JACKSON MANSION...
UNDERGROUND – 8:59 PM...
The air was already damp as Rudra led the group down the narrow stairs, each step echoing off the cold, stone walls.
Goats bleated.
Chickens clucked nervously.
Tarun whispered,
"Why are there animals down here?"
"Taxes,"
Rudra replied.
"Jackson made the villagers keep him fed. Even in death."
They stepped through a narrow corridor into a room stacked with old newspapers, recent records, and the heavy smell of mould.
They now connected the dots; all the newspapers Mani brought were here.
Along with even more old ones before Mani was even born and started delivering newspapers.
"This isn't a basement."
Satya whispered.
"It's a museum of fear."
At the far end was a rusted door.
Rudra turned the knob—
Creeeaaak.
It was the underground prison.
Inside the underground prison.
It was empty.
Silent.
"____"
Until…
9:00 PM...
WHOOOOSH.
The air turned icy.
A thick fog slithered across the floor.
From the mist—
Figures emerged.
Six of them.
All dressed in tattered dhotis, chest cloths, turbans stained with blood and dust.
Each held long spears, glimmering under the dim lantern.
Leading them… was Durai himself.
A ghost with pride still burning in his eyes.
A half-lit cigarette between his lips.
Puff. Puff.
His eyes were glowing faint red.
Tarun and Rohit stood frozen, already having seen these ghosts once—
But it didn't make it any easier.
"____"
"____"
"____"
But for Satya and Veera—
This was another level entirely.
Eyes wide.
Legs shaking.
Words dead in their throats.
Satya's lips quivered.
"G-g-ghost—"
Veera just faintly croaked,
"Amma…"(Mommy...)
The ghostly Durai and his men noticed Rudra and others, too.
The ghostly rebels began to circle around them,
Their cold eyes inspect the outsiders in strange clothes, holding modern weapons.
One ghost pointed at them.
"British spies,"
He growled, pointing at them with rage in his eyes.
Another nodded.
Nod~
"They carry weapons. Strange ones. It's Jackson's new trickery!"
He turned to Durai.
"Let's kill them now before they report back! Through their pain, Jackson must quiver in panic."
Durai stared silently, taking a long drag from his ghostly cigarette.
"____"
The atmosphere thickened.
Then—
Rudra stepped forward.
Shoulders squared.
Eyes steady.
He raised his hand and pointed at himself.
"If you're Durai… I'm here for the same reason you died."
Everyone turned to him.
Rudra continued, voice calm yet sharp.
"I'm not Jackson's man. I'm here to kill Jackson. You want vengeance? So do I."
Durai didn't reply.
He looked Rudra up and down.
The ghost rebel's gaze was unreadable.
Then he flicked the cigarette onto the ground. It vanished into sparks.
He took a step forward.
Face to face.
The room was silent.
Everyone held their breath.
"How can we believe your words?"
Durai asked Rudra, not taking his eyes off him, if he was judging him.
"Sure, I will give you the answer to all your questions. For that, follow me to a place so you guys can understand clearly."
And Rudra started walking out of the prison while ghostly Durai and his men followed him out.
They arrived at the room where they saw newspapers.
The room smelled of damp paper, dust, and forgotten history.
Stacks of old newspapers and files towered like brittle tombstones.
Cobwebs danced in the faint lantern glow.
Rudra walked ahead confidently, the ghosts of Durai and his men trailing behind him.
Their spectral feet made no sound—
But the air grew colder with every step.
Behind them, Satya leaned close to Veera, whispering out of the corner of his mouth.
"He's talking to ghosts like they're long-lost drinking buddies…"
Veera gulped.
Gulp~
"He didn't even stutter."
Ravi, Tarun, and Rohit followed, more composed now—
But still stealing glances at the floating, translucent warriors just a few feet ahead.
Inside the newspaper room, Rudra paused.
He turned to face Durai, who folded his arms, still sceptical, his piercing ghostly eyes glowing faintly red.
"You say you want to kill Jackson. But how do I trust you?"
Rudra took a breath and pointed at himself.
"You want the truth? Follow me for five minutes. That's all I ask."
Durai exchanged glances with his men.
Then, with a curt nod, he signalled them forward.
Nod~
Rudra turned, opened a dusty drawer, and pulled out a recent newspaper.
The date, printed clearly at the top, read:
"11 July 2025."
Rudra handed it to Durai.
Durai frowned.
Frown~
"I can't read English. What's this meant to prove?"
Rudra gave a subtle nod to Veera, who grumbled but took out a small pocket mirror from his shirt.
Nod~
"Use this."
Rudra said, handing it to Durai.
"You don't need to read. Just look."
Durai took the mirror.
What he saw froze him.
His fingers trembled as he stared at his own face—
Pale. Hollow.
Etched in death.
A breathless silence fell.
One of Durai's men stepped forward, voice shaky.
"They're lying. This is British trickery."
But Rudra's eyes didn't blink.
He raised a finger and pointed at the mirror again.
"That's not a lie. That's your face."
Durai clenched his jaw, knuckles whitening.
His mind reeled. He looked again at the newspaper—
At the modern ink, the unknown year.
Then back at Rudra.
"How… how long have we been…"
Rudra spoke softly.
"You died in that mansion, Durai. All of you. Jackson shot you down like a dog."
"And for some cursed reason—maybe because of unfinished vengeance, maybe something deeper—you've been repeating the same night for decades. Trying to kill Jackson… but never succeeding."
Durai's men were stunned.
"____"
"____"
"____"
Some looked down.
Some clenched their spears.
Others turned to Durai, unsure of what to believe.
Rudra continued his explanation.
"But Jackson… he never died once. He remembers everything. Every trick, every ambush, every cry of pain."
"For him, this is just… a game. A daily event... And you're the pawns."
Durai stood still, breathing heavily.
Even in death, he felt the weight of the truth slam into him.
He looked at his men, then back at Rudra.
"So what do we do to end this shit?"
Rudra's answer was calm, but it rang through the chamber like a war cry.
"You killed Jackson. You, Durai. Not anyone else."
"And once he's dead… we raise the Indian flag. On that mansion's flagpole. Just like you promised your daughter."
Durai's eyes flared—
Pain, rage, and fresh memory of his daughter's death.
The flag.
His daughter.
The vow.
A long silence.
"____"
Then—
He dropped the mirror.
It shattered.
"Then tonight…"
Durai growled, gripping his spear,
"We end this British ghost's tyranny once and for all."
Durai's eyes narrowed, the smoke from his cigar swirling like a ghost from the past.
"First step…"
Rudra said, stepping forward,
"We bring Brit Lee—Surili—into our team."
The moment the name Brit Lee echoed off the walls,
Durai's entire posture shifted.
His jaw clenched.
His grip on the cigar tightened slightly.
"____"
"I still remember how I cracked that bastard's skull open with a dumbbell."
Durai growled.
"He might be Indian by birth, but in his head, he's more British than the Queen's corgis."
A faint chuckle escaped Rudra's lips.
Chuckle~
His eyes slowly drifted to the side—
Locking onto Veera.
Veera, who had just taken a nervous sip of water, froze mid-gulp.
Gul--
"____"
Rudra didn't say anything.
Just nodded at him.
Nod~
Veera slowly shook his head.
While in his mind, he was screaming.
'Nope… Nope… Don't call me. I'm not here.'
Tarun, standing behind him like a silent executioner, didn't wait.
With one sharp push—
"Thud!"
—Veera stumbled forward and landed right in Durai's arms.
The room went quiet.
"____"
"____"
Durai looked down at him, face to face.
Everyone else just… stared.
Rudra folded his arms casually.
"Meet Veera. Grandson of Surili. Aka —Brit Lee."
The temperature dropped like someone had opened a freezer.
All the rebels—
Durai's comrades, who had once died by Surili's treachery, turned grim.
Eyes flashed with old rage.
Knuckles cracked.
Weapons shifted.
Veera panicked.
"Wait! WAIT! I'M INDIAN! I LOVE BHARAT MATA! I HATE THE BRITISH! I—I—I VOTE! I PAY TAXES! I… I recycle!"
He wasn't even sure what he was saying anymore.
"Vande Mataram!"
He shouted, throwing up a shaky salute.
"I'll die for India, sir! Promise!"
Durai let out a smoky puff and stared.
Puff~
"____"
Then finally… he nodded.
Nod~
The tension broke slightly.
Only slightly.
He turned back to Rudra.
"So… what's the plan?"
Rudra's voice was calm, but sharp.
"We find Surili. Catch him alone. No tricks. No backup. He needs to see the truth for himself."
Durai exhaled slowly.
The cigar's ember glowed red like a warning light.
"Alone, huh?"
He murmured.
"Good. Been waiting a long time to have a private chat with that traitor."
Meanwhile,
Inside Jackson Office…
Jackson stood by the window, sipping from a crystal glass filled with blood-red wine, his one good eye gazing at the moon.
But something was off.
The moon looked different tonight.
Redder.
Bloodier.
Almost… like it was glaring back at him.
A British soldier, panting and stiff in his uniform, stepped into the room and saluted with practised fear.
"Sir! We have… an issue."
Jackson didn't turn around.
He simply raised an eyebrow, still staring at the moon.
"Speak."
"Some normal humans have infiltrated the mansion. The guards are searching for them as we speak."
That got Jackson's attention.
He finally turned.
"Infiltrated?"
He repeated, his voice sharp as broken glass.
The soldier gulped.
Gulp~
"Yes, sir. And… and Durai and his men have not yet attacked us tonight."
A long silence followed.
"____"
"____"
You could hear the faint tick of the antique grandfather clock in the corner.
Jackson slowly set his glass down.
His expression twisted into a frown.
"They always attack."
The air in the room seemed to thicken with tension.
After a pause, Jackson muttered coldly,
"Send word to Brit Lee. I want those intruders found before sunrise."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldier saluted again and rushed off.
Meanwhile, Weapon Garage...
Brit Lee—aka Surili—stood proudly before a group of new British guards, adjusting his specs and pacing like he was on a theatre stage.
"Now repeat after me, boys!"
He raised a pointer stick with dramatic flair.
"This… is… a pen."
The guards all mumbled in unison,
"This is a pen…"
Brit Lee beamed.
"Excellent! Next—My name… is John."
Before he could go further, a soldier ran up and handed him a message.
Brit Lee squinted at the paper.
"Find the intruders before sunrise…"
He read aloud, then scoffed.
With a dramatic spin, he tossed the paper over his shoulder.
"Let them come,"
He said, flexing proudly.
"If they think they can mess with Brit Lee, they're in for a surprise!"
He laughed.
He didn't know…
He was about to be kidnapped.
And in the most ridiculous way possible.
As Surili stepped out with his small team, the cold night air swept across his face.
The moonlight cast long shadows over the abandoned alleyways of the old military block.
His sharp eyes immediately caught a human figure walking calmly ahead, just beyond the torchlight's edge.
"____"
Something about the posture felt oddly familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"Quiet,"
He mouthed to his men, raising a clenched fist to halt them.
He motioned them to spread out, then crept forward—boots silent against the gravel.
What he didn't know was that the "human" he followed wasn't a random survivor…
… It was Veera, his own grandson, who planted deliberately.
Veera led them casually past a rusted-out barrack door.
As soon as Brit Lee passed a patrolling soldier—
He vanished.
But it wasn't magic.
It was precision.
From the shadows,
Rudra burst forth—
His hand clamped the soldier's mouth.
At the same instant,
Ravi surged from behind the door, blade gleaming briefly in the moonlight before plunging silently into the soldier's gut.
Not a scream.
Not a sound.
The body was dragged into the dark, and the door swung quietly shut.
This sequence repeated itself like a symphony of death—
Each guard picked off in utter silence.
Room by room.
Turn by turn.
Until only Brit Lee remained.
Still unaware.
Still following Veera.
He entered an old, flickering-lit room—
Eyes darting left and right.
Empty.
The "human" he was following was gone.
"Where—"
SLAM!
The door behind him shut with a jarring echo.
He spun around—
His instincts finally firing—
But it was too late.
Standing there, arms crossed and a wicked smile spreading across his face, was Durai.
Crack. Crack.
He flexed his knuckles, the sound like snapping bones echoing through the steel room.
"Been a long time, Surili,"
Durai said, voice low and gravelly.
"I've been waiting for this moment... let's catch up."
Brit Lee took a shaky step back, suddenly feeling the cold sweat at his temple.
But there was nowhere left to run.
After a few minutes...
Outside the room...
Only screams could be heard now.
Sickening thuds, bone cracking, the muffled cries of Brit Lee, once feared, now reduced to a howling wreck under Durai's fists.
Veera stood just outside, back leaning casually against the wall, his eyes closed, savouring the sound like it was a melody from his childhood.
A dark grin curled on his lips.
"That's for not writing the deed in my father's name…"
He muttered under his breath.
But just then—
A small hand reached from behind and snatched the whistle hanging from his neck.
"____"
Startled, Veera spun around—
His eyes widened.
Standing there, with an eerie calmness, was a boy.
Not just any boy—
He recognised that pale face, those ghostly eyes.
It was Jackson's son—
The child whom he had tried to mimic yesterday in the room he stayed using the kid's portrait.
Now returned… as something else.
And already, the whistle was at his lips.
"Hey… kid… give it back. That's not—"
PHWEEEEEEET!
The ghost boy blew it—
Loud and shrill.
Then again.
And again.
PHWEEEEEEET!! PHWEEEEEEEET!!
British soldiers nearby turned their heads.
One shouted,
"That's a distress signal!"
Another curse.
"This way—MOVE!"
Veera's heart sank.
The trap was perfect.
Until now.
He lunged forward, grabbing for the whistle,
But the boy danced away—
Almost playfully, the whistle still in his mouth, following Veera like a possessed fire engine.
"Stop following me, damn it!"
Veera growled, darting down, trying to find a hideout,
But the boy never lost him.
Back inside, the iron door creaked open.
Durai stepped out first, shaking his fists, breathing deeply.
Right behind him limped Surili—
No longer the arrogant Brit Lee.
His face was bruised, even though he was a ghost.
His clothes were torn and replaced.
Now he dressed like a rebel.
His British arrogance was beaten out of him.
In its place—
a broken man, repurposed for war.
On the other side,
Rudra and Ravi stepped into the hallway, assessing the scene.
Rudra nodded to Durai.
Nod~
"Is he in?"
Durai smirked.
Smrik~
"Fully converted. Might need a new jaw, though."
But before they could speak further—
A scream tore through the silence.
Ahhhhh!
Veera.
It was loud.
And real.
Not part of the plan.
Ravi turned.
"That's Veera!"
Rudra's eyes narrowed.
"Move!"
All three bolted toward the sound, boots pounding across the concrete.
Meanwhile—
On Veera's side…
The whistle's shrill echoes chased him like a curse.
Veera spun around, desperation rising in his chest.
The ghost boy followed, emotionless, his small lips pressed to the whistle.
That sounds—
It wasn't just a call.
It was a sentence.
From the alley shadows, ghostly soldiers emerged—
British uniforms faded, hollow eyes glowing with pale blue, their rifles lifted toward Veera.
Veera snarled and took a stance—
Recalling a move the so-called "Guru Ji" had once taught him.
A twisted, fake martial arts master who charged in lofty amount and handed out false confidence.
He still doesn't know his so-called Guru Ji is a fraud.
"Ha!"
Veera roared, lunging into a spinning kick toward one of the ghosts.
His foot passed straight through.
Nothing.
The soldier didn't even flinch.
Click.
Their guns rose.
"Oh sh—!"
In a panic, Veera reached into his pouch and threw a fistful of sacred ashes into the ghost soldiers' faces.
They flinched—
not in pain, but with their eyes covered in dirt.
Veera didn't wait.
He ran.
Hard.
To lose the ghost boy still trailing him, he began carving crude crosses into the walls, stones,
Even the dirt with a small knife—
Symbols meant to block or confuse spirits.
But it only slowed the boy down for seconds.
One by one, the ghost child casually walked to each cross and erased it with his pale hand.
Ashes dissolved.
Scratches healed.
The path is cleared.
The trail… led straight to Veera.
By the time the kid turned the final corner, Veera was hiding behind a drum, whispering to himself,
"Please go away… please just—"
PHWEEEEEEEEET!!!
The ghost boy blew the whistle again.
And again. And again.
Veera screamed.
Ahhhh!
Not just because of the whistle.
But because—
From outside the mansion—
The band he'd arranged for the celebration heard it.
Thinking it was the signal, they burst into rhythmic drumming, trumpets flaring in wild excitement.
BOOM-BOOM-TAK-TAK!
The sound echoed like war drums.
It confused everyone—
Even Rudra's team for a second.
And Veera…
Veera was running for his life, ducking ghost bullets, tripping over boxes, sweat drenching his face.
He finally saw an exit door—
His last hope.
But as he lunged toward it—
BAM!
It slammed shut.
Standing there, tall, massive, with skin burnt black and muscles like carved rock, was the Ghost of the Bladed Slave.
Chains rattled on his arms.
A massive hammer hung in one hand, blood still fresh from another century.
His milky eyes locked on Veera, and his lips twisted into a grin.
"For transpressing here… You pay,"
The ghost rumbled, voice like grinding stones.
Veera fell to his knees, nearly weeping.
"I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW YOU EXISTED, BRO!"
But the hammer was already rising…
**********************************************************************************************************************************************************
(Author's POV)
(A/N):
Thanks for reading the chapter!
Please give a review!!! And power stone!!!
Which will motivate me more?