The two generals advanced no further. Their boots scraped against the dust as they stopped atop the outer wall, gazes fixed on the spectacle unfolding before them. Below, the ground was already crawling with swordsmen, hand bow men and spear men with a formation. And with their grim silhouettes standing by shoulder to shoulder, made it more into a breathless anticipation.
Then they saw them.
The Māṁsajīvin, two of them. Towering, grotesque figures, their skin stitched together from mismatched patches of pallid and bruised flesh. In their gnarled hands they held enormous spiked clubs, and now… those weapons were being locked together, one by one, in a hideous ritual.
Behind both of them, a strange ring, seven drums fused together by some blackish-pink sinew—hung in the air. The drums began to thrum. Not in any rhythm a mortal could understand, but in the cadence of emotions themselves.
First came the boom of fury, deep and cracking like a storm's first roar. Then calm, a low hum like the stillness before a flood. Then mad laughter, rising and twisting into something manic, until the air was trembling with their madness. The sound became a storm of feelings—hate, glee, grief, hunger, until no mind could tell them apart.
They raised horns; great, jagged things that seemed carved from bone and let loose a sound so loud it seemed to tear at the edges of reality.
And then the bodies began to move.
The demons nearby did not run away from them—no, it was far worse. Their bodies, or rather what remained of their cut pieces of bodies, began to drag themselves forward. Fingers clawed through the dirt, torsos flopped and spasmed toward the source. The spiked clubs… no… the vortex forming between them and that was pulling them in.
It was not a mere wind that dragged them; it was a hunger so deep it could make even a starving person forget their own hunger.
The air shimmered black, swirling like a living whirlpool. As the severed parts entered, their bones crunched - munnch - their flesh tearing with wet snaps and squelches, as though every noise of a slaughterhouse was being played at once. The remains twisted together into unholy shapes before dissolving into the vortex's spinning dark.
Above, the sky shivered.
The eyes began to open wider. Those vast, bleeding eyes that hung above the battlefield like the gaze of something ancient and cruel. The Hell Gates themselves were stretching, cracks spidering outward, and more portals began to split open in the air. From them poured rivers of blood, raining down in thick, steaming drops.
And through one such gate, they came.
Raktabīz. Blood-born horrors from the Fifth Hell, their skin writhing with veins that pulsed like molten iron. Each one carried its own echoing heartbeat, loud enough to shake the wallstones. They did not roar, they simply merged into the vortex, feeding it willingly.
The noise which was so deafening moments ago, now it was vanished inside the black core. Whatever went in did not return, not even as sound.
From above, fragments fell, pieces too large or too stubborn to be consumed. A stitched head, grinning with a mouth full of glass teeth. Fingers tipped with bone hooks. An eye, suspended in a knot of hair, spinning slowly as it hit the ground.
Blood poured freely now, pooling, soaking into the earth.
From that fragments tentacles grew. Thin at first, then thick, whipping and coiling, dragging themselves toward the living. Those that were pulled in vanished instantly.
And still—the Māṁsajīvin laughed louder with roar.
The generals could feel the pull on their own flesh now, the tug at their bones, the whisper in their blood telling them to step forward. Neither to fight not to flee, but to join in this grand feast.
......................
From the black horizon, something began to emerge.
At first, only a head, smooth and pale, like the reflection of a full moon in still water, pushed itself out of the vortex. But the sight was wrong. The surface was not cold light, it was flesh. The head was not round but elongated, its jaw tapering into an alien curve.
Then came the body.
The form grew as it climbed free from the darkness, swelling until it dwarfed the dome itself. Its skin rippled like a sea of corpses pressed beneath translucent ice. And its eyes… its eyes were the same as the great bleeding eye that hung above the battlefield—the Eye of the Moon.
If anyone dared to stare too long, they would see horrors hidden in its vast surface: hundreds—no, thousands—of human arms and torsos crawling across it, clawing for purchase as if trying to escape. Some slipped, falling endlessly into the void below.
Those who fell were worse than the ones still climbing. Their bodies bore the marks of fire, blackened and cracked where flesh had burned away. Only charred scars and smoking pits remained, yet they still moved and dragging themselves along, their eyeless faces somehow brimming with hunger.
The air grew thick with rot.
Then the two Māṁsajīvin moved. Their rings, those seven-drummed monstrosities, began to shift, to merge. A grinding sound like ancient stone splitting filled the air. The drumbeats became unbearable now, so loud they made the air ripple. The very Gates of Hell shuddered in answer, their cracks widening as if in pain.
From those widening wounds in the world, more Māṁsajīvin poured forth, their bulk swaying as they stepped into reality. The Raktabīz followed, each one dragging a trail of blood like a comet's tail.
And then the unthinkable happened.
The Māṁsajīvins began to merge with the black vortex itself. Their flesh twisted like melting wax, their roars shaking the sky. The air screamed.
From the walls, a roar broke through the madness:
"We will fight with Anaśravaṇa-yuddha! All soldiers—seal your second sense!"
The army answered with their own cry—
"rrrRRRAAAAHHH!"
Beyond the gates, the fight raged on. The monsters—those still able to move—threw themselves against the defenders. Warriors fought with every weapon and seal at their disposal: blades, iron staves, sigil-etched chains, bare hands glowing with runes. Some wielded talismans, some spat fire, others broke bones with fists like hammers.
But after the command, they began performing the mudra, shutting down their second sense. They had no choice. That day, no blood could be shed. For every drop spilled, a terrible law would awaken: the dead would burst apart, their scattered pieces writhing into new demons, feeding an endless tide of enemies.
So they fought differently, without killing, directly making them burn. Spears struck with their shafts, not their points. Warriors uprooted grass and soil, shaping them into makeshift weapons, igniting them with the White Tiger Holy Seal to burn the creatures into ash without spilling blood.
But the vortex began to grow, faster, wider - until it stretched larger than the dome itself.
Something vast emerged. The full loon rose, its pale, fleshy form pushing upward into the heavens. But before it could escape, something unseen - something that had been waiting above - seized it.
The sky itself split.
What held it was a hand—no, not a hand, but five nailed claws, each finger doubled into ten jagged talons. The skin was bloated and corpse-pale, glistening with black rot that dripped in heavy drops, sizzling when it touched the ground.
The swamp of Endless Decay had touched the battlefield.
The moon's great eye, once unblinking, now began to weep. Thick streams of blood poured downward, so heavy and constant that it seemed the earth itself would soon drown in a red ocean.
And then, worse still, the owner of the hand began to pull. It rumbled in pain...
The entire body of the loon was dragged upward, but it did not come alone. It was pulling pieces of the world with it; stone, soil, shattered buildings like a demon tearing a toy apart.
The black vortex screamed. The earth screamed. And above them all, the Gates of Hell opened wider still.
........................
But the creature did not set foot upon the earth.
He floated above it, his presence alone bending the air like a furnace warps steel. He gazed down at the loon, its pale body writhing in the vortex's grasp… and then, without so much as a sound, he swallowed it whole in a single gulp.
Silence clung for an instant, only for reality to twist again.
From behind him, another ring emerged, vast, coiling, and terrible, with same drums on them but now it was five. A loon wrapped itself around his body, but this one was not pale. It was black blacker than the concept of night itself. That time darkness seemed to drink the light from the air.
He turned his head slightly, the black loon's crown nesting against the monstrous head that belonged to him alone. And then he stared, not as a warrior, not as a god but as a demon appraising vermin.
His hands gripped a staff of bone, twisted and etched with runes that seemed to shift when looked at too long.
Malinākṣa.The Fifth Hell King had come in his full form.
From his back, the blackness spread. It swelled like a tide, and from within it, the real demons came crawling forth:
Raktapakṣa, wings dripping blood like rain.
Chāyāgrīva, its neck crowned with shadows instead of flesh.
Śṛṅkhalapakṣi, a bird whose wings were chains, each ending in a screaming skull.
Bhasmavihaga, born from the ash of a thousand pyres.
Niḥśabdasarpa, the serpent with no sound, sliding through the air as though the world itself moved aside for it.
Pratibimbarāvaṇa, the thousand-faced mirror demon.
Pūtanāraja, the king of corpse-breaths.
Bhasmabhūka, eater of the cremation ground.
Pratibimbakṛmi, the worm that eats its own reflection.
Niḥśabdaghōra, the silent horror whose silence kills.
They poured forth in a crawling tide, each dragging the stench of hell with them.
The two generals reached the last gate, their armor darkened by the blood-mist in the air. Seeing the calamity before them, they exchanged a single nod—wordless, absolute.
Then they ran forward.
"If we fall," one shouted, "remember! Not a single drop of blood must touch the ground! Never yield your post! Guard the dome even if it costs your life! Tell our families—we were born to protect it, we lived to protect it, and we will do so until our last breath!"
And they charged into the darkness.
Beyond them, a lone man holding a great bronze bell was laughing. His eyes were locked on Malinākṣa, and his voice rang with madness:
"Burn! Burn! Burn! Hell shall burn today! Heaven will perish today! Mortals and immortals alike shall fade into śūnya! Let destruction birth new evolution! Hail the great king! Hahahaha…"
The laugh froze as five flags, each of the same element, appeared around him. They spun, weaving a seal that dropped over him like a cage of flame. His body ignited, not with mortal fire, but with true hellfire, the kind that erased even memory.
Even as his flesh burned away, he roared:"No one will—"
The words died unfinished. His form did not fall to ash; instead, it dissolved into molten black and streamed straight into Malinākṣa's body.
The change was instant.
All the ghosts in the realm began to howl, a sound that rattled bone and soul alike. Animals - every creature, from vermin to predator - howled or cried as if the air itself hurt them.
On Malinākṣa's blank, monstrous face, five eyes burst open, each outlined by a curved mark, the five shapes linked by curling lines to form a star. From the star's center, a mouth split open - ringed with writhing tentacles.
His form merged with the black loon completely.
The loon's vast mouth yawned, shaping a giant red sphere of seething light. At the same time, Malinākṣa's new mouth formed a blue sphere, spinning with the same terrible rhythm.
Both orbs grew - larger, heavier, each pulsing with impossible power - until they touched, merging into a single sphere of swirling violet and crimson.
And then, with the force of worlds colliding, they hurled it straight at the dome.
..................................
The two generals did not descend to the ground.Instead, they walked upon the air, each step leaving ripples like stone dropped into still water.
From beneath their feet, seals began to bloom - one black, one white - burning with a radiance that pulsed like a heartbeat. The glyphs expanded, each ring widening until they eclipsed the battlefield below. Then, with a sudden surge, both seals shot upward into the sky.
From their light emerged two tigers one black as the abyss, the other white as moonlit snow. They mirrored their masters perfectly, even down to the glint in their eyes.
The generals raised their swords, crossing the blades in a sharp clash, and the tigers followed. Their roars rolled across the battlefield, shaking the very clouds. Then the great beasts charged, weaving through the air in zigzagging, spiralling arcs, tearing through demons like fire through dry leaves.
Halfway through their run, the two tigers began to merge, their bodies spiralling together into a single colossal form—the Heavenly Yin-Yang Tiger. It carried two fates in its twin halves: one that devoured, pulling all matter into itself; the other that destroyed, rending everything in a single roar.
But before it could strike, suddenly the dome responded.
From its heart, a beam erupted - pure, blinding, and absolute - an annihilation strike. The tiger met the beam head-on, roaring as its power surged toward the enemy. Everybody was on the tower were shocked to see it.
And then—impact...
...........................................
.........................................
She tightened the folds of the boy's clothing, her hands gentle yet firm, making sure the small seven-year-old was secure in her grasp.
With slow precision, she reached to her hair and drew out a single pin, holding it the way a scholar holds a pen before writing the first stroke of a final testament.
Then, with a flick of her fingers, she opened her hand. One became five—five hairpins gleaming like slivers of frozen moonlight, each fixed between her fingers as naturally as claws on a beast.
She closed her eyes for the briefest moment, opened them again, and spoke in a calm, even tone:
"Fate… it's not written by you, not by me, not even by the gods. It's written by every deed we have done. It holds a power more terrible than you can imagine. And remember this—we are only pieces on the chessboard in the hands of fate."
The demon in the jester's motley tilted his head, a cruel grin on his lips.
"Well, well," he said, voice dripping mockery. "I don't have time for chit-chat…"
He moved. She moved.
Two blurs in the darkness, one trailing laughter, the other carrying silence.
His hands whipped forward—two dark spheres spinning from his grip, their surfaces writhing. As they hit the air, their shapes burst, peeling apart into two howling spirits, their skeletal mouths open wide.
She met them head-on, flicking two pins with a speed that cracked the air. The pins struck—silence, flash, nothing. The ghosts dissolved into smoke, vanishing as though they'd never existed.
But through that smoke, he came.
The jester's figure cut an angle through the haze, his scythe gleaming with a wet sheen as he spun it low, then brought it upward in a killing arc. The curve of the blade glinted once, like the crescent of a black moon and then it was at her.
They would have collided two forces meeting in one fatal moment—But time… It was like slowed down.
The air thickened, sound became a distant echo. Their movements became clear, too clear, each muscle's strain visible, each strand of hair dancing in weightless suspension.
She twisted her body mid-motion, letting the scythe pass within a breath of her skin. In that same slow-motion moment, her hand darted forward.
Three pins, buried deep into his chest before his momentum could carry him past her. Her motion was fluid, deliberate, like the work of a warrior, someone who had fought a thousand battles in another life.
Her right foot touched down lightly, balancing her as she landed on a single leg. Then she shifted back, her heel pressing to the ground.
She raised her hands, fingers folding into a sharp, precise mudra. Her voice rang out, low but unshakable:
"Puṇya-jvālā; Śuddhāgnipāta."
The pins shuddered.
Lines of light burst between them, connecting into a blazing triangle seal. From its heart, yellow fire roared to life, fire of sanctity.
It surged upward through him, devouring his flesh with unnatural hunger. The jester screamed, his voice tearing the air, each cry more desperate than the last. His painted grin melted away into bubbling ruin.
The flames did not relent. They climbed higher, consuming him entirely until only blackened ash and the stench of burning remained.
Then, without ceremony, the fire collapsed inward, sealing itself as if nothing had happened, leaving only the faint afterimage of the seal drifting in the air, like the memory of a nightmare.
.............................................
The river lay silent under the veil of night, its black surface swallowing the moon's reflection with every ripple. She stood on the bank, her breath steady but her gaze fixed on the smouldering remains. Something in her chest stirred, not in satisfaction but an unshakable disquiet.
Her eyes narrowed at the charred figure lying before her, but the stillness felt wrong. Too wrong. A gnawing whisper in her mind told her this wasn't over but another one said to go, like it was over.
She reached down, gripped the limp form of Simal, and without ceremony hurled it into the dark current. The splash broke the silence, and the body drifted, bobbing once before being swallowed by the flowing black.
Her hand found the boat moored nearby. She stepped in, the wood creaking under her weight, and with one push of the oar she slid away from the bank. The paddle cut through the water with rhythmic strokes, but her eyes never stopped scanning the shadows. No one knew where she was headed.
Behind her, on the bank where the fight had ended, something twitched.
The waterlogged head of Simal floated back into view, its pale skin sagging, its hair slick and clinging like drowned weeds. Then, with a wet, tearing sound, black tentacles sprouted from the base of his skull, writhing like snakes desperate for air.
His jaw began to split, widening beyond human limits, bone cracking softly under the strain. From that yawning maw, a slick, muscular tongue lashed out, curling and twisting. It darted upward — and with grotesque precision, scooped out his own eyes.
The sockets bubbled, reshaping. Flesh squirmed as clustered eyes bloomed along the edges of his face, like pearls of madness glistening in the moonlight.
From the river's depth, the rest of his body rose. Bloated, half-peeled skin dangled in strips, exposing a lattice of twitching veins. With a sudden convulsion, the skin burst apart entirely, revealing the network of veins knitting themselves into new shapes. They lengthened, hardened, their ends sharpening into needle-like tips that dripped with black ichor.
The monstrous head floated forward, its tongue snaking down toward the chest of the headless corpse still staggering from the river. The tongue wrapped around the sternum, muscle fibres flexing, and with one savage wrench it ripped the heart free. The organ pulsed, steaming in the cold air.
Simal or whatever was left of him, leaned forward, lips splitting wide to devour it.
Then, in a blur, the tongue was severed.
A black boot slammed into the twitching muscle, sending the head spinning through the air.
The figure who caught it did so without effort. The pale yellow glow of the heart reflected in his eyes, though his expression was unreadable. He turned his gaze on the writhing monstrosity and spoke, his voice low, certain, almost disappointed.
"As I told you," he murmured, "she is different."
He glanced briefly at the heart, then to the shifting, snarling creature before him.
"That fool," he continued, his words laced with disdain, "made a clown of himself. He gave us nothing."
From the shadows at the treeline, another presence emerged — tall, cloaked, face hidden. The air around them grew colder, heavier, as if the river itself held its breath.
"What is the order?" the second figure asked, their tone sharp and unyielding.
The first figure didn't look away from the beast thrashing before him.
"Pursue."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
So, what will happen next? Who released the annihilation beam? Will their attack make any impact on it? Who are these people?And why do they want to hurt them?
To find out more, keep reading Nirbindra
To be Continued...