The room smelled of blood and incense.

Faint candlelight flickered along the cracked walls of the abandoned clinic he called his sanctuary. In the center of the floor, surrounded by a perfect ring of salt and ash, sat the Offering—a crude altar made of broken stone, rusted chains, and tattered prayer flags.

The killer knelt before it, naked to the waist, body scarred with old rituals and fresh devotion. His hands moved methodically, preparing the final pieces.

Seven lotus flowers, each dipped in ash, placed carefully around the altar.

Seven candles, each anointed with the blood of previous victims.

Seven names, written on rotting parchment, burned into the offering pit.

All except the last.

He picked up the final parchment.

Nikita Rao.

His fingers caressed the name, almost tenderly. She wasn’t like the others. She was the catalyst—the flame that refused to die. It made her precious. It made her essential.

Without her, the rebirth would be incomplete.

He placed the parchment in the center of the altar, on top of the final lotus.

Behind him, shadows shifted. Followers in masks—some shivering in excitement, others already drunk on ritualistic drugs—watched in silent reverence.

He spoke, voice low, cracked:

> "The city is sick.

She is the cure.

Through her blood, the Lotus shall bloom again."

They chanted softly, the words growing louder, filling the air like a poison.

> "Padma jaag uth… Padma jaag uth…"

The killer rose, draping a ceremonial shawl across his shoulders. From a nearby table, he lifted an ancient blade, its surface etched with symbols too old for language.

Tomorrow night would be the harvest.

The final night.

Nikita Rao would walk into his arms.

And Bhubaneswar would awaken under a new god.