In his Koregaon Park apartment, Amar stood under the dim glow of a lamp, the humid Pune night pressing against the windows, city lights flickering below like distant stars. The God of Darkness, protector of the weak, scourge of the corrupt, had forged a task force of 70–80 contracted allies, led by Vikram Rathore, but The Messenger's warning—a vengeful Sound proxy training to shatter his shadows—urged haste. His bond with Darkness—a friendship, not servitude—set him apart from other proxies, their identities and motives a mystery, their world disconnected from his own. Ria's love and Uplift's impact anchored him, yet the need for a stronghold drove him. The Messenger's gift, a teleportation rune parchment, lay on his worn wooden table, its edges pulsing with an otherworldly light, both promise and enigma. Before declaring it his nexus, Amar resolved to test it, cautious of its unknown destination, his golden eyes narrowing at the weight of trust he'd placed in The Messenger.
He knelt, shadows coiling from his fingers like liquid night, tracing the rune's intricate spiral of interlocking lines and cryptic sigils onto the hardwood floor. The dark ink of his power shimmered, the rune glowing with a deep, obsidian hue that seemed to hum with ancient intent. Stepping onto it, Amar felt a rush, his form dissolving into a torrent of shadows. He reappeared in utter darkness, the air cool, heavy with the scent of stone and faint moisture, silence pressing against his ears like a living thing. "Why is it so dark?" he muttered, his voice echoing faintly. "Light." At his word, dim lights flickered to life, casting a pale, ghostly glow across a vast corridor—15 feet high, spanning 10,000 square feet—lined with endless stone pillars, their surfaces smooth yet etched with faint, weathered runes. No windows, no doors, just an expanse of grey stone stretching into shadow, the air thick with an eerie stillness that felt both timeless and oppressive.
Amar sent shadows probing, tendrils weaving through the hall like silent scouts. The space was empty, its walls unyielding, but hidden seams whispered of secrets. Probing further, he found a concealed door, its edges blending seamlessly with the stone, leading to another corridor, identical in size, then another—seven in total, some above, some below, connected by narrow stairwells carved into the rock. Each hall echoed the first: vast, pillar-lined, windowless, lit by dim, flickering lights that seemed to pulse with a rhythm of their own. One hall stood apart, its entrance marked by faded runes, their meaning lost to time, etched deep into the stone. Inside, Amar's shadows revealed a low mechanical hum—a small hydroelectric motor, its blades turning steadily, powered by an underground water source gurgling through hidden channels. The motor fueled the lights, its faint vibrations the only sign of life in this buried fortress.
Extending his shadows beyond the walls, Amar sensed the structure's isolation, entombed one and a half kilometers beneath the earth. Upward probes met layers of sand and rock—Rajasthan's desert, vast, unyielding, swallowing all traces of this place. No entrances or exits existed, no hint of the structure above ground. His shadows mapped the complex: eight interconnected halls, a labyrinth of stone, hidden from the world. The Messenger's gift was clear—a fortress, invisible, impregnable, a perfect base for the God of Darkness. Amar's golden eyes burned with resolve, his mind racing with possibilities: a nexus for his task force, a hub for his fight against corruption, a stronghold to face the Sound proxy's threat. He traced the faded runes in the marked hall, wondering who had built this place, what proxies of old had walked its corridors. The desert's silence above mirrored the purpose igniting within him, his shadows swirling with ambition, ready to claim this hidden gift as his own.