to stop.
He had lost too much already. He would not lose her.
As he walked, the memories came rushing back—her laughter, her warmth, the way she had looked at him with so much love despite the monster he was.
"Niranya... you made me feel alive. You made me human… and now, you cannot leave me. I will cross every limit to bring you back."
His breaths were ragged, his body screaming for rest, but his heart refused to listen. He had walked miles, his legs shaking, his wounds deepening, but still, he searched.
Every road, every alley—he would search them all.
Because if she was slipping away, then so was he. And he would fight till his last breath to bring her back.
The night was silent, but Ashtram Raghuvanshi’s world was roaring with agony. The temple had offered no answers, no divine intervention, and yet, he refused to accept defeat. His body was battered, his soul restless, and his heart was drowning in an abyss he couldn’t escape.
But he wouldn’t stop.
Barefoot, wounded, and relentless, he walked through the empty streets. The sharp gravel bit into his feet, each step deepening the wounds, but the pain was welcome. It was a reminder—of his love, of his desperation, of his unyielding devotion to Niranya. If he had to bleed his way to her, he would.
His vision blurred slightly, but he didn’t falter. His search had just begun.
-----
The Underworld’s Shadows
The city’s filth hid in the darkest corners—alleys where morality ceased to exist, where men bartered lives like currency. If there was a way to shift fate, if there was a whisper of miracles, it would be found in these depths.
He pushed open the rusted gates of an abandoned warehouse, stepping into the den of the wicked. The stench of blood, sweat, and power filled the air. In the center stood Malik—the man who thrived in chaos, surrounded by his men, a predator among scavengers.
Malik’s sharp gaze landed on Ashtram, his lips twisting into a smirk.
"Raghuvanshi." He leaned back against a crate. "Didn’t expect to see you looking like this. You look like a ghost that crawled out of his own grave."
Ashtram ignored the provocation, his voice cold and sharp. "I need something."
Malik chuckled. "You? Asking for something? The King of the underworld, desperate? That’s new."
"Not asking. Searching." Ashtram’s jaw clenched. "A way to bring someone back. Anything."
Malik’s smirk faltered slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "There are no miracles in our world, Ashtram. Only death."
Ashtram exhaled, his patience wearing thin. "There has to be something. A way to shift fate, to reverse what’s happening."
Malik studied him for a long moment before sighing. "There is an old practice. A ritual… but it’s not for the weak."
Ashtram stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "Tell me."
Malik hesitated, then said, "It is said that if a man is willing to endure enough pain, he can trade his suffering for the life of another. But it’s not just physical pain, Raghuvanshi. It’s deeper. Something that shatters your soul."
Pain?
Ashtram had lived in pain for 200 years.
If that was the price, he would pay it.
"Tell me what I have to do."
Malik tilted his head toward the back of the warehouse. "There’s a place. A chamber where men have tried… and failed. You won’t be the first. But you might be the last."
Without hesitation, Ashtram followed.
---
The room was dark, lit only by flickering torches casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. In the center stood an iron contraption—twisted metal designed for suffering. Spikes jutted from a rusted seat, and chains hung from the ceiling, their ends sharpened to cut deep into flesh.
Ashtram stepped forward, his fingers grazing the cold metal.
"Pain in exchange for life."
If that was the rule, he would break himself to pieces.
Malik leaned against the wall, watching. "Once you start, there’s no stopping. You endure every second. If your body gives in, if you pass out, it means your soul wasn’t strong enough."
Ashtram smirked darkly. "I don’t break that easily."
Without another word, he removed his blood-soaked shirt, revealing deep bruises and wounds that had yet to heal. He stepped onto the iron seat, the spikes pressing into his skin instantly, sharp points piercing deep.
He clenched his jaw but didn’t move.
Then, he reached for the hanging chains, wrapping them around his wrists, securing himself in place. The moment he pulled, the blades sliced into his skin, tearing flesh open. Warm blood dripped down his arms, soaking into the rusted metal beneath him.
Pain flared, searing through his body.
But Ashtram didn’t flinch.
He closed his eyes, allowing the agony to consume him.
For Niranya.
His breathing was uneven, his vision blurred at the edges, but he held on. Every second felt like an eternity, but he embraced it. The spikes dug deeper, the chains tightened around his wrists, tearing into muscle, but he remained still.
Then, through gritted teeth, a whisper escaped his lips.
"Niranya…apko lautna hoga. Main apke bina nahi jee sakta."
("Niranya… you have to return. I can’t live without you.")
Blood dripped steadily, creating a crimson pool beneath him. His body trembled, muscles screaming in protest, but he didn’t stop.
And then—
The air shifted.
The torches flickered violently, flames twisting unnaturally. A low, humming sound echoed through the chamber, vibrating through the walls.
Malik took a step back, his expression wary. "This… this has never happened before."
Ashtram’s eyes snapped open. He could feel it—something ancient responding to his agony. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the fire igniting in his soul.
And then, a voice—deep, powerful, and ethereal—echoed in his mind.
"Your suffering has been witnessed. Your devotion has been heard. But is your soul strong enough to face the price?"
A dark, determined smirk curled Ashtram’s lips.
"For her, I will endure anything."
His body was a battlefield, fresh wounds bleeding from the ritual he endured, but he didn’t stop. He had suffered enough to know that pain was a mere companion, a reminder of his undying devotion.
Barefoot and covered in blood, he walked through the city, his steps heavy yet determined. He didn’t care that people stared at him, whispering in shock. He had one goal—to bring her back.
And if the gods were real, they would have to listen.
---
The Church – A Prayer to the Cross
The grand doors of the church creaked open as Ashtram stepped inside. The air was heavy with the scent of burning candles and aged wood, the silence almost deafening. The flickering light from the altar cast long shadows, and in the center stood the statue of Christ, arms stretched wide in eternal sacrifice.
Ashtram walked forward, his knees nearly buckling from exhaustion, but he forced himself to stand before the altar.
He was not a man of faith. But today, faith was all he had left.
Slowly, he dropped to his knees, his hands resting against the cold marble floor. His breathing was ragged, but his voice was steady.
"I don’t know if you listen to men like me," he murmured, his gaze locked onto the statue. "But if there’s even a shred of justice in this world, then hear me."
He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"Take everything from me—my power, my wealth, my life—but don’t take her. She’s the only thing keeping me human."
The candles flickered violently, as if responding to his plea. His fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms.
"She is good, she is kind… and I have done nothing but hurt her. If she must suffer for my sins, then let the punishment fall on me instead."
Silence.
No voice from the heavens, no divine sign. Only the hollow ache in his chest.
His jaw clenched as he pushed himself to his feet, his blood staining the church floor. If one god wouldn’t listen, he would find another.
And so, he walked away, his heart heavier than before.
---
The Dargah – A Plea in the Wind
The night deepened as Ashtram arrived at the ancient Dargah, the shrine glowing under the moonlight. The sound of qawwali echoed softly in the background, and the scent of roses and incense filled the air. Devotees tied threads to the lattice walls, whispering their prayers, hoping for miracles.
A soft drizzle began, soaking his already battered body, but he paid no attention.
Stepping forward, he removed his shoes at the entrance, his bare feet pressing against the cool marble. He walked toward the shrine, each step filled with silent agony.
He didn’t know the prayers, didn’t know the customs, but desperation made men learn things they never thought they would.
As he reached the mazaar (the tomb of the saint), he knelt, pressing his forehead against the cold stone. The world around him blurred as he closed his eyes.
"Murshid… agar aap sach mein sunte hain, toh mujhe ek nayi saza de de, par usse wapas bhej de."
("Saint… if you truly listen, then give me a new punishment, but send her back to me.")
A single tear slipped from his eye, lost in the rain.
"Mujhse meri saansein maang le, par mujhe uske bina jeene mat de."
("Take my breath away, but don’t make me live without her.")
The wind howled around him, as if carrying his words into the unknown. A rose petal floated down from the shrine, landing on his open palm. A sign? A cruel coincidence? He didn’t know.
But he tied a thread to the lattice, sealing his prayer within the sacred walls.
With one last glance at the shrine, he stood up, his soul still restless. He had one more place to go.
---
The Gurudwara – A Silent Surrender
The golden glow of the Gurudwara welcomed him next. The soothing hymns of kirtan filled the air, a stark contrast to the storm raging within him. The sacred pond shimmered under the dim lights, its waters still, untouched by the chaos of the world.
Ashtram walked in, his breath uneven. The moment his feet touched the marble, an odd sense of calm settled over him. He stepped forward, bowing his head as he entered the main hall.
Devotees sat in silence, listening to the holy verses, their eyes closed in devotion. He walked to the front, where the Guru Granth Sahib rested, wrapped in embroidered cloth, a symbol of divine wisdom.
This time, he didn’t speak.
Words had failed him before.
Instead, he dropped to his knees and bent forward, pressing his forehead against the ground in complete surrender.
For the first time in his cursed, he begged—not as a mafia king, not as a ruler, but as a man in love.
The sound of the shabad (holy hymn) echoed in the background, each word seeping into his broken soul.
"Jo maange thakur apne te, soyi soyi deve…"
("Whoever asks from the Lord, He grants their wish…")
A silent plea.
A quiet prayer.
He didn’t know if the gods would listen.
He didn’t know if miracles were real.
But as he sat there, his heart bleeding more than his wounds, he realized—this was his last hope.
And if they didn’t answer…
Then he would tear fate apart with his own hands.
The soft hum of kirtan surrounded Ashtram as he sat motionless, his forehead still pressed against the cold marble floor of the Gurudwara. He had poured his soul into silent prayers, surrendering himself completely in the hope of a miracle.
And then—his phone rang.
The sudden vibration in his pocket shattered the trance-like stillness around him. For a moment, he didn’t move, afraid that answering the call would somehow break whatever fragile hope he had left. But when the phone rang again, his fingers trembled as he reached for it.
Vedant.
His heart pounded as he pressed the call button, bringing the phone to his ear.
"Ashtram!" Vedant’s urgent voice boomed through the speaker. "Where the hell are you? Niranya is out of danger now!"
Everything around him blurred.
The sacred hymns, the whispers of prayers, the faint murmurs of devotees—nothing existed except those words. Niranya is out of danger.
His throat closed up, his grip on the phone tightening as he shut his eyes, inhaling sharply. His body, battered and drenched from the night’s suffering, trembled with an emotion he hadn’t dared to feel—relief.
"She’s… she’s okay?" His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and broken.
"Yes, but you need to come fast! Where are you?"
Ashtram exhaled shakily, pressing his free hand against his chest, where his heart was still hammering wildly. He turned his gaze toward the sacred scripture in front of him.
Was this the sign he had begged for?
Had the gods truly listened?
He didn’t wait for an answer.
"I’m coming," he rasped, already pushing himself to his feet. His entire body screamed in pain, but he ignored it. Nothing mattered now except getting to her.
As he turned to leave, he cast one last glance at the holy sanctum, his eyes burning with unshed tears. He wasn’t a believer. He never had been.
But tonight… he had found something more powerful than faith—hope.
With renewed strength, Ashtram strode out of the Gurudwara, ready to claim what was his.
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