Monsoon was almost here.
The first rain had washed the dust of summer away, but the air still carried heat — unfinished, waiting.
Vaibhav sat at his study table, staring at a blank sheet of paper.
That statue.
The strange golden human figure outside the merchant's shop.
It hadn't left his mind.
There was something wrong about it.
Something… alive.
He began sketching from memory.
Careful lines. Metallic curves. Hollow eyes. The posture slightly tilted forward — as if it was always observing.
While drawing, a strange thought formed inside him.
Not greed.
Not curiosity.
Acquisition.
I want it.
The thought felt unnatural. As if the statue wasn't an object — but something incomplete. Something meant to belong somewhere else.
Then—
The black stone in his chest pulsed.
Soft. Heavy.
The graphite lines shimmered.
For a fraction of a second, the sketch lifted from the paper. A thin, three-dimensional golden outline formed above it.
A miniature statue.
Breathing.
Real.
Vaibhav didn't move.
He didn't panic.
He only watched.
Then the outline dissolved, falling back into graphite dust.
Silence returned.
Veere's voice echoed in memory.
"Your stone reacts to mine at an atomic level."
"The Black Stone adapts."
"It can replicate… even create… aspects of the Red Stone."
A thunderclap broke the sky.
Vaibhav looked toward the window.
"So even the clouds are restless…"
Rain began again.
Tip.
Tip.
Tip.
He stepped outside into the garden. Water touched the soil, releasing petrichor — soft, sweet, grounding.
For the first time in weeks, he felt still.
He sat on the damp grass and closed his eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
This is normal.
This is just weather.
Then something shifted.
A small instinct crawled up his spine.
He opened his eyes.
Across the street.
On the rooftop of the opposite house—
A golden statue stood.
Same design.
Same hollow eyes.
Facing him.
Watching.
His heartbeat slowed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
No.
Not here.
Not at my house.
His jaw tightened.
Before he could move—
The rain distorted.
Droplets froze mid-air.
A vacuum snapped into existence.
Heat surged outward, evaporating the falling rain before it touched the ground.
Steam spiraled.
And from inside that distortion—
Veere stepped forward.
Dry.
Untouched.
Fire bent around him like obedience.
At the same instant—
The statue moved.
Its arm shifted.
From its wrist, a thin golden spike formed. Compressed. Perfect. Sharp.
A bullet.
It fired.
Vaibhav didn't think.
His stone reacted.
A surge of Riddhox flared through his body.
Time stretched.
The golden spike cut through steam — fast, precise.
Veere moved.
The air cracked.
Reality folded slightly around him.
The projectile missed by inches, shattering the boundary between street and garden with a metallic explosion.
Fragments of gold scattered across wet concrete.
The statue didn't hesitate.
Its head tilted.
Observing.
Calculating.
Vaibhav stood frozen between them.
This isn't random.
This isn't coincidence.
This is a move.
A chess piece.
And I'm on the board.
Veere's eyes flicked toward him — just for a second.
A warning.
Then back to the statue.
The golden figure adjusted its stance.
More spikes formed along its arm.
Rain no longer touched the ground.
Everything evaporated before impact.
Heat against water.
Control against imitation.
Vaibhav felt it clearly now—
The statue wasn't fully independent.
It was linked.
A scout.
A probe.
Testing.
His stone pulsed again — deeper this time.
Not reacting.
Learning.
Adapting.
The air grew heavier.
Steam thickened.
The rooftop cracked under the statue's weight.
Veere stepped forward.
The ground beneath him scorched instantly.
The statue raised its arm again.
And the world held its breath.
Scene — Adjustment
Far beyond Sagar.
Beyond steam, rooftops, deserts, and hidden training grounds—
There stood a hall of white and golden marble.
Not a palace.
Not a throne room.
A hall.
Perfectly symmetrical. Balanced. Silent.
At its center rested a chair — not a throne — carved from luminous stone veined with gold.
This was the Hall of Unity.
Upon that chair sat a woman.
Beautiful — not softly, not delicately — but precisely. As if crafted, not born. Every strand of hair aligned. Every feature intentional. Every expression measured.
Her name—
Ira.
A whisper moved through the marble, unseen.
"She is one of them?"
Silence answered.
"Yes."
Ira smiled.
Not warm.
Not cruel.
Knowing.
Golden threads shimmered faintly around her fingertips — subtle, controlled, waiting.
And somewhere else—
A boy stirred in his sleep.
Scene Shift — Shourya
Shourya stood in the same marble hall.
White.
Gold.
Silent.
The chair.
The woman.
He felt like an intruder inside something sacred — or dangerous.
Then—
He woke.
Breathing steady. Eyes sharp.
"No way…" he muttered.
He sat upright and focused inward — on the green stone within his left eye.
This time, he didn't wait for pain.
He concentrated.
Slow. Controlled.
A thin wave of Riddhox slipped outward, trembling in the air before shaping itself into a human outline.
It looked like him.
A duplicate.
A projection.
For a few seconds, the replica stood there — unstable, flickering — but real.
Then—
It dissolved.
Shourya fell back against the mattress, sweating.
"That's actually fun…" he breathed. "But way too exhausting…"
A faint smirk.
"And the aftereffect should hit in ten…"
Right on cue—
Pain exploded through his eye.
Sharp. Delayed. Merciless.
He gasped—
But before the pain could settle—
The room distorted.
Corners folded inward.
Air collapsed into vacuum silence.
And from within it—
The Masked Man stepped forward.
No sound.
No flare.
Only presence.
Shourya blinked through the blur and forced a grin.
"Oh great. And Vidhaan, why are you here now?" he muttered weakly. "Just kidding."
The masked figure tilted his head.
Calm.
Measured.
"Evacuate from existence."
Shourya frowned.
"Wait—what?"
The man stepped closer.
His hand reached toward Shourya's face—
And pulled.
Not flesh.
Not bone.
Essence.
The green stone separated — not torn, but extracted.
Shourya's body froze.
Vision turned white.
For a split second—
He saw the Hall again.
Ira.
Watching.
Not surprised.
Then—
He was gone.
The room returned to stillness.
The vacuum sealed itself.
The air behaved as if nothing had happened.
Only one detail remained—
The faint scent of marble dust.
And somewhere very far away—
A golden thread tightened..
Chapter ends
FATUITY chapter 22