Rough hands yanked at Jagendra and Nikita, dragging them up the cracked temple steps.

The world blurred into shadows and snarling faces. Nikita struggled, landing a vicious kick to one follower’s shin, but another slammed a fist into her stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Jagendra fought harder — elbows, fists, knees — but they outnumbered him four to one. Mishra’s gun barked once into the air, and the cultists tightened their grip, driving Jagendra to his knees.

Ahead, the altar came into view under the decaying temple dome.

A grotesque parody of sacred rituals — blood-smeared stones, bones woven into garlands, the floor painted in a vast lotus sigil drawn in blood.

Candles flickered around the edges, casting long monstrous shadows.

And in the center…

He stood waiting.

The killer.

Draped in crimson and gold robes, face hidden behind a wooden mask carved into a screaming lotus flower.

In his hand, the ancient, jagged ritual knife gleamed under the candlelight.

The cultists forced Jagendra and Nikita to kneel before him. Chains clicked as they shackled Jagendra’s wrists to a rusted iron hook embedded in the stone floor.

Nikita remained unchained — but held tight by two masked followers.

The killer tilted his head, studying them.

Jagendra met his gaze, unflinching, defiant.

"You hide behind masks," Jagendra growled. "Cowards. All of you."

The killer chuckled — a low, wet sound like something breaking.

"You mistake reverence for fear," he said, voice distorted by the mask. "You think yourself a hunter, Jagendra. But tonight... you become the prey."

He turned toward Nikita, his hand reaching out.

She jerked back instinctively, but the cultists shoved her forward, forcing her down onto the blood-stained altar.

Jagendra roared, straining against the chains, muscles tearing, veins bulging — but they held.

The killer leaned closer to Nikita, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face with unsettling tenderness.

"So beautiful," he murmured. "So pure."

Nikita spat in his face.

The killer recoiled — not in anger — but in delight.

"Good," he whispered. "Fire is the final element of rebirth."

He raised the knife slowly, the blade catching the flickering candlelight.

The cult around them began to chant, their voices rising in a terrifying crescendo.

> "Padma jaag uth… Padma jaag uth…"

The killer pressed the cold blade to Nikita’s throat, a thin red line blossoming where the edge kissed skin.

Jagendra fought the chains, heart hammering.

This couldn’t be the end.

Not like this.

Somewhere, deep inside, Jagendra knew:

If they were going to survive, they would have to make their move now.

Or die as offerings.