End of Lanka

[INT. RUINED THRONE ROOM – LANKA]

The last echoes of battle fade. Arya stands tall, his blade still humming with residual energy from his final strike. Across from him, the fading form of Ravana's Phantom watches in silence. The once-monstrous warrior now appears regal, his fiery rage replaced with something more… knowing.

A deep crack spreads through Ravana's skeletal remains on the throne, sending embers drifting through the air like dying stars.

Ravana's Phantom (voice resonant, fading):

"You have done what few could… You faced Wrath, did not falter, and emerged unbroken."

Arya (steady, though his fists remain clenched):

"Wrath is not my master. It is my weapon now."

Ravana's Phantom (grinning, impressed):

"Then take this—my Fragment of Wrath. A ruler who commands fury, rather than falls to it, is worthy of Lanka's power."

A searing light bursts from Ravana's chest. Arya instinctively raises his hand as the energy surges toward him, wrapping around his forearm like ethereal chains of fire. The Demon King's Seal brands itself onto Arya's skin, a glowing mark shaped like a burning ten-headed crown.

A sudden wave of heat pulses through Arya's body, his muscles tensing as new strength floods his veins. His senses sharpen—he can hear his own heartbeat like a war drum, feel the shift in air, predict movements before they happen. His body feels lighter, yet infinitely more destructive. His wrath is now controlled, refined—an extension of his will."

Ravana's Phantom (final whisper, proud):

"Wield it well… and do not forget—all kings must face the weight of their wrath."

With that, Ravana's form scatters into golden embers, leaving only his legacy behind.

Arya lowers his arm, watching as the Demon King's Seal flickers like molten gold on his skin. He can feel it—the raw destructive potential waiting beneath his surface, begging to be unleashed.

But something feels… different.

As the flames die down, Vaishnavi and Sachin step forward, both having witnessed the battle in stunned silence.

Vaishnavi (softly, hesitant):

"Arya… are you okay?"

Arya looks at her, but for a moment—just a moment—his golden irises burn red before fading back. Vaishnavi takes a small step back, instinctively gripping her sword.

Sachin (muttering, watching Arya closely):

"Something's changed…"

A heavy silence falls between them. Arya's presence is… darker. His aura, once burning with determination, now carries an edge—something primal, something overwhelming. It's still him… but it's more.

Arya (firm, though his voice carries a subtle growl):

"We move forward. Wrath is mine to command—not the other way around."

His words are confident. Resolute. But neither Vaishnavi nor Sachin can shake the feeling that, even if Arya believes that…

…can anyone truly wield Wrath without it changing them?

 [EXT. RUINS OF LANKA – NIGHT]

A low rumble shakes the ground beneath Arya, Vaishnavi, and Sachin. The ruins of Lanka, ancient and scarred by war, begin to tremble as if awakening from a long slumber. Cracks slither across the blackened stone, and from within, a faint crimson glow pulses—Wrath's lingering essence stirring after centuries of dormancy.

Vaishnavi (looking around, tense):

"Arya… something's wrong. The ground—"

A sudden eruption of flames bursts from the cracks, spiraling toward the sky like torches igniting a long-forgotten battlefield. The very air grows thicker, heavier, as if the ruins themselves are awakening.

Sachin (clenching his fists, wary):

"It's like the land itself is responding to you… to the Mark of Wrath."

Arya (gazing at the ruins, voice steady but firm):

"No. It's not just the land—the Abysses have felt this. Wrath has been reawakened, and that means… we're no longer moving unseen."

*A heavy silence follows Arya's words. They are being watched.

Somewhere, across the distant horizon, dark forces are stirring.*

*Unbeknownst to Arya and his companions, a figure cloaked in shifting darkness stands upon the far cliffs of Lanka, overlooking the ruins. His form is indistinct, like a shadow given life, and his eyes burn a deep, abyssal violet.

A cold chuckle echoes through the void.*

??? (whispering to himself, amused):

"So… the boy has claimed Wrath. Interesting."

He raises a hand, a thin wisp of black fire twisting around his fingers as if reacting to Arya's actions.

??? (smirking, intrigued):

"The Abysses have long been silent, but now? Now they shall rise once more… and the war shall begin."

With that, the figure vanishes, melting into the shadows, leaving only the chilling weight of his presence behind.

Back at the ruins, Arya turns his back on the trembling city. His golden eyes flicker with crimson, the Mark of Wrath humming beneath his skin. He knows what this means. There is no turning back now.