They plunged into the heart of the ruined temple — stone corridors twisting like veins, lit only by dying torches.

The killer fled ahead, robes billowing, two loyal cultists guarding his back.

Jagendra, Nikita, and Arjun followed, bleeding, bruised, but unbreakable.

Every step was a war.

The two bodyguards turned to block the passage — machetes glinting in the dim light.

Jagendra didn’t slow down.

He slammed into the first man like a battering ram, grappling him to the floor. They rolled, fists and blades flashing.

The machete slashed Jagendra’s shoulder — a burning, searing wound — but he roared and snapped the man's wrist sideways with a sickening crack.

Nikita faced the second — smaller, faster — who lunged at her throat.

She ducked under the blade, coming up savagely, plunging the ritual dagger deep into his stomach.

Blood poured out like a river.

He gurgled once and collapsed.

Behind them, Arjun fought like a man with nothing left to lose — but a sudden glint of steel flashed—

One cultist, half-dead, drove a knife into Arjun’s side.

Arjun staggered, face twisting in rage and pain, but shot his attacker point-blank in the face.

Blood splattered the crumbling walls.

Jagendra saw it — the spreading crimson across Arjun’s ribs.

> “GO!” Arjun gasped, pressing his hand against the wound. “GET HIM!”

Jagendra nodded once, eyes burning.

No time to mourn.

They stormed upward — toward the final chamber.

The sanctum was a cavernous rotunda, its ceiling open to the blood-red sky.

In the center, a massive black lotus statue loomed, its petals stained with ancient sacrifices.

The killer stood before it.

Alone now.

He peeled off his mask slowly — almost reverently — letting it fall at his feet.

Jagendra froze.

It was DCP Pratap Pattnaik.

The high-ranking officer who had once praised Jagendra for his dedication.

The man who had assigned Jagendra the Sangha cases.

"You," Jagendra hissed, bile rising in his throat.

Pratap smiled — cold, terrible.

"You never understood, Detective," he said, voice echoing. "This city’s sickness is too deep for laws and bullets. Only the Lotus can purify it."

"You killed them," Nikita spat. "You butchered innocent people."

"Innocent?" Pratap laughed hollowly. "The women, the children… they were already tainted. Corrupted by this rotting world. I gave them release."

Jagendra’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles bled.

"You’re insane."

Pratap lifted a hidden blade from his robe — a twin to the ritual dagger Nikita held.

"Then come, Detective," he said softly.

"Let’s bloom together."

And then he attacked.

The fight was a maelstrom of violence.

Jagendra dodged the first wild slash, countering with a brutal punch that snapped Pratap’s head back — but the man moved like a serpent, striking low, cutting into Jagendra’s thigh.

Nikita circled, looking for an opening, blood running into her eyes.

Pratap turned the dagger toward her, slicing the air — she ducked, rolled, came up behind him — but he spun, almost sensing her, kicking her hard in the ribs.

She hit the floor, gasping.

Jagendra charged again, grabbing Pratap by the wrist — the two men grappling in the crimson-lit madness.

Flesh tore.

Bones broke.

Blood sprayed the cracked stone floor.

But Pratap was strong — too strong.

He drove Jagendra back against the black lotus, the dagger scraping Jagendra’s side, seeking his heart.

And then — Nikita struck.

Screaming, she plunged her dagger into Pratap’s back.

Not once.

Not twice.

Three times.

Pratap stiffened, breath rattling, blood flooding from his mouth.

Jagendra twisted free, seizing Pratap’s own dagger — and without hesitation, drove it straight into the killer’s throat.

Pratap staggered back, gurgling, clutching the twin wounds, crimson pouring like a river.

He collapsed at the base of the black lotus.

Dead.

Finally dead.

The chanting outside fell silent.

The cult, leaderless, scattered into the night like roaches fleeing fire.

Jagendra and Nikita stood there, soaked in blood, broken and breathing hard.

Above them, the first drops of rain began to fall — washing away the blood, the smoke, the sins.

Jagendra turned to Nikita.

"We ended it," he said, voice raw.

Nikita looked back at him, something haunted in her eyes.

"Or maybe we just survived it."

Either way —

they were alive.

But Bhubaneswar would never be the same again.

Not after the Lotus had bloomed in blood.