Moments Before the Roar
The terrorists tightened their grips on the hostages.
The leader raised his voice — sharp, commanding.
"Stay back!" he shouted in broken Hindi. "One more step and we kill them all!"
The mother seeing her little daughter trapped in the man's arm broke. She wailed, hands clawing the air, body shaking like every parent's does when their child is in danger. Tears streamed down her face. Her cries cut through the smoke and dust louder than any gunshot.
The military line froze — rifles still trained, fingers hovering on triggers — but no one advanced. Hostage situation. Clear rules. They held position.
The leader lifted the handheld speaker again. His voice cracked through the static — slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
"We warn you… this is God's judgment. For the sins of this land… for forgetting Him… we will—"
THUD.
The ground jumped.
He paused. Eyes flicked downward.
THUD.
Again. Harder.
THUD.
Not an earthquake.
Something punching upward.
Something enormous.
People stumbled. More rubble fell from the broken gates. A child screamed. Someone fell and didn't get up right away.
Then came the sound.
A low, rolling grunt — not human.
Animalistic.
Deep.
Like a lion waking from centuries of sleep.
The growling grew louder.
Every eye in the complex turned toward the centre garden.
Raghav stood motionless in front of the cracked stone circle. Military personnel were only a few feet away, rifles half-raised, unsure whether to point at the terrorists or whatever was coming up from below.
Then they saw it.
Huge, tiger-like claws punched through solid stone — tearing the mandala apart like wet paper. Blue energy sparked along the edges of each gash.
A massive lion head began to emerge — mane rippling with electric-blue fire, eyes glowing the same calm, furious red.
Raghav looked down at it.
"Narasimha," he whispered.
A roar answered — earth-shaking, sky-splitting.
A gigantic muscular arm — pure blue energy — erupted from the broken ground and slammed down beside Raghav. The impact cracked marble in a perfect ring.
Soldiers rushed forward to pull him away.
He didn't move an inch.
More of the form rose — shoulder, chest, powerful torso. Then the full body.
Narasimha towered behind Raghav — taller than the temple spires, visible for miles. He settled, claws flexing, mane blazing.
For one long heartbeat, the entire complex went still.
Everyone felt it — not fear, not awe alone — but certainty.
God walked among them.
Narasimha calmed. His burning gaze swept the broken entrance.
Raghav took one step forward.
The lion mirrored him exactly.
The terrorists — distracted for a fatal second — lost focus.
The little girl broke free and ran toward her mother.
The terrorist noticed.
He raised his rifle again.
Inside the garden, Raghav sensed it.
He dropped into a classic V-shaped boxing stance — knees bent, fists up, body coiled.
Behind him, Narasimha mirrored the exact posture — claws raised, shoulders squared.
Outside, the terrorist fired.
The bullet flew toward the running child.
Military personnel dove forward — throwing their own bodies into the line of fire — but they were too late.
The mother threw herself in front, arms wide.
The bullet struck — and sparked uselessly against a sudden blue glow.
It ricocheted skyward.
Every following shot — from the leader, from the men on the walls — met the same shimmering curtain.
Bullets flattened, spun away, fell harmlessly.
The mother reached her daughter. Both collapsed together, sobbing, alive.
The military opened fire.
The leader took a round to the shoulder — staggered — fired back.
His bullets bounced off the blue field and pinged uselessly into stone.
Every terrorist still standing tried to shoot the crowd.
Nothing landed.
Narasimha roared once — deep, approving, final.
Raghav rose — just a foot off the ground.
Blue light poured from his bracers, racing across his body. The suit materialized in clean, glowing lines — chest plate, gauntlets, boots — until he stood fully armoured, radiant against the smoke.
Bright azure light flooded the entire complex — not blinding, but undeniable.
Raghav's voice cut through the chaos — calm, certain, final.
"I'm going to say this once."
Narasimha's roar answered — approval and warning in one breath.
"Kneel."
The terrorists looked up — at the man floating in blue fire, at the towering lion divinity behind him — and something inside them broke.
One dropped his rifle.
Then another.
Then all of them.
They knelt — weapons clattering to the stone.
Military forces moved instantly — zip-ties, shouts, swift containment.
Raghav closed his eyes.
He reached outward — sensing every trace of Soma still hidden in the complex.
He opened them again.
"Pitamah," he said quietly.
The old man's voice answered inside his mind.
"My men are already moving. They'll secure the injured… and every last drop of Soma."
A pause.
"Where is Kaal?"
Raghav looked toward the shattered main gate.
"Outside," he said. "Waiting for me."
Narasimha turned slowly.
His gaze settled on the unbroken statue of Lord Ram inside the sanctum.
He brought massive claws together in prayer — bowed his mighty head once — respectful, reverent.
The crowd — still stunned, still shaking — burst into spontaneous clapping.
Not cheering.
Something deeper.
Narasimha straightened.
He turned toward the ocean, took three long strides — each one shaking the earth gently — and stepped into the waves.
One final roar rolled across the water.
Then silence.
He submerged.
Raghav descended until his boots touched stone again.
He walked to the collapsed doorway — raised one glowing fist — and punched the rubble aside in a single, clean motion.
Outside, thousands of eyes saw him.
A man in radiant blue — glowing like a star against the night.
Military personnel gathered around him — not in formation, but in quiet awe.
One soldier whispered:
"Krish…"
The name spread — soft, reverent.
Raghav froze, his eyebrows rose slightly.
"What… why?"
Pitamah's voice came — dry and amused.
"Thank me, kid."
A short chuckle in his tone.
"Guess the world didn't need to end after all."
Raghav sighed — half-exasperated, half-relieved.
"No way."
"I know," Pitamah replied. "Now go."
Raghav looked across the complex.
His eyes found the little girl — safe now in her mother's arms.
He walked straight toward them.
The military parted without a word.
He knelt in front of the child.
"Hey, sweetie," he said gently. "What's your name?"
She whispered it — small voice, still trembling.
"Do you know me?"
"You're Krrish," she breathed.
He gave a small, bitter and tired half-smile and nodded.
"Can I take you to your dad? He's been looking everywhere."
The mother looked at him — eyes shining — then at her daughter.
She nodded once.
Raghav lifted the girl carefully.
She wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Do you like flying?" he asked softly.
Her eyes went wide.
He rose — slow, gentle — and flew.
Cameras flashed like stars.
He landed inside the temple, right in front of the father — still surrounded by paramedics.
The man saw his daughter and dropped to his knees.
Raghav set her down gently.
Father and daughter clung to each other — sobbing, laughing, alive.
More flashes.
Questions started rising from the crowd.
Raghav raised one hand.
The noise died instantly.
"My brothers and sisters," he began — voice calm, carrying without strain.
"I know what you're feeling right now. Fear. Pain. The loss of almost losing someone you love. I felt it too."
He paused.
"But don't let anger eat you from the inside. Don't let hate decide who your neighbour is. We are Bharat. Unity in diversity isn't just a slogan — it's who we are."
Quiet agreement rippled through the crowd.
"There will be people who try to twist what happened tonight. Who will point fingers at entire communities. Who will let fear speak louder than reason."
He looked straight into the nearest camera.
"Don't be them."
A soft wave of nods.
"The people who did this tonight weren't acting in the name of any faith. They were terrorists. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He turned slightly toward the Prime Minister, who had just stepped into view.
"Sir — do you hate every Muslim because a few carried guns tonight?"
The PM his old friend Mahen shook his head once. "No."
Raghav nodded.
"Then neither should we."
He looked around — at the mother holding her daughter, at the priests with folded hands, at the soldiers lowering their rifles, at ordinary people still wiping tears.
"I'm not a public speaker," he said, almost sheepish. "I'm not built for stages. I'm… incompatible with crowds."
Pitamah's voice murmured inside his head.
"You're bad-mouthing him."
Raghav ignored it and continued.
"But I know people will hear these words tonight. So hear this clearly: don't treat them differently. Not because of what happened here. There are Muslims standing among us right now — aren't there?"
A voice shouted from the back: "Yes!"
More joined.
"See?" Raghav said. "They aren't the ones who attacked us. Terrorists are. Nothing more. Nothing less. The moment someone takes weapons in the name of God, they leave every religion behind."
He looked at the Prime Minister again.
"Sir… if someone killed in your name, would you hate every Indian?"
The PM's answer came steady.
"No."
Raghav nodded once.
"Then let's remember that."
He paused.
"Kill me if you want for saying it — but I'll say what I believe."
He turned toward the shattered gate.
A figure stood just beyond the rubble — tall, cloaked in shadow, face half-hidden.
Mrityu.
He gave the smallest of smiles — not mocking. Almost… approving.
Then turned.
And started walking away.
Raghav watched him go for one heartbeat.
Then followed.
Blue light flickered around his feet.
He rose into the air.
Behind him — clapping swelled into cheers.
But he didn't look back.
The night still held one more shadow.