The Inferno Express

The train cut through the dead silence of the night like a screaming blade.

Inferno Express—its name wasn't poetic, it was a warning. Heat bled from its underbelly, licking the rails in waves of shimmering haze, as though the tracks themselves might catch fire from the sheer will of the engine.

The wind shrieked past its armored sides, carrying with it the scent of ash and distant blood.

Inside the guard's van, the air was damp with smoke and sweat. Dim lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows of swords, cloaks, and haunted eyes. The war hadn't ended. It had simply boarded the train.

Ghanashyam stood with his back to the bolted door, the weight of the journey resting on his shoulders. His body was slashed and bruised from the earlier battle, blood drying on his cheeks in iron-black lines. Yet, he stood steady — the mountain that did not bow.

He looked to the others.

"There are eight compartments on this train," he said, voice low, worn, and resolute. "And there are nine of us. One for each car. Spread out. Watch everything. We don't know what might have slipped aboard."

His eyes settled on Yug, seated beside his mother, Sarla, who still cradled him as if he were a child.

But Yug's eyes had changed — no longer the wide, confused gaze of a boy. There was a new fire in them. Something darker. Something forged.

Ghanashyam knelt before him and unslung a weapon from his back — an axe.

Its edge gleamed with unnatural darkness, whispering faint echoes through the van. An Echo weapon, forged in loss, tempered in rage.

"Yug," he said, offering the axe. "Take this. If anything happens, protect your mother. And yourself. No matter what comes through that door... fight."

Yug looked up at him. Then, silently, he took the weapon.

Its weight settled into his hands as if it had always been waiting for him.

Vaidehi stepped forward next, lingering at the entrance to the van. Her eyes flicked between the shadows outside and Ishaan, who was already posted near the rear hatch, scanning the world vanishing behind them.

"I want to stay here," Vaidehi said. "With Ishaan. In the guard's van. Someone needs to watch the back properly."

Ishaan cracked a grin, pushing back his blood-matted hair.

"Appreciate the sentiment," he said, without looking at her. "But I've got this covered. If anything follows the train — beast or worse — I'll see it first."

Ghanashyam turned to Vaidehi, giving her a small nod.

"Go forward. The front cars need your eyes too. Ishaan will raise the alarm if something dares to chase us."

Vaidehi hesitated, but then gave a curt nod and vanished into the dark corridor.

One by one, the Echo Hunters split off, each entering a different train car. Their footfalls were soft, measured — ghosts slipping between worlds. They had climbed aboard from horseback while the train was already in motion, leaping through smoke and gunpowder onto the roof, cutting their way down through the ventilation shafts.

They were bleeding, bruised, and burnt — but they had survived.

Now, they moved as shadows among the living.

The passenger cars were dim and crowded. Not with noise, but with tension.

Ordinary villagers, merchants, and workers sat huddled in silence, their eyes widening as the Echo Hunters passed — blood on their blades, soot on their faces, and an aura of something ancient, violent. Fear gripped the air. A mother pulled her child closer. A man shifted uncomfortably, shielding a cloth bundle. No one spoke, but their eyes shouted questions.

Sensing the unease, Ghanashyam stepped into the first compartment and raised both hands, his voice a calm presence amidst the churning fear.

"Everyone, stay calm," he said, voice steady, low like a river cutting through stone. "We mean you no harm."

He looked over the people — travelers, villagers, a few children staring wide-eyed.

"There was a skirmish earlier," he explained. "We were ambushed outside the train by a gang of armed bandits. We fought back. Some of us were wounded. That's why you see blood. That's why we carry blades."

He let the weight of his words settle before continuing, voice slightly softer.

"But there's no danger to you. We are Echo Hunters. Our duty is to protect people — travelers like you. That's why we're here. That's why we boarded."

A hush fell. The fear in the passengers' faces began to loosen, replaced by wary curiosity — even admiration.

A boy near the window whispered, "Are you soldiers?"

Ghanashyam offered the faintest of smiles.

"Something like that."

The passengers shifted slightly in their seats. Still cautious, but no longer on the edge of panic. One man gave a small nod. Another woman, holding her son, murmured a quiet thanks.

And just like that, the train moved forward — not just on the tracks, but in spirit.

The bloodstains remained. The swords remained.

But now they were seen not as threats... but shields.

Above the Roaring Engine — Inferno Express

The train screamed through the Himalayan foothills, steel wheels slicing across rusted tracks. Unseen by the mortals within, a monstrous presence loomed atop the engine's boiler, perched in eerie stillness.

There sat Mahasrava—a being carved from the nightmare marrow of forgotten gods.

He levitated in a meditative yogic pose, his form too vast, too disjointed for mortal eyes to comprehend. His torso twisted with layered musculature, wrapped in shifting skin as pale as moonstone and cracked like ancient bone. Around him, multiple arms spiraled outward in fractal geometry—some still, others twitching with spasmodic hunger. Each arm held a different gesture: some in mudras, others clawed into unnatural shapes.

But it was his faces that horrified the heavens.

Seven faces, blooming like a lotus of madness, circled his head—each whispering truths and hungers into the void. The central face, calm and unmoving, turned ever so slightly and spoke in a voice that vibrated the metal below.

"Shighragaami..." he whispered.

The face second from the right—Shighragaami, angular, sharp-jawed, and wild-eyed—opened its mouth with a wicked grin, fangs slick with expectation.

"Go," Mahasrava's central voice continued, low as a dying sun.

"Kill everyone aboard the train. Drink their blood. Let their screams crown us. Once we devour ten thousand souls… we shall become transcendent—a true shape of terror."

Shighragaami's mouth curled in obedience.

"As you command, Mahasrava," he replied, folding his spectral hands.

Two of Mahasrava's many arms—those belonging to Shighragaami—folded in divine reverence, and with a nauseating slither, Shighragaami's body began to separate. His sinewed torso tore free from Mahasrava's shared core like a lotus bud splitting from its stalk. Flesh bent and rewove itself, forming a new demonic body.

He dropped to the roof of the train like a stone from a divine cliff.

Shighragaami now stood alone.Shighragaami emerges as a twisted red Asura, his skin textured like volcanic stone, cracked and pulsing with dark energy. His lean, contorted body moves with a predator's elegance, adorned only with scorched bronze armbands and a worn leather loincloth. His mouth stretches unnaturally wide, a maw of jagged black teeth always smiling—a smile born of pure, ritualistic hunger.

But the most disturbing change:

A single massive black horn erupts from the center of his skull, curving backwards like a scorched ram's tusk. It's layered in runic etchings, as if carved by screams rather than hands. The base of the horn glows faintly, almost as if it channels every soul he consumes.

His eyes burn with pale silver light—eyes that see not flesh, but fear.

He looked toward the length of the train, where compartments full of life, fear, and blood awaited him.

And then, he began to move.

The moonlight gleams faintly off the train as it slithers through the shadowed valley. A lone figure walks atop the metal roof—Shighragaami.

Barefoot. Red. Silent.

With each step, he leaves behind wet bloody footprints, trailing like a cursed path toward death. His skin is textured like cracked lava, and a single black horn juts out of his skull where the crown once sat. His teeth grin too wide, and his black eyes shimmer with hunger.

At each gap between the train coaches, he doesn't jump.

He blinks.

Pop.

He vanishes.

Pop.

He reappears, standing on the next chamber, facing the wind like a predator scenting prey.

He continues forward—toward the guards' van.

INT. PASSENGER COACH – NIGHT

A warm light bathes the cabin in comfort. The hum of the train feels almost like a lullaby.

Yug sits beside Sarla, his blind eye wrapped in cloth, the other calm and thoughtful. Opposite them sits Ghanashyam, who holds a steaming cup of chai.

Around them, passengers laugh, talk, and share stories. Children peek curiously at Yug's axe wrapped in cloth. A group of elders play cards near the window, and someone strums a quiet tune on a flute.

A train steward in a crisp uniform walks up.

"Chai? Coffee? Something to eat?"

Yug looks to Sarla. She smiles gently and nods. "Chai for me."

Ghanashyam chuckles. "Make it three."

Peace. Humanity. A rare pause in the storm of war.

Ishaan stands alone, resting a hand against the cold metal wall. His knife leans beside him. He gazes out through the rear window, watching the rails vanish into darkness behind them.

His face is hardened but tired. His thoughts spiral.

"This... might be my last mission."

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a worn photograph—him and Vaidehi, smiling beneath a mango tree. He presses it gently to his chest.

"The money from this… it'll be enough. I'll take her far away. We'll build something. Something normal."

But peace doesn't come easy.

Ishaan's mind drifts to the battlefields behind him. Friends torn apart. Screams echoing in his ears. Then, one face rises above the rest—

Shaurya.

"He stood between the Asura and us."

A drop of water clings to the corner of his eye.

Not rain. Not sweat.

A tear.

"I will live for what you gave us, brother."

As the train thunders along, Ishaan stands quietly in the guard's van, one hand on the cold wall. He stares blankly at the rushing tracks, but in his mind—he's back there again.

[Past – A Fancy Hotel, Dimly Lit, Soft Music]

Ishaan is around eight, sitting beside his mother. She's dressed plainly, eyes scanning the room with quiet suspicion. Across the table, his father smiles too brightly. He pours three glasses of juice from a bottle he brought himself—insisting it's "a special one."

A woman sits a few tables away, alone, but keeps glancing toward Ishaan's father. He nods subtly back when Ishaan's mother isn't looking.

The woman wears a familiar necklace.

Ishaan's mother notices.

She whispers, "Isn't that the same one I saw in your briefcase last week?"

The father chuckles nervously, brushing it off. "Don't be paranoid. Drink up, both of you. Let's forget the world for a night."

[Later – Inside the Car]

They drive through an unfamiliar path. The car leaves the main road and swerves into a dark, forested area.

Ishaan fights the growing weight behind his eyes. His mother's head slumps. She tries to speak, but the words blur. The sleeping pills take hold.

The car stops near a broken sign:

"DANGER: Tiger Territory. Restricted After Dark."

His father opens the back doors slowly. The engine dies.

He whispers: "I just want to be free… You two wouldn't understand."

He slips out of the car and creeps away, hiding behind a tree.

[The Tiger Attack]

Bushes rustle. A tiger emerges, prowling toward the open car. Ishaan can barely lift his head. His mother is helpless beside him.

The tiger lunges. It drags his mother out.

She doesn't scream. She's drugged too deep.

Blood splashes onto Ishaan's face.

The tiger turns to him, growling, jaws ready.

[Shaurya's Arrival]

Before the tiger strikes again, a thunderous roar echoes. Shaurya drops from the trees like divine retribution, an axe gripped in both hands. He slams into the beast with primal rage, forcing it back.

He scoops Ishaan into his arms as blood leaks from the child's stomach, wrapping cloth around the wound.

"I've got you, Ishaan," he growls. "Your father won't win."

[Present – Back on the Train]

A thin stream of tears runs down Ishaan's cheek.

"He wanted to erase us, so he could live with her in peace..."

He wipes his face and looks ahead.

"But I survived. And I won't let another family be broken again.

[Past- after the tiger's attack]

"Ishaan lies bandaged in a small rural hospital bed, wrapped in pain but kept alive by Shaurya's relentless care. Each night, he dreams of his mother's final moments, her helpless eyes fading into the darkness of the jungle.

Shaurya trains him during recovery—not just physically, but emotionally. "Your pain is a weapon. But only if you learn to sharpen it with discipline."

[City – A Gated Bungalow]

Weeks after his release, Ishaan—now walking but limping—finds the address Shaurya gave him. His father's new home.

From across the street, through an open window, Ishaan sees him—laughing, relaxed. A woman he doesn't know is pouring tea into his cup. Her movements are soft. Intimate. She sits on his lap, kisses him.

Ishaan's fingers curl into fists. He reaches for the small hunting knife hidden under his shirt.

One stab. Just one. He'll never hurt anyone again.

But his mother's voice echoes in his head—gentle, firm:

"Don't ever become what you hate, beta."

[Police Station – Later That Day]

With trembling hands, Ishaan presents his testimony, along with the evidence Shaurya helped him gather—hotel records, the toxicology report, bruises, and photos from the tiger zone.

The officer listens. Then reads. Then stands.

[Courtroom – Few Months Later]

His father is handcuffed. The verdict is read: "Life imprisonment for attempted murder and manslaughter."

Ishaan doesn't smile.

Justice doesn't bring joy. But it brings silence.

[Echo Hunter Association – Training Grounds]

Years pass.

Ishaan walks through a courtyard where other warriors train against wooden Asura effigies. Shaurya claps him on the back, proud.

"You could've become a monster. But you became a shield instead."

Ishaan straps the hunter insignia onto his chest—an axe crossed with a watchful eye.

"I'll fight Asuras. But more than that, I'll fight the darkness in men.

"He found the Echo Hunters—the organization that had trained Shaurya—and joined them, determined to protect others from pain like his.

But pain followed him.

Until he met Vaidehi.

[Vaidehi's Past – Her Voice Echoes in His Mind]

"I wasn't supposed to be born," she once told him.

"My mother wanted a son. I was her third daughter. So she tried to abort me."

Her voice was calm. Hollow.

"But her elder sister stopped her. 'Give her to me,' she said. 'I'll raise her as my own.'"

So Vaidehi grew up thinking her aunt was her mother.

Until the night she caught her so-called "mother" in bed with her stepfather's friend.

She kicked the door in. Fury in her veins.

Her stepfather knew. But said nothing. He was... incomplete. Suffering from erectile dysfunction, he couldn't satisfy her or father a child, so he stayed silent. Helpless.

Vaidehi didn't.

She screamed. Told the whole house.

That night, her stepmother gave an ultimatum: "Either she goes, or I do."

Vaidehi left.

She walked into the night. Alone. Angry. Unwanted.

Until Ghanashyam found her.

[Back to Present – Rooftop of the Train]

Now, the wind brushes across Ishaan's face like the breath of old ghosts.

He smiles.

He has met someone whose pain mirrors his own. Someone who didn't break. Someone who didn't let betrayal kill her spirit.

He thinks of the first time she laughed near him. The first time she touched his hand without fear.

And the first time he felt hope in years.

"I don't know what love is," he whispers to the stars, "but if it looks like her... I think I want to live long enough to feel it.

"The wind howled across the train's metal spine, but Ishaan stood unmoving, eyes half-closed, caught between memory and tomorrow.

His hand drifted down to the inner pocket of his uniform.

Fingertips brushed against folded paper.

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

The letter.

The one he'd written in the dim light of his bunk a week ago.

A confession that refused to be spoken aloud — but flowed in ink, raw and uncertain.

"To Vaidehi," it began.

No poetry. No grand words.

Just truth.

Truth about how he had come to love her — not with desperation, but with reverence.

Like a prayer whispered at dusk.

Not because she was broken like him — but because she chose not to be.

Because even in a world of blood and betrayal, she laughed. She fought.

And because every time she looked at him with those fierce, tired eyes… he felt seen.

He planned to give her the letter once the mission ended.

Once they were safe.

Once they could finally breathe without monsters at their heels.

And maybe — just maybe — he'd ask her to marry him.

Not to fix anything.

But to build something new.

"I want to try," he whispered to the wind. "A home. With her."

His fingers tightened around the letter gently, like it held the promise of another life.

The rumbling train, the roaring past, the bleeding future — it all fell quiet for a moment.

Only his smile remained.

And the heartbeat of a man in love.

Above Ishaan, Shighragaami has arrived.

He stops above the guards' van.

Looks down.

Smiles.

His jaw unhinges just a bit—click.

And the wind begins to smell faintly of iron.Ishaan stood at the rear of the guard's van, eyes scanning the tracks lit faintly by moonlight. The steel rails blurred past beneath him, and the forest stretched out like an abyss beyond the train. The world was quiet — but not calm.

Something pressed against his skin.

Not wind. Not chill.

A presence.

His hunter's instincts screamed.

A sudden pressure crushed down on the van roof — like gravity folding inwards. Ishaan's hand shot to the knife on his belt. His breath caught.

He turned, eyes wide.

No one.

Nothing.

Then — snap — his senses lit up like a fire.

It was here.

He opened his mouth to shout, to scream for the others—

But a hand, cold and rat-thin, appeared from the void and jammed deep inside his open mouth.

Before his voice could escape, Shighragaami — the rat Asura — had already teleported behind him and shoved its clawed fist down his throat.

Ishaan's body arched.

His scream turned into a wet gurgle.

Then — rip.

In one swift, horrific motion, the Asura yanked out his tongue.

Blood exploded from his mouth like a broken dam.

His jaw slackened. His eyes rolled red with agony.

He stumbled, body jerking with shock.

Every inch of his being ignited in pain.

His skin felt like it was boiling.

Gasping, choking, blinded by his own blood, Ishaan roared without sound and drove his knife into the creature's neck — blind, wild, desperate.

But it vanished again.

Shighragaami teleported, reappearing meters away atop the train like a flickering shadow — watching. Waiting.

Ishaan dropped to his knees in the guard's van, hands trembling, face drenched in red.

His letter to Vaidehi fluttered out of his pocket, soaked.

His vision blurred.

But his rage — and love — refused to die.Blood pouring from his mouth, tongue torn and throat shredded, Ishaan refused to fall.

He wiped the red haze from his eyes, gaze locking onto the Asura crouched at the far end of the rooftop.

Shighragaami, barefoot and hunched, its limbs twitching with rodent-like spasms, stared with gleaming rat-eyes and a smile stitched from nightmares.

The wind howled around the moving train.

Steel groaned.

A storm brewed in Ishaan's soul.

With a scream that never left his ruined mouth, he planted his right leg on the metal wall of the van, grabbed the edge of the rooftop—and launched himself upward like a possessed beast.

In one seamless motion, he landed on the roof, blood trailing behind him in the air.

Both knives drawn.

His stance wide. Eyes burning.

Shighragaami twitched—then vanished.

CRACK!

A rat-fist crashed into Ishaan's ribs from behind — the Asura had teleported again. Bones cracked. Ishaan staggered forward—but didn't fall.

He spun and slashed.

Empty air.

WHAM!

A kick to his spine sent him sprawling.

Teleport. Punch. Vanish. Kick. Teleport. Elbow. Vanish.

The Asura was a blur of crimson speed, teleporting within a 3-meter radius, hammering Ishaan's body with inhuman strikes.

But Ishaan adapted.

He stopped reacting to the teleportation—he predicted it.

He closed his ruined mouth, wiped blood from his chin, and waited with blades loose in hand.

Eyes locked to the roof shadows.

Listening.

There.

A flicker in the corner of his eye.

He stepped into the teleport — and sliced up.

CLANG!

His left knife tore through flesh — blood sprayed across the moving rooftop.

Shighragaami hissed, leaping back, one arm now gashed to the bone.

Ishaan pressed forward.

Two blades. A sea of blood.

One broken warrior. One rat-born demon.

They fought like wild gods on steel.

Each strike, a scream in the metal.

Each teleport, a gamble.

Each slash, a promise.

Shighragaami disappeared again.

Ishaan turned — too late.

The Asura appeared inside his blind spot — and this time, slammed a knee into his face.

Ishaan's body lifted off the rooftop, twisted in the air, then crashed down, rolling.

But as he skidded across the top of the train, he didn't let go of his knives.

With shattered breath, he stood.

Shaking.

Bleeding.

But standing.

He raised one blade…

and pointed it at Shighragaami.

He couldn't speak.

But his eyes said everything.

"You'll die before I fall."Ishaan blocks the incoming punch with his knife—but the Asura's fist crashes forward like a boulder. The blade slices not Ishaan, but Shighragaami's own forearm, splitting it in two. The Asura lets out a bloodcurdling scream as black blood sprays into the night air, vanishing in the wind of the speeding train.

Shighragaami snarls and attempts to teleport—but Ishaan, with blood streaming from his mouth and fire in his eyes, lunges forward and wraps his arms around the demon's neck.

Teleportation blurs the world into streaks of color and shadow.

They reappear in mid-air over the train—and again vanish.

They reappear atop the guard's van—still entangled.

In desperation, the Asura grabs both of Ishaan's wrists, fingers crackling with malevolent force, and tries to rip his arms apart at the sockets.

Ishaan bites down on his bloodied lip, closes his eyes, and chants an ancient mantra.

Suddenly, divine sigils begin to burn into the Asura's flesh, glowing like molten gold on cursed skin.

With a howl, Shighragaami's wrists snap. Ishaan's twin blades fall from his broken grip.

The demon vanishes again—reappearing inside the guard van with Ishaan, now limp and barely conscious.

Shighragaami begins pummeling Ishaan's face with merciless blows.

With each hit, Ishaan's mind drifts further.

[Parallel Flashback — Dream with Vaidehi]

He is no longer on the train.

He's in a sunlit field.

Vaidehi is there, laughing, her dupatta flowing like wings. Ishaan holds her by the waist and spins her around. Her joy is light, pure, untouched by the world's horrors.

She stops him and says softly, "Close your eyes, Ishaan. I have a surprise for you."

He smiles. "What is it?"

"Just trust me," she says, placing her hand on his chest.

Ishaan closes his eyes.

She kisses him gently on the cheek.

[Parallel Reality — Brutality]

At the same time, in the real world, Shighragaami's punch slams into Ishaan's face — right where Vaidehi kissed him. Blood bursts from his lips.

[Flashback Continues]

She kisses his other cheek. He grins, eyes still shut.

Then a flurry of kisses, playful and warm.

[Reality Collapses]

Blow after blow shatters Ishaan's jaw, cheeks, and lips.

His neck cracks as Shighragaami's next punch lands.

[Dream]

Vaidehi holds his hand. The world is still.

"I love you," she whispers. "No more pain now."

[Final Reality]

Shighragaami drives his fist into Ishaan's gut.

Blood pours from his mouth as the Asura rips out his intestine and flings the end of it onto the van's railing, wrapping it like a grotesque rope.

He kicks Ishaan off the guard van — but Ishaan's body is caught midair by the loop of his own intestine, dangling over the tracks like a torn puppet.

[Last Dream]

In Ishaan's fading vision, he sees himself at a wedding mandap. Vaidehi beside him, sindoor on her forehead, her hand in his.

Then she is pregnant, smiling at him as he touches her belly.

Then she holds their baby, cradling it to sleep.

[Reality]

Blood streams down Ishaan's face like tears.

"I love you, Vaidehi," he whispers. "I'm sorry... I couldn't keep my promise…"

The tension becomes too much.

His intestine rips apart—

Ishaan plummets to the tracks.

Cut to black.