The sky was dimming into hues of orange and violet as evening took hold.
Om's boots pounded against the half-frozen road, snow crunching beneath him as he dashed toward the facility. The storm had slowed, but the path was still buried in a soft white blanket that made each step uncertain.
"Even with all this snow, my body's moving smoother than before," he thought, breath steady, eyes sharp. "I'm definitely stronger than most of them. But that's because of the enhancement… not me."
Suddenly—
"Master Om… Om!"
The voice echoed inside his skull like a distant whisper.
[Master, someone is trying to reach you telepathically.]
Om's eyes widened. He halted.
"Master Om—RUN!"
"What?" Om whispered, scanning the woods on both sides. "Who's there?! What do you mean run?!"
[Tone and frequency match the man we met outside the dining hall—'Vasu'.]
"Vasu…Mr. Narad's left hand…?"
That was all he needed to know.
"Zero, full scan. Assume the worst."
[Scanning… minor energy fluctuations in the environment. Unfamiliar resonance approaching.]
"If someone like Vasu is telling me to run… then someone stronger is coming."
He didn't hesitate.
"Zero, signal for help. And prep emergency measures."
Then he blasted forward with a crack of wind, pushing his body to its limits.
The snow parted around him, scattered by the force of his movement.
But halfway to the facility, in the middle of a forest clearing—
[Master. We are surrounded.]
He skidded to a stop.
"I know. They're hiding well in the snow and trees."
Clang! Boom! Shhht!
Sounds of combat echoed faintly through the forest. Not near him—but somewhere deeper, like a distraction.
Om narrowed his eyes. "No... they're not just waiting. They're already moving."
Suddenly—a black dagger hissed through the air.
Slice!
It cut his ear, just above the earring.
"What—!?"
[More incoming.]
Om flipped, twisted, and dodged—but even so, sharp pain tore across his shoulder and thigh.
They were toying with him.
And yet, no one showed their face.
[Estimated enemy count: 20. Strength: Rathi-class.]
"Twenty Rathi-class against me? This is an assassination," Om growled.
[Correct. Their distance, formation, and cloak discipline suggest trained assassins.]
[Due to poisoning: Estimated time before collapse: 1 minute 40 seconds.]
His heart pounded.
He inhaled.
Then clenched his fists.
"No more running."
BOOOM.
A surge of golden aura burst from him,
warping the air.
"I won't die like this."
He raised a hand.
"Seismic Drum!"
A glimmer of light appeared on his forehead, twisting into form—his weapon, the Seismic Drum, floating behind him.
With each beat, sound rippled outward in deep, concussive waves.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The snow erupted—clearing a full 40-meter radius around him.
And from the smoke—
They emerged.
Twenty enemies, clothed in black. Skull masks. Silent. Precise.
Then it hit him.
A wave of pure bloodlust.
His knees buckled. His lungs seized.
His golden aura began to flicker, shrinking in response.
[Stabilizing Mental Functions… success.]
He gasped and stood again.
"They're trained to resist sonic pressure. Even my drum… it's barely affecting them."
He exhaled sharply.
"Then let's see how they handle the sky falling."
"Ulka-Paatt."
From the darkened clouds, the sky split.
Streaks of red and orange meteors tore down like vengeful gods.
KRA-KOOM!
Explosions lit up the trees, fire and smoke erupting in every direction.
Screams. Two enemies were incinerated on the spot.
But the rest?
They leaped, dodged, adapted.
[Drum syncing with Ulka-Paatt: minimal casualties. 2 enemies down.]
"That's it?!"
They closed in. Fast.
Om slammed a hand to the earth.
"Grutva-Akarshan!"
The very ground seemed to shudder, as gravity intensified in a tight radius.
Ten enemies were suddenly slammed down by invisible weight.
Some struggled to rise, others knelt like statues under pressure.
But three slipped through the outer edge—still agile.
Too fast.
Om turned just in time to see a trident flying at him.
It pierced through his arm, pinning him to a half-broken tree.
He screamed.
Blood burst from the wound.
Still—
"Vajra-Kaya!"
His body shimmered into a metallic sheen— sanskrit character on his skin turning silver-gold, unbreakable.
But even indestructible metal could only absorb so much.
One enemy threw a whip laced with violet flames—it wrapped around his waist, the fire burning through his clothes and singeing the skin underneath.
He tried to move—but gravity was failing.
The enemies regrouped.
Like a single organism, they moved in sync.
Five circled him. Others launched attacks in rotation—projectiles, sonic blades, darts of cursed energy.
Even with his reinforced body, even with his speed—
They overwhelmed him.
Blood splattered across the snow.
His drum faltered.
Each pulse now came slower… weaker…
[Warning: Seismic Drum resonance falling below 20%.]
[Vital signs critical. Armor integrity 47%. Reaction speed dropping.]
Om fell to one knee, blood dripping from his mouth.
His hands trembled.
"I can't…"
"I can't win…"
An arrow struck him in the side.
A shard exploded at his feet.
He fell flat, coughing blood onto the snow.
[Master. You must retreat. You must live.]
He couldn't even speak. His vision blurred.
Everything turned red.
And then—
Suddenly, silence.
The assassins stopped. Like a command was given.
One figure stepped closer. Their mask cracked, revealing an eye.
Cold. Empty.
They knelt beside him, blade ready to end it.
But something held them back.
"…Message received," the figure whispered. "This one isn't meant to die yet."
"Just take the earring."
The blade stopped an inch from Om's heart.
Then all twenty disappeared into the snowstorm—silent as shadows.
Om lay there, breath shallow, snow settling on his torn clothes, his broken drum fading into nothing.
The sky above darkened fully into night.
He had lost.
But he was alive.
Barely.