Rohan stood near the broken building. The dust was still in the air. He looked in the direction where Kadambari had been thrown.
That blast…
It was powerful. More powerful than anything he had felt before.
It came from Mahi.
Mahi slowly got up. Her face was full of anger. She held the knife tightly in her fist. She was tired and hurt, but her eyes were sharp.
Ravi had fainted. His body couldn't handle the injuries and the strong blast.
Mahi didn't wait. She started walking toward the darkness, looking for Kadambari.
But then she stopped.
She saw a body lying in the rubble. It was badly hurt. Blood was everywhere.
She moved closer, and her eyes widened in shock.
It was Rohan's body.
She turned around quickly.
Rohan was still standing behind her—alive.
She looked back at the body… then remembered what Rohan had said before.
He was no longer human.
He was now… a shadow soul.
Mahi turned away from Rohan's body and started walking back toward Raju and Sakharam.
Rohan, still watching her, spoke in a calm voice,
"How do you know Kadambari?"
Mahi stopped for a moment, then replied without turning around,
"I was following a murder case near the riverside. Inspector Suryavanshi was investigating it."
She kept walking, her voice steady, but her eyes filled with memories.
Rohan began to think deeply.
A murder case…
Then he remembered—something like that was shown in the news recently.
He looked at Mahi and asked loudly, "Is it the same one from the news?"
Mahi nodded slowly.
"At the riverside, they found a dead body of a 17-year-old girl. She was stabbed four times in the back."
Rohan listened carefully, his eyes fixed on her.
Mahi continued, "That was the tenth case. All were the same. Same pattern."
Rohan looked toward the darkness and replied,
"Kadambari… She also died the same way. Four stabs in the back. That's what the police records said."
Mahi walked over to Raju and checked his pulse, then did the same for Sakharam.
Then she looked at Rohan.
"What do you know about black magic?" she asked.
Rohan stayed silent for a few seconds.
He lowered his eyes.
"I don't know anything," he said quietly.
"I've never faced something like this before."
Mahi walked up to Rohan and looked him in the eyes.
"Can you go and bring the other two constables here?" she asked.
"We need to get everyone out of this place."
Rohan looked at her silently. He couldn't refuse.
Mahi added with a small smirk,
"Oh… and don't forget to tell Constable that there's one dead body too."
Rohan slowly turned his head toward his own body lying in the rubble.
His face showed quiet disappointment.
He didn't say a word.
Rohan stood quietly near the collapsed building. His eyes were still scanning the darkness, unsure if Kadambari was truly gone. The silence around him was heavy, the kind that comes after a storm—but not peaceful. It felt like the calm before something else.
He stayed alert, ready for anything.
Then, after about fifteen minutes, two constables arrived at the scene, running toward the ruins. They looked around, stunned by the destruction.
Rohan turned his head slightly and saw them—but something else caught his attention.
Mahi was standing a little distance away, near Raju and Sakharam. Her eyes met his. She looked tired, but calm.
He looked down at himself. His entire figure was slowly becoming blurry, like smoke rising in the air. He was fading.
The two constables couldn't see Rohan at all. They ran past him, straight to Raju and Sakharam.
Only Raju, weak and lying on the ground, turned his head slowly. His lips moved as he whispered, "Rohan sir…"
The constables glanced at him, confused. "What did he say?"
But Raju didn't reply. His eyes stayed locked on Rohan's fading form.
Rohan looked at Mahi.
Only Mahi and Raju could still see him.
And Mahi, with a quiet nod, accepted it.
Rohan's figure grew fainter and fainter.
Suddenly, Rohan found himself standing inside a dark, silent house.
There were no lights. No sound. Just an empty, cold air pressing against his skin.
He looked around slowly. The walls were cracked. The furniture was old and broken. Everything was covered in dust.
Rohan whispered to himself, "Where am I now? What is this place?"
His voice echoed slightly, as if the house itself was listening.
A soft fog began to rise from the floor. Slowly, it filled the room—thick and white—making it hard to see anything clearly.
Rohan took a step back.
And then… he felt something.
A presence behind him.
He turned around.
Floating quietly in the fog, just a few feet away, was a figure. A woman.
She was dressed in white. Her feet didn't touch the ground. Her face was pale and smooth but something was strange.
She had no mouth.
Only eyes.
Wide, calm, glowing eyes… staring straight into Rohan's.
She was the White Witch.
But Rohan didn't flinch. He didn't step away. He simply stared back into her eyes.
He was a soul now too.
He had no fear.
Rohan looked at the White Witch and spoke softly, "I died… but I saved them. What now? My purpose in life is over."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Then the White Witch spoke.
Her voice was cold, deep, and echoing—like the sound of wind blowing through an empty cave.
"The pact."
Rohan stared at her, silent. He didn't move. He waited.
The Witch floated a little closer. Her eyes glowing.
"You are now a shadow," she said.
"A soul… bound to your master."
Rohan didn't answer. He simply listened.
The Witch continued.
"It is your destiny."
Then slowly, she raised one long, pale finger.
She pointed toward a door at the far end of the room.
The door was closed, but faint light leaked from its edges.
Rohan turned his head and looked at it.
Rohan stood still, eyes fixed on the glowing door ahead. Without turning back, he asked quietly,
"That old man…?"
The White Witch replied in her cold, hollow voice,
"Your shadow. Your soul."
Rohan's brows tightened.
"Where is he now? How did he become… my shadow soul?"
Slowly, Rohan turned to face the Witch.
She gave the same answer again—her voice like ice.
"The Pact."
Rohan's eyes widened. His mind raced.
The Pact…
The meaning hit him hard. If that old man had become a shadow soul…
It meant he, too, was once a vessel.
A living person bound by a secret power.
A soul passed on through death.
Just like him now.
Rohan felt a chill pass through his very core.
He wasn't the first.
And he wouldn't be the last.
The White Witch stood still, her form floating in the thick fog.
Then she spoke again, her voice cold and deep.
"Something is wrong with my previous soul."
Rohan looked into her eyes, confused but curious.
"That old man… his soul didn't appear when I needed him the most," Rohan said quietly.
The Witch slowly turned and floated toward the door.
"It is the vessel's job to find the reason," she said, her voice echoing.
"And you, shadow soul… you follow the vessel."
Rohan walked behind her, still trying to understand.
"So what is my job now?" he asked.
"To obey the vessel?"
The Witch turned her head slightly.
"To save the vessel."
Then the door opened, and light from the real world spilled in.
The fog around them faded slowly, and the path ahead was clear once again.
Rohan stood still as the cold silence filled the air again.
He took a step forward and asked softly,
"What if that pact was never made?"
The White Witch paused, her back still facing him.
"Transfer... or transform the soul," she said in her deep, emotionless voice.
Rohan's eyes narrowed. He stared at her, trying to understand. His mind was full of questions—none with answers.
Before he could speak again, the Witch began to fade. Her form dissolved into the mist like smoke disappearing into the night.
Rohan was left alone in the fog.
He stood there, thinking hard. That word—Pact—echoed in his mind. What did it really mean? What had he truly become?
With heavy thoughts, he looked at the now-vanished Witch… then turned toward the open door.
Without a word, he stepped forward—out of the fog, out of the in-between—and back into the real world.
There were seven bottles neatly lined up on the bar table—each one different in shape, size, and color. Their contents shimmered faintly under the flickering firelight.
Just beyond the table, an old man sat cross-legged near a small wooden tent perched on a rocky mountain ledge. His long, thick beard swayed gently in the cold wind, giving him the look of a wandering sadhu—a mystic far removed from the world below.
He chanted softly, his voice raspy and ancient, while tossing herbs into a barbecue-style fire pit. Flames rose and danced in the dark, releasing clouds of smoke and a strange scent that mixed incense with something wild.
The ritual had begun.
Behind him, the wooden tent stood silent. But something about this scene—this place—felt like a door between worlds was being nudged open.