Ch 11: The Beginning

The group of men, now with Kamala unconscious and barely able to stir, raced down the winding road that led away from the heart of the town. The air was thick with tension, the faint sound of the engine buzzing as the wheels of the bike kicked up dust, and Kamala's half-lidded eyes struggled to focus on the blur of the surroundings. She could hear voices around her, muffled and distant, as though they were coming from deep underwater. Though she couldn't speak, her lips moved, begging them silently to stop, to let her go.

She was trapped, a prisoner in her own mind. Her body felt heavy, her chest tight with the lack of breath. She tried to scream, but not a single sound came from her throat. The words she mouthed were useless.

Her gaze flickered weakly to the surroundings. The trees blurred by the sides of the road, towering above, casting long, twisted shadows in the dim light. Kamala tried to focus, desperate for some sense of reality, something she could hold onto. It was then that she noticed it—a shadow in the distance, flitting between the trees.

Her heart skipped a beat. A dark figure, its outline sharp against the dim moonlight, moving silently but with purpose, crossing from branch to branch, like some phantom stalking them from above. Kamala's heart raced in her chest. Was it a trick of her eyes? Or was something—or someone—following them?

She blinked rapidly, but the shadow remained, just out of reach, never fully materializing but always there. Every time the bike swerved, the shadow seemed to shift, mirroring their movement.

Then, as they crossed the outskirts of the town, the environment became eerily quiet. The streets were empty. No lights. No sounds. Just the hum of the engine as it cut through the night.

The men stopped at a spot where the road seemed to end, a desolate stretch of land swallowed by shadows. This was the edge of the world, and it was here they planned to dispose of Kamala. One of the men, his face twisted in malice, roughly pulled her from the back of the bike. Kamala tried to move, but her legs gave way. She crumpled to the ground in a heap, her head spinning with dizziness, unable to push herself up.

Her eyes, wide and full of fear, stared up at them, but her mind couldn't form the words. She could only mouth a single plea, "Please…"

The man who had pulled her off the bike laughed darkly. "You're not going anywhere now, princess. This is where it all ends."

The others circled around her, their faces grinning as they spoke of terrible things they'd planned to do. But as they taunted her, her vision blurred again, and just as she was about to lose consciousness, she heard a voice—a voice that pierced the night like a knife.

"Hey, gentlemen, why don't you leave her alone?"

It was a calm, cold voice, but it carried the weight of an undeniable threat. The men paused, their laughter silenced. They looked around, confusion settling over their faces.

"Who's there?" one of them growled.

The voice didn't respond directly but instead spoke again, louder this time: "You have ten seconds. Leave her. Or else…"

The men turned, scanning the darkness, their hands already reaching for the knives hidden in their belts. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. No birds. No wind. Just the unsettling feeling that something unseen was lurking, waiting.

"Or else what?" one of the men sneered. "You gonna show yourself, huh? Come out and face us if you're so tough."

Kamala, too weak to stand, still managed to raise her head, her eyes scanning the shadows desperately. She felt her heart thudding in her chest. What was happening? Who was speaking?

The voice continued, unbothered by the threat. "You really want to test me? Fine, then."

The men chuckled, but their amusement quickly faded as they heard a faint sound—a shifting in the air, a whisper of movement. The birds in the trees overhead fluttered, suddenly agitated, taking flight in unison, their wings creating an ominous sound like the flapping of a thousand dark wings. It was a warning. Something was coming.

The voice, now colder and more certain, started the countdown. "Ten… nine… eight…"

The men bristled with anticipation, trying to locate the source of the voice. One of them tried to advance toward the sound, his knife raised high.

"Seven… six…" the voice continued, and with every number, the tension grew. The men were on edge, each of them glancing around, their knives clutched in their hands, ready for action.

As the count dropped lower, their hearts began to race. The air felt heavier, charged with an electric energy they couldn't understand.

"Three… two…" The voice's tone became even more chilling. "One..."

Before the final second could drop, there was a sudden crack—a loud thud as one of the men fell to the ground, his skull shattered from an unseen blow. Blood poured from his nose, ears, and the back of his skull, where he had been struck with an incredible force. His body twitched, then lay still.

The other men froze in shock.

"What the hell was that?" one of them gasped, staring at the lifeless body.

But before anyone could react further, another figure darted out of the shadows, so fast it was almost impossible to track. One of the men felt a sharp pain in his neck, and as he turned, the knife embedded itself from behind, slicing through his throat. He fell to the ground, choking on his blood, eyes wide with disbelief.

Panic set in.

The remaining three men pulled their knives, frantically searching for the source of the attack. One shouted, "Show yourself, you coward!"

Without a word, the shadow that had been lurking around them finally revealed itself—a dark silhouette, seemingly made of the very shadows themselves. It moved like liquid darkness, its form shifting and flowing unnaturally as it approached.

"You wanted to see me? Here I am," the figure whispered, and his words seemed to strike like a blow. "I don't fight weaklings."

The three remaining men rushed at him, their knives raised high. They slashed with wild abandon, but the figure dodged every single attack effortlessly, almost as if he were reading their moves before they made them.

A mocking laugh echoed from the figure as he continued to dodge. "Is that all you've got? Pathetic."

Then, with lightning speed, he lunged at one of the men, grabbing him by the throat, lifting him off the ground. The man's feet kicked helplessly in the air as his breath was cut off. With a sickening snap, his neck twisted, and the man fell lifeless to the ground.

The remaining two men, now desperate, turned to run. But they were too slow.

The figure was upon them before they could make it ten feet. One man's throat was slashed open in an instant, and the other's head was twisted backward with a brutal force, leaving him writhing in agony as his life drained from him.

Kamala, her vision still blurry, watched in a dazed stupor, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. The figure turned toward her, his mask now visible—a bright Jagannath mask, with exaggerated features and eyes that seemed to burn with a strange energy.

With a final warning, the figure leaned in close to the two remaining men, who were now pleading for their lives. "If you ever try to hurt the innocent again…" The figure's voice was low, venomous, and without mercy. "I'll come for you."

He released them, and they stumbled away, running into the night, not daring to look back.

The bloodied bodies of the men lay scattered on the outskirts, their cries now silenced, leaving behind only the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. Kamala, still lying weak and vulnerable, felt the pressure of the moment weighing down on her chest. She could hardly move, her vision swimming, but through the haze, she saw the figure in the Jagannath mask standing tall, watching over her.

His cold, calculated movements had taken down the attackers in a matter of seconds. But now, the wind began to pick up, rustling through his dark cloak. He stood in silence, his back straight, his eyes locked on Kamala, who was slowly trying to sit up but failing to do so.

The mask guy approached her, his footsteps silent but heavy in the air. He knelt beside her, his figure looming over her weakened body. Kamala tried to focus, her lips trembling as she looked up at him, struggling to form words.

"Y-you... saved me..." she whispered, her voice weak, a barely audible murmur lost in the winds.

He paused, seemingly considering her words. For a moment, there was no sound except the wind and the quiet rustle of the trees. Then, in a voice soft yet chilling, he answered, "I did more than save you. I made sure they would never hurt you again."

Kamala's eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open. She wanted to ask more, to understand who this figure was, but her strength was slipping away with each passing second.

Her head fell back, and her consciousness began to fade, the world around her blurring once more. But before she succumbed to the darkness, the last thing she heard was his voice, clear and full of cold resolve:

"You're safe now."

The world around Kamala vanished, and she fell unconscious.

The mask guy carefully lifted her into his arms. Kamala didn't resist, her body limp against him, too weak to do anything but breathe shallowly. Her eyes fluttered open and closed in a daze, the only thing she could focus on being the mask in front of her—a mask so intricately detailed, with glowing eyes that seemed to pierce through her haze of confusion.

He didn't speak as he held her, not even when she tried to mumble her thanks. His hands were firm yet gentle, like he had done this a thousand times before. There was no warmth in his movements, no comfort to offer—only cold precision, as if rescuing her was a duty, something done without thought, without emotion.

He walked swiftly through the outskirts, not taking the roads but leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Kamala felt the shift beneath her, the rush of air, but her mind was too clouded to comprehend the speed at which they moved. She caught glimpses of the quiet town below, the distant lights flickering like forgotten stars.

Kamala felt herself slipping away again, and just before she lost consciousness completely, she whispered, "Thank you… mask… guy…"

The journey through the night didn't take long. Kamala didn't know how much time had passed, but when she opened her eyes again, she found herself back in the heart of the town, near the familiar streets that she had walked before the chaos started. Her body felt numb, the faint memory of pain still lingering in her limbs, but she was alive. Safe.

The mask guy set her down on a bench near the town's square, where no one was around to witness the scene. Kamala's head lolled to the side, and she tried to steady herself, blinking up at the dark sky, feeling the chill in the air. Her eyes, unfocused, still couldn't fully grasp the details of what had just happened. The brutal fight, the terrifying men, the mysterious figure who saved her—it was all so much, too overwhelming to process in her weak state.

She tried to say something, but the words wouldn't come. Her lips quivered, but her voice was lost in the breeze.

The mask guy stood over her for a moment, his figure blending into the shadows, before he stepped back, silent and distant. There was no comforting smile, no reassurance. He turned away from her, his silhouette melting into the dark alleys of the town, disappearing from her view as swiftly as he had appeared.

Kamala wanted to call out to him, but her body was too weak to even lift a finger. Her mind was filled with questions—who was he? Why did he help her? What did he want from her? But those thoughts faded as the exhaustion finally overtook her.

The wind swept through the quiet streets as Kamala's eyes began to flutter closed. Before everything went dark, she whispered to herself in the silence, a faint, almost inaudible murmur:

"Thank you... Jagannath…"

It was the last thought she had before falling into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Far above, on the rooftop of a tall building that overlooked the entire town, the mask guy stood alone, gazing out at the silent streets below. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, saw more than any normal person could. His mind was focused, his heart cold—he was not just a hero to the people, but a force of vengeance.

He felt the cold air whip past him, the wind catching his cloak as he stood at the very edge of the building. The city, calm and unaware, stretched out beneath him, but the mask guy had no time for peace. His duty was far from over. He couldn't rest. Not yet.

With a single motion, he reached up and slowly removed the Jagannath mask from his face. The moment it was lifted, the mask fell to the ground below with a soft thud, revealing the face of the man behind it—shrouded in mystery, yet filled with the burning intensity of a thousand battles fought.

And just before the screen went black, his lips parted for a brief moment:

"The real journey begins now."

Then, the screen faded to black, leaving behind the image of a lone figure standing in the wind—unseen, unheard, but ever watched.

 ~TO BE CONTINUED