The blood from that night hadn't even dried on my knuckles.
I sat on the rusted roof of the abandoned sugar mill, black lungi fluttering in the wind, staring down at Bhairavpur. The village was quiet tonight. But I could feel it. The tension. Like dry hay waiting for a spark.
Sameer, my youngest dog, climbed up the steps behind me.
"Bhai... Zameen ka chakkar hai. Zamindar ke aadmi aane wale hain. Dus log."
I didn't look at him.
"Toh aane do. Gaav ki mitti ko thoda laal hona hai."
---
They came at noon.
Heat soaked the village like sweat on skin. Cows moaned. Crows circled. And the fields stood still, like even the wind knew what was coming.
Ten men on bikes. Gold chains. Hockey sticks. Machetes. Faces full of arrogance. They weren't here to talk.
I stood alone in the center of the chowk. Barefoot. Shirtless. Black lungi wrapped tight around my waist.
Not a word spoken.
"Woh kaala kutta kahan hai? Jisne hamara aadmi maara?" one of them yelled, spitting paan.
I stepped forward.
"Yahi hoon. Bhutta. Aaya hoon tumhara swaagat karne."
They laughed. All ten.
I raised one finger.
My dogs appeared. Maula. Gopi. Raja. Mani. Like shadows from behind walls. Weapons in hand. But silent.
The lead man, a stocky brute with a cobra tattoo on his neck, barked, "Kya re? Chaar kutto ke saath bacha ban gaya hai tu?"
I tilted my head. Then moved.
Faster than they expected.
The first man didn't even see the sickle until it was in his throat.
Blood sprayed like rain. His body collapsed, twitching.
Chaos exploded.
Two of them charged me. One swung a pipe. I ducked, grabbed his wrist, and snapped it like dry twig. The pipe dropped. I slammed it into his knee, then his mouth. Teeth flew. His friend tried to grab me from behind.
Bad mistake.
I flipped him over my back. Kicked his face into the stone.
Maula roared as he drove a crowbar into someone's gut. Gopi stabbed low, quick, efficient.
But the numbers kept coming.
Five left.
One grabbed a torch, swung fire toward me.
I stepped into the flame, unfazed. My palm burned as I caught the torch, turned it, and rammed it into his face.
He screamed. Skin melted. The smell of cooked flesh filled the air.
Three of them hesitated.
"Abhi bhaagna hai? Ya jala ke bhej doon?" I growled.
They charged.
Big mistake.
I dropped to the ground, leg swept two of them. While they fell, I picked up a broken sickle and jammed it into one's chest, twisted. He coughed blood.
The last one tried to run. I chased.
He was fast.
But I was Bhutta.
I tackled him near the well, punched till his skull cracked.
Ten came. None left standing.
---
We tied their leader's body to his own bike, dragged it through the village till his skin peeled. Then dumped it in the same pond kids used to play in.
Silence returned to Bhairavpur.
But now it belonged to me.
---
That night, I stood at the edge of the village.
Sameer, face pale, said, "Bhai... log keh rahe hain Bhutta koi insaan nahi. Woh shraap hai."
I lit a bidi, stared at the sky.
"Insaan ban ke kya mila kisiko? Shraap hi sahi... par abhi se yeh gaav mera hai. Aur kal se... yeh rajya bhi."
---