Chapter 4: The Forbidden Flag

A fierce wind whipped at the blue salwar, making it flutter noisily.

His hair streamed behind him, a lock escaping from the braid. The distant clang of temple bells seemed to accompany his next words.

Rohan looked down coldly and muttered, "Yamraj tells you your time is up at midnight, but you insist on jumping the queue and dying at eleven."

The line hung in the air, chilling. The juniors exchanged looks—one backing away, another clutching his locket, lips moving in a silent prayer.

The one with the lightest injuries struggled to his feet, shouting angrily, "Ananya, since things are out in the open, I’ll just tell you: bhaiya has long disliked you and can’t wait to finish you off. Hand over the junior didi’s Prakriti Suvarna Mani now, and maybe you’ll get to keep your miserable life!"

There it was—the real reason, spat out in anger. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.

When Ananya heard bhaiya’s name, her entire spirit trembled. Her fingers twisted the edge of her pallu, knuckles whitening as she remembered Bhaiya’s cold stare. Clearly, these words struck her hard.

Her lips parted, eyes filling with tears. For her, Bhaiya was everything—a guide, a guardian, a would-be husband. To be abandoned by him was worse than death.

If it were before, Ananya might have been heartbroken, then completely despaired, and handed over the Prakriti Suvarna Mani, saying something like—

Her voice would have quivered, "Yeh toh tum log ke liye hi tha." Self-sacrifice, always—like a tragic heroine in an old Hindi film.

This was prepared for you all along.

Moved by her own actions, hurting both body and heart.

If in the end she could die at bhaiya’s hands, that would be best. For a protagonist, to die at the hero’s hands is the greatest punishment for him.

But Rohan was not Ananya. His eyes blazed with something sharper, stronger—a sense of justice born from a thousand Bollywood dramas and real-life betrayals.

"Hand over the Prakriti Suvarna Mani!"

"Hand over the Prakriti Suvarna Mani!"

The group below shouted with all their might.

It was a chorus, ugly and insistent, echoing off the stones. Somewhere in the distance, a mynah bird flew away in fright.

Rohan dug at his ear, looking puzzled. "Strange, did I catch a cold? Why do my ears feel blocked?"

He delivered the line with perfect comic timing, as if this was all beneath him.

"I seem to hear someone say they want to enter my Narak Dvaj?"

The words hung in the air, ominous and unfamiliar. The juniors shifted, unease flickering across their faces.

As he spoke, a small black flag appeared in Rohan’s hand.

He drew a quick tilak on his forehead, murmuring a mantra his Nani used to whisper during power cuts. The flag shimmered with forbidden power, its silk edges embroidered with mantras only the oldest tantriks could read. The wind seemed to shrink away from it.

This was a forbidden banner—its aura overwhelming, truly extraordinary.

Three months ago, the ashram went to a forbidden area to train. Only the protagonist accidentally entered an ancient secret cave, obtaining a Prakriti Suvarna Mani and a forbidden black flag.

No one else dared go in, but Ananya’s kindness—helping a stray dog stuck in the rubble—led her to the cave. Fate, it seemed, always had a twisted sense of humour.

No matter one’s sadhana, swallowing the Suvarna Mani would instantly advance them to the next stage without any hidden dangers.

It was the sort of shortcut everyone secretly craved, but only Ananya, ever noble, would hold back—saving it for a future she still believed in.

The protagonist didn’t use it, planning to keep it as her dowry.

Dowry: the word stung, but it was reality. Even in ashrams, old customs die hard. She’d hoped it would make her worthy in Bhaiya’s eyes.

As for the black flag, it was refined by an ancient tantrik, designed to absorb souls. The protagonist felt it was too sinister and never used it.

Its legend was whispered about only during Choti Diwali, when children huddled together, half-scared, half-excited.

"Wha...what Narak Dvaj?"

"Do you take us for fools? That flag is shrouded in black energy—how could it be a Narak Dvaj?"

A sense of dread rose in their hearts, but they still didn’t believe Ananya would dare to act.

However—

Rohan didn’t want to waste words. He directly formed a mudra and activated the forbidden flag’s power.

He intoned a mantra, his fingers moving swiftly—mudras his grandmother had once shown him in stories, but here, they were real, terrifying.

The power of mantra surged. Beams of black light shot out, instantly piercing through their bodies. Even their souls were sucked into the flag.

"Arrey—!"

Within the forbidden flag, faint screams of misery could be heard.

It was a chilling sound, like the echo of distant funeral bells on an empty street after midnight.

If you don’t work hard at sadhana, you’ll become brothers inside the forbidden flag.

An old ashram saying, half-joking, half-true. No one would dare take it lightly again.

Everything happened too quickly—even Ananya hadn’t reacted yet.

Her spirit hovered, wide-eyed, unable to process what she’d just seen. "Itna jaldi? It’s really over?"

Rohan looked toward the main hall atop the peak. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a brass plate, pallu falling perfectly, steeling himself for the battle to come. "Let me see—who else wants to enter my Narak Dvaj?"

He straightened his pallu, chin lifted, eyes steely. Today, he thought, the story would go differently. Let the world watch—and learn.