The car roared forward with every ounce of strength, but the distance only seemed to stretch further and farther. The screech of the tires tore through the night, filling the air with desperate urgency.

  Amidst the chaos, just a few meters away from the temple, Krishnam stood next to his girlfriend, close to her house. The quietness between them felt almost serene amidst the surrounding commotion.

  She gently nudged him, her voice soft but teasing, "So, when are you going for the nationals?"

  Krishnam sighed, a mix of excitement and nervousness in his eyes. "Tomorrow... but I’m pretty nervous."

  She looked at him, her gaze steady, understanding his unspoken doubts. "It’s just tennis," she said with a warm smile, the kind only someone who knew him well could give. "But it’s you. You’ll make it."

  Krishnam couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling the warmth of her confidence in him. "Not just anyone, but the greatest to ever grace it." He ran his fingers gently through her hair, his smile matching the light teasing in his voice.

  Her eyes softened as she reached out, gently brushing his hand, a silent gesture that spoke volumes. "I believe in you. You’ve got this."

  As they shared a quiet moment, her attention shifted to something outside their bubble, a car speeding towards the temple. "Is that Sachet Uncle’s car?" she asked, her voice pulling him back.

  Inside the car, Sachet’s voice was tense. “Just pray we reach the temple before anything happens.” He leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel with urgency.

  But before he could react, Amarath’s hand shot out, pulling him back sharply as if sensing something perilous was about to happen.

  Suddenly, a thunderous thud echoed, and the car’s rear lifted off the ground. The windshield exploded in a shower of glass, fragments slicing through the air in every direction.

  A monstrous figure loomed before them, perched on the bonnet—a 7-foot giant, his ripped shoulders barely contained by his dark attire. His crimson pupils glowed through a mask, a silent promise of destruction.

  Amarath’s eyes met the monster’s, and in that instant, time seemed to slow. Without hesitation, both lunged for the box. The creature grabbed Amarath, throwing him violently from the car, sending him tumbling onto the temple stairs.

  Sachet seized the box, but before he could make his escape, the monster hurled him into the nearby lawn. He lay there, battered and broken, blood trickling from his mouth, his breath shallow and ragged.

  The monster’s glare was filled with primal rage. With one hand, it lifted the box, poised to crush Sachet’s face. But then, a bolt of lightning pierced the sky, striking the creature from behind. The box flew into the air, spinning wildly before landing in Amarath’s outstretched hand, crackling with electric energy.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Standing tall before the statue of Lord Shiva, his form glowed with an otherworldly power, lighting up the temple’s dark surroundings.

  The monster charged, but Amarath remained calm, his eyes steely with resolve. With effortless precision, he caught the monster’s arm mid-swing and twisted it with a flick of his wrist. Fists of lightning followed—each strike not from a hand, but from bolts of raw power.

  Summoning his newfound strength, Amarath lifted the monster effortlessly, and the sky itself seemed to respond. Lightning cascaded from the heavens, illuminating the city in a radiant glow.

  With a final, explosive motion, Amarath hurled the creature to the ground, burying it deep within the earth. The city fell into silence, save for the crackling of energy around the temple.

  Exhausted, Amarath collapsed to the ground, his chest heaving as the calm returned, the storm within and outside him settling.

  “The only thing that stood tall in the aftermath... was the silence,” the father added, his voice steady, yet carrying a deep resonance.

  The child, his gaze fixed on his father’s eyes, whispered, “Is it the end?”

  The father let out a soft chuckle, his smile warm. “There’s no end... It’s just a circle, my dear.”

  He paused, clearing his throat with a faint rasp before continuing, his voice a little softer but filled with more meaning.

  Two months later...

  Amarath woke, disoriented, his body draped in white funeral clothes. A heavy silence lingered in the air, oppressive and unnatural. It felt as though something devastating had already passed, leaving only echoes behind. The stillness suffocated him, tightening around his chest as he rushed toward the dining hall, desperate to find his grandmother. But the house was eerily quiet, empty. No footsteps, no voices. Just the weight of absence.

  A flash of orange caught his attention from outside, a bright, unnatural glow on the lawn. He stumbled towards the window, his heart pounding as he saw a crowd gathered before a burning pyre. Confusion gripped him as his eyes darted through the faces. Finally, his gaze landed on his grandmother standing motionless, her figure lost in the crowd.

  "Grandma!" he called out, rushing to her, but she didn't respond. He shouted her name again, louder this time, his voice raw with panic. But still, she remained silent, her eyes hollow.

  His breath hitched in his throat. He turned, looking for any sign of reassurance. His heart skipped a beat as he spotted Kriti, her face hidden behind her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

  "Kriti!" He rushed to her, relief flooding his chest, only for it to vanish the moment she looked up. Her tear-streaked face twisted with a mixture of fury and grief. She grabbed his collar, yanking him toward her, her voice venomous.

  "You killed him," she hissed, her words like a dagger to his heart. "That’s his body burning there."

  Time seemed to freeze. Amarath recoiled, stumbling backward, the world around him crashing down. "No... No... NO!" he screamed, his voice breaking, the weight of her accusation unbearable.

  The air around him spun, and his vision blurred. He gasped, his body jerking awake, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as though he had just run a marathon. The remnants of the dream lingered in his mind like a shadow, pressing down on him.

  "What... What was that?" he whispered to himself, his voice shaky. His hand pressed against his forehead, the dread still lingering in his chest. "Could it be... a warning?"

  "So, Sachet died?" The kid asked, his eyes dull and distant, a flicker of hope still clinging to them.

  The father, calmly replied, "The story will tell you, not me."

  Was the kid, right?

  Did Sachet truly die, or was it just Amarath’s mind playing tricks on him?