The smoky air of Mount Road was alive with whispers. A man stood nervously at the corner, handing over a bundle of cash to an informer dressed in torn khadi. The informer leaned close, muttering quickly:

“𝙃𝙚’s at trial today.”

The man froze. His heart skipped. Without another word, he shoved the remaining notes into the informer’s hand and darted back to his base.

[KALI’S MANSION]

The mansion wasn’t a single house—it was a fortress. A series of row houses connected to a grand palace-like structure, with a vast courtyard in the middle. It was more than a home; it was a kingdom.

He rushed inside, breathless, scanning the corridors.

“Where’s 𝐊𝐀𝐀𝐋𝐈?” he demanded.

“Upstairs,” came the reply, casual and cold.

The man didn’t wait. He stormed up the winding staircase, flung open the heavy wooden door—

And 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘻𝘦.

Before him, against a towering, jewel-studded window, sat a throne. High-backed, carved with dragons and lions, it dwarfed the two smaller chairs beside it. Upon that throne sat Kaali.

charcoal-black hair slicked back, a salt-and-pepper beard trimmed sharp, and eyes glowing like embers beneath half-closed lids. He wore a dark silk shirt, sleeves rolled, veins visible, and a heavy gold chain hung from his neck. In his hand was not a weapon, but a book—its cover read 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 . His long fingers turned a page lazily, as if the world outside did not exist.

“𝐊𝐚𝐚𝐥𝐢…” the man stammered.

No response.

“𝙆𝙖𝙖𝙡𝙞!” he shouted louder.

This time Kaali’s eyes lifted. A slow, deliberate turn of his head. His gaze cut through the man like a blade. With the slightest tilt of his chin, he gestured him closer.

Trembling, the man stepped in. He began spilling out the news in a rush, words tumbling over each other.

But Kaali raised a hand. A single, calm gesture.

The book closed. A silence heavier than gunfire filled the room.

“𝙒𝙝𝙤 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪?” Kaali’s voice was low, rich, dangerous.

“Uh… Kaali? I… I’m one of your men,” the man stuttered.

Kaali’s eyes narrowed. In one fluid motion, he pulled out his revolver. A thunderous crack filled the chamber as the bullet tore into the man’s leg. The scream echoed against the decorated walls.

“𝑾𝑯𝑶 𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑻𝑶 𝑨𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑺 𝑴𝑬 𝑩𝒀 𝑴𝒀 𝑵𝑨𝑴𝑬? Kaali thundered, descending from the throne in a single leap. His boots struck the marble floor like an executioner’s hammer.

“Even Aamir… even JD…” his finger jabbed upward, “…cannot look me in the eyes! And you—some street rat—think you can call me Kaali?”

The man writhed, clutching his leg, crying out: “But Kaali—!”

“𝙎𝙄𝙍!” Kaali roared, voice like a whipcrack.

The air turned to stone.

“From now on—Sir. Or else…”

The unspoken threat lingered, sharp as the smell of gunpowder.

The man trembled, clutching his bleeding leg.

“Speak,” Kaali ordered, his voice calm yet heavy with menace.

“I–I’m sorry, Sir…” the man gasped, wincing, “I was scared… I forgot my manners—ahhh!” He cried out as the pain seared through him. “But I… I got the news…”

Kaali’s eyes narrowed. His shadow loomed larger as he stepped closer.

“𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐑𝐀𝐌…” the man stuttered. “…he’s on trial today.”

For the first time, Kaali’s expression changed. His head snapped to the side sharply, like a predator catching scent of prey. The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, with a cold steel edge in his tone, Kaali muttered just three words:

“Call Aamir. Call JD.”

Deep beneath Kaali’s mansion lay the gold vault. The air inside shimmered with the glow of stacked bars, piles of treasure rising like a forbidden mountain. On those very bars, sprawled lazily, was a man.

Black vest, short curly hair, tattoo ink running down his right arm, a pipe between his lips—Aamir. He lay there with a half-smirk, eyes lost in the smoke curling above him.

“Mr. Aamir!” a guard called from the doorway, nervous. “Sir is summoning you… and he requests you bring JD with you too.”

Aamir frowned. Kaali never summoned without reason. Pushing himself up, he exhaled a long trail of smoke, brushing gold dust from his vest. Why so sudden?

He walked down into the party room, a den of music and chaos. In the center, shirt half-open, hair brushing his collar, cigarette dangling from his lips, stood JD. His strong frame swayed as he poured whiskey straight from a bottle of Jack Daniels, dancing and laughing with his men.

“JD!” Aamir called out. No response.

“JD!!” he barked louder.

This time JD looked over, a wild grin cutting across his face.

“Kaali Sir summoned us. Come on.”

JD’s grin faded. He tossed the bottle to one of his men and followed Aamir out, silence replacing the party music behind them.

They entered the throne chamber. At the far end, under the decorated window, sat Kaali—his presence towering even in stillness.

But they weren’t alone. A trembling man knelt before the throne, clutching his hands together.

“Sir, please… I didn’t do anything wrong,” the man begged.

Kaali’s gaze was sharp, his words measured.

“I received news. You rebelled against our syndicate. You tried to carve your own path.” He leaned forward, voice like thunder ready to break. “Now you shall perish… before you cause more damage, traitor.”

The man’s fear twisted into a smirk. He raised his chin.

“My men are loyal to me. More than you think, Kaali.”

For a moment, silence. Then Kaali leaned back on his throne—

And burst into a laugh so deep and powerful it echoed across the mansion walls.

The gold, the walls, the very air shook with his laughter.

JD and Aamir entered the chamber just as one of Kaali’s henchmen stepped forward. In his trembling hands was a phone. He pressed play and held it before the kneeling man.

On the screen, the traitor’s worst nightmare unfolded—his own men, the ones he had boasted were loyal, were burning down his company, looting everything, laughing as they betrayed him.

“No! Nooo!” the man screamed, agony splitting his voice. He clutched his head, his pride shattered.

Kaali threw his head back and laughed, a deep booming laugh that rattled the decorated windows. He rose from his throne, walked to the massive curtains, and flung them open.

Outside, the courtyard turned into a vision of hell—ten men hung upside down, each bound with thick rope, struggling weakly. Tied to them were giant glass containers stuffed with money, glittering under the dim light.

The traitor’s screams mixed with the muffled cries of those outside. Kaali’s laughter rolled louder, echoing through every wall of the mansion.

He turned, his eyes falling on JD.

“JD…” Kaali’s voice dropped, a dangerous calm beneath the storm. “It’s time.”

JD and Aamir looked at each other, shock in their eyes.

“Anna…” JD hesitated. “…which brand?”

Kaali smirked. His face hardened with memory, his eyes burning with something beyond rage.

“The day I fought him,” Kaali said slowly, every word heavy, “I swore I would never drink again… until his return. That night, I took one last sip…” He spread his arms wide, his shadow stretching across the throne room.

His smirk turned into a grin of fire.

“After thirty years… he’s back.”

Kaali roared—

“BRING IN THE 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄  !”

Kaali’s laughter faded into a cold silence. He walked back to his throne, pulled open a drawer beside it, and carefully placed something on the table.

An old 1980’s radio, dusty yet majestic, its knobs gleaming under the light. He turned it on—

🎶 “𝒱𝒶 𝒱𝒶 𝒫𝒶𝓀𝓀𝒶𝓂 𝒱𝒶…” 🎶

The crackling old melody filled the chamber, drowning out the screams of the kneeling man.

JD grinned wide, lifted the thick Powerhouse bottle, and tossed it across the room.

The heavy glass spun through the air—

Kaali’s hand snapped forward. Perfect catch.

He looked at the bottle as though meeting a long-lost love. His eyes softened for a moment, memories flashing like shadows of the past.

With a single tap, he hit the bottom, flicked the lid open, and raised it high.

Then—jugged it down.

The liquor burned, the fire lit inside him once more.

Aamir and JD burst into laughter, raising their own bottles. Soon, the entire room exploded into celebration—men dancing, pouring drinks, the old tune blaring louder. Smoke, gold, and liquor mixed into a feverish haze of power.

At the center of it all, Kaali sat, eyes closed, savoring every drop of the Powerhouse, like a king reclaiming his throne.

And in the corner, the kneeling traitor sat frozen, eyes wide in disbelief, watching the monster he had dared to defy.

Inside a damp, forgotten jail cell, a man sat shackled head to toe. Darkness wrapped around him, broken only by the faint glint of chains. His head hung low, his breathing heavy, like a beast caged too long.

The iron door creaked open. A guard stepped inside, baton tapping against the bars.

“Come on,” he muttered. “It’s your trial time.”

The prisoner opened one eye—cold, sharp, alive. He grunted, chains rattling as he stood.

This man… was Vikram Nayagan.

The last heir of the Nayagan Pariwar.

The man who once fought the monster.

---

The courtroom buzzed with whispers as Vikram walked in, heavy chains dragging behind him. He stood tall, calm, his face unreadable.

The judge cleared his throat, voice shaking the hall.

“Vikram Nayagan… thirty years ago, you were imprisoned for your crimes—not for what you did, but for what you failed to do. You let the monster run free. We spared your life then. But today… we cannot allow a single drop of your family’s DNA to roam this world. You shall die as the last of the Pariwar.”

The hall went silent.

Vikram raised his head.

A grin curled at the edge of his lips—calm, cunning, dangerous.

---

[Kaali’s Mansion]

A henchman came running, breathless.

“Sir! Sir! He’s there!”

Kaali’s laughter, echoing from the radio and the party, slowly faded. His eyes narrowed.

“Blow it up.”

---

[Courtroom]

BOOOOOOM!

The hall erupted into flames. Pillars cracked, glass shattered, men and women screamed as fire swallowed the chamber. No one knew who lit it, or how—it was as if hell itself had opened inside the courtroom.

---

[Kaali’s Mansion]

“It’s done, sir,” the henchman reported.

Kaali stretched out his hand. “Give me the phone.”

The device was pressed against his ear. All he could hear was chaos—screams, the roar of fire, people crying for help. He waited. He wanted one voice. Just one.

But instead—

The sound changed. Fists, bones cracking, men groaning in pain.

Kaali’s lips curled. His grip on the Powerhouse bottle loosened. For a second, it almost slipped from his hand.

Then the phone was snatched. A deep, familiar voice spoke, calm and deadly.

“𝘼𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙗𝙞𝙠𝙖𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙡𝙖.”

The word struck like thunder.

Kaali froze—then burst into roaring laughter, the sound shaking the entire mansion.

Because he knew…

𝚅𝙸𝙺𝚁𝙰𝙼 had returned.

Kaali’s laughter shook the walls of the mansion. In one smooth motion, he reached behind his throne and pulled out two Ingram MAC-10s, the classic Uzi-style beasts that spat fire like dragons.

The ten men hanging upside down twisted, their eyes widening in horror. From where they dangled, they looked down into the courtyard. A huge crowd of Kaali’s men had gathered there, waiting, watching, hungry for his next move.

Kaali turned to the kneeling traitor, who was now drenched in sweat, broken beyond words.

“Kanna…” Kaali’s voice rolled heavy, almost like a sermon. “This whole world runs on one thing—wealth. Everyone is loyal… everyone is faithful… until they’re shown gold and paper with a man’s photo on it.”

He crouched low, eye to eye with the man. His smile widened, cruel and certain.

“Look at you. Look at your empire. Crumbling to dust. By the very people you called loyal.”

The man shook his head, muttering in disbelief. Kaali leaned closer, whispering like poison.

“They weren’t loyal. They were just slaves… slaves who would slit their own brother’s throat for one more bundle of notes.”

The entire hall erupted in laughter—Aamir, JD, the henchmen. The traitor’s screams were drowned in the echo.

And then—

RATATATATATA!

Kaali raised both MAC-10s and unleashed hell. Bullets tore through the air, shredding the hanging men like paper dolls. The glass containers burst open, showering the courtyard in a golden storm of money.

The crowd below went wild. Like starving beasts, they clawed and trampled each other, diving for the notes that rained from the sky.

The kneeling man lifted his head, tears burning his eyes.

And there he saw it.

Not a man. A monster.

Kaali stood at the open window, guns smoking in both hands, his silhouette cut against the glow of falling money. Ruin and chaos danced around him, but he stood tall, untouchable, smiling—

the king of fire and gold.

Inside an abandoned building, a group of masked men sat in silence.

In front of them stood their leader, pointing to a board covered with photos — port containers, warehouses, shipping routes, all connected with red lines. But one thing stood out: five containers, all linked to a single photo… KAALI.

Leader:

“Out of ten containers, five already belong to him. If the rest fall into his hands, the legacy and heritage will be gone forever.”

One of the masked men raised his hand cautiously.

Masked Man:

“Sir… we’ve been fighting over these containers for so long, but no one ever told us — what’s inside them?”

Before the leader could answer, the room went cold.

The windows creaked open with a sudden gust of wind. Shadows danced across the wall.

A figure stepped in.

Heavy chains still hung loose from his arms. His eyes gleamed with fire.

The masked men froze.

The leader’s lips trembled.

It was him.

VIKRAM.

The heir of the Nayagan Pariwar.

The man the government declared dead.

Now… a ghost in their world.

Vikram (stepping forward, voice deep, steady):

“It’s finally time… I tell you the truth.

The year after Independence.

The government ran a secret operation — not against the British… but against the Nayagan bloodline.

The Prime Minister himself ordered it.

Every coin, every jewel, every piece of wealth we held… was to be seized. Not for greed, but to patch the wounds left by the British theft.

You see, the Nayagans were not like the common people.

They were royalty. Untouchable. Even the British couldn’t bring them down.

While the country suffered in chains… the Nayagans lived in palaces, in luxury.

They never raised a hand to free India.

And for that — they were chosen to be erased.

But before the bloodline fell… they made one last move.

They gathered everything — gold, diamonds, wealth beyond imagination, enough to rival the GDP of nations — and buried it.

Hidden… inside a temple no man could ever find.

But fate has a way of breaking silence.

Forty years ago… the temple was unearthed.

Destroyed. The treasure melted down.

And from the ashes of stone and gold… rose ten containers.

Containers that carried the legacy of the Nayagans.

Half are already under Kaali.

The rest… are what this war is about.”

(Vikram looks around, every masked man frozen in shock, their eyes widening as the weight of history crashes down.)

Vikram (voice sharp, cutting through the silence):

“You must be thinking… what good will this do for us, hmm?

Why are we fighting over some dead family’s line?

I’m not like the Nayagans.

They hoarded their gold while the country bled.

I… will take this gold and turn it back into fire for our people.

Because in this world… mercy is not given — it is bought.

(He begins pacing toward the board, his shadow falling over the kneeling men. The room tenses.)

People act like loyalty is in their blood.

But real loyalty… true loyalty…

only comes when someone shows them a piece of paper… with a man’s face on it.

(The masked men exchange uneasy glances, some nodding, some lowering their heads. The air grows heavier with Vikram’s words.)

Leader (voice trembling but loud):

“Boys… I’ve been leading you for long.

But the real one has entered.

From this moment…

WE ALL LISTEN TO HIM.

Am I clear?!”

The whole group (roaring in sync, fists clenched, eyes burning):

“SIR! YES SIR!”

(The abandoned building shakes with their voices, echoing like a war cry. Vikram doesn’t smile. He only stares at the board, the photos of Kaali’s containers, the past and present chained together. His silence is heavier than any word spoken. The fire has been lit.)

Vikram stands at the center. A single dim light above him, the men seated in silence. He speaks with calm authority, every word landing heavy.)

Vikram:

“Listen… after my release, Kaali blasted the trial room. The world thinks I’m dead. Good.

From now on—whatever we do, we do it in the shadows.

This is not a game, this is not a fight for pride.

It’s a war between us and him.

And no third party should ever be involved.

Remember… what we are doing is not for revenge.

It’s for revolution.

We may have to kill.

We may have to blast.

We may have to torture.

But never forget… they say one man’s Revolution…

is another man’s terrorism.”

(The men glance at each other, some nodding, some swallowing hard, the weight of his words sinking in. Then slowly, fists tighten, eyes sharpen. They are ready.)