The moon was no longer the moon.

It hung in the sky like a monstrous pupil, its sclera swallowed by darkness, its iris burning crimson. From that single bloodshot eye, blood fell in torrents, not like rain, but like a fountain that sprayed in all directions. Each drop sizzled when it touched the ground, releasing a sickly hellish scent that seemed to crawl into the lungs of anyone who breathed it.

The air was heavy. Too heavy to breath.

Every sound in the world had twisted into something vile, an unholy chorus that gnawed at the soul, making even the pure-hearted feel disgust for themselves. Somewhere in that cacophony, ghosts wailed in long, bone-chilling cries. Demons laughed in broken, high-pitched tones, their mirth as sharp as splintered glass. Yakshas, their fangs slick with gore, danced in frenzy—plucking heads from animals, then from men, tossing them into the air before biting into them like ripe fruit. Blood streamed down their chins, glistening under the cursed moon, and the ground below them turned as black as charred bone with every step they took.

That blackness was not mere shadow, it was corruption itself. Plants withered in an instant. Stones cracked. Wooden beams rotted. And worse, some living things… changed. Villagers too slow to flee began to twist and contort, their screams warping into guttural roars. Eyes bulged, nails thickened, skin split to make way for claws, horns, or tentacles. They were becoming part of the horde.

The horde that came running.

No, no they were charging towards it.

They moved as if fresh blood had been poured before them, their movements a hunger given form. No hesitation. No fear. Only the instinct to tear and devour.

Some were obscene parodies of life: bodies with no necks, heads embedded directly into their torsos, mouths lined with jagged teeth that gnawed even when nothing was between them. Some had nails longer than their own fingers, curling like rusted sickles. Others had no legs—only a head from which sprouted writhing tentacles, each ending in an eyeball that darted madly in different directions. And towering above the rest were titans, grotesque and misshapen, their frames larger than the tallest trees, each step leaving craters in the ground.

From every shadow, more crawled out—long limbs first, then glistening bodies that refused the shape of anything natural.

All of them ran toward a single figure.

A man.

Or something that once was a man.

He stood at the centre of the chaos, his entire form shrouded in a black cloak, a deathly aura coiling around him like mist from the underworld. In one hand he gripped a scythe whose blade seemed carved from night itself, edges dripping with shadow. In the other, a bell hung loosely—its chime was not heard, but felt, deep in the ribs, shaking bone and marrow.

The defenders had taken their positions.

On the towering stone walls, archers knelt, each movement sharp with discipline. They loosed their arrows in volleys, every shaft glowing faintly. Their tips dripped with Kuṅkuma, laced with the sacred Seal of the Tiger, etched with the fivefold elemental bindings—the Pañca Mahābhūta.

The moment an arrow touched a demon, the effect was instant—flames erupted, bodies split apart, screams cut through the night. Those struck in the air vanished mid-fall, their forms burned into crimson mist that bled into the moon's glow. Even those who dodged found no salvation. The arrows exploded mid-flight, bursts of light that tore through their ranks like miniature suns, erasing any trace of what they struck.

But still… they came. Like hell gates opened today, on that place by something.

The hell-gates had opened wide tonight, and the feast had only just begun. The tide of monstrosities surged without pause, as if the very earth was vomiting them forth. The walls shook from the pounding feet, the ground quaked beneath the endless weight, and above it all, the bloody moon kept watching, its pupil unblinking, its tears falling like judgment.

.........................

Suddenly, a roar tore through the chaos — "White Tiger Guardian Seal is open!"

It was like the heavens themselves had been cracked apart. The endless rain of arrows stopped mid-flight, their killing intent frozen in the air for the briefest heartbeat before they clattered harmlessly to the ground. Then, from the four farthest corners of the city, massive flags erupted upward, each one bursting from hidden mechanisms buried deep in ancient stone. The wind caught them instantly, snapping the silk like war drums in the air.

From those flags, a blinding surge of light leapt into the sky, each stream racing to meet at the zenith above the city. In the next moment, the currents of light bent inward, knitting together like the weave of a god's tapestry. And then it formed, a colossal blue dome, shimmering as if made of liquid sapphire, descending to wrap the city whole.

At the exact centre, where the Heavenly Tiger Statue stood upon its marble pedestal, a new eruption of power began. A single beam of searing white light shot upward from the statue's eyes, so bright it stabbed the clouds apart. One by one, the four corner seals bent toward it, their energy pulled like rivers into the centre until the dome was perfect, no seam, no gap, an unbreakable shell.

Then came another voice, booming from the heart of the city, older than stone, heavier than thunder: "All Five Elements Seals — OPEN!"

The dome shuddered. Around it, five colossal rings materialized, each a living embodiment of one Mahābhūta.

First came Vyoma; the sky itself, bending into a shimmering circle of pure emptiness, a vacuum that hummed like the breath between lightning strikes.
Then Marut the winds, screaming and whirling in a cyclone that wrapped the dome in invisible blades.
Then Kṣiti; the earth, solid and unyielding, its ring forged from mountains and rivers, its weight pressing down like the judgment of the ancestors.
And finally, the twin forces Āpa and Teja — water and fire — who refused to stand apart. They appeared together, spiralling into one another like two cosmic fish locked in an eternal chase, their dance so fast they blurred into a single stream of gold and blue.

As the five rings locked into place, their power bled together. The air warped, the ground trembled. The dome itself became an egg of creation, and from within it, something stirred.

A roar that split the sky, destroyed all nearby demons in small range.

The Heavenly Tiger emerged, its body forged from every Mahābhūta — fur like storm clouds, stripes glowing like molten gold, eyes burning with fire and lightning, breath rolling out as mist and wind. With each step, the earth cracked, healed, and cracked again beneath its paws. 

Then the order came, urgent and unyielding: "Civilians — get inside!"

Panic became a living thing. From the markets and side streets, people flooded toward the central plaza, their footsteps like the rushing of a thousand rivers. Mothers clutched children, merchants abandoned stalls, and elders leaned on trembling arms as they ran. The sound was deafening, the shouts, the pounding feet, the clanging of dropped weapons.

But this was not mere evacuation, it was also a hunt. The guards, clad in full battle armour, moved through the crowd with predatory precision. Their eyes missed nothing. Any movement too fast, any step out of rhythm, any glint of hidden steel, and they struck. Captures were swift and merciless, the guilty plucked from the mass like eagles tearing prey from the sky.

To be Continued...