They both sidestepped instinctively as the creature barreled past, a thunderous thud shaking the ground. Dust kicked up, grass bent in a wave—and then, just like that, silence.
Rudra exhaled through his nose, utterly unimpressed. “Geez,” he muttered, yawning mid-sentence. “I thought it was something big.” He waved a lazy hand toward the creature still snarling in the distance. “Deal with it, leprechaun.”
Riley blinked at him, scandalized. “Why me?” he groaned, stretching his arms like this was just another Tuesday. “You know I’m a very animal-friendly person.”
Rudra didn’t even turn around. “Yeah, that’s exactly why your kangaroo plush has a hole between its legs.”
“What—”
“Just kidding,” Rudra said flatly, dropping down by the campfire, brushing some ash off his coat. “Deal with it. You see my powers, as you know… are fire. And this is a grassland. I’m afraid.”
Riley gawked at him, pointing accusingly. “Stop making excuses! You’ve got that invisible slash thing too!”
Rudra’s eyes half-lidded with pure annoyance. “It’s an overgrown rodent, Riley. Why are you so aggravated?”
As if personally insulted by their nonchalance, the massive marmot reared on its hind legs, letting out a guttural roar that sent a shockwave through the grass. Its eyes blazed crimson, its fur rippled like molten tar—and for the first time, even Riley went quiet.
“…Mate,” he whispered, shouldering his rifle. “I think you pissed it off.”
Rudra sighed, rolling his neck. “Of course I did.”
The marmot shrieked.
The marmot’s fur began to split like a cocoon tearing under heat. What emerged from within was no mere beast—it was a Yaksha, horned and massive, with obsidian skin and veins pulsing gold like molten ore. Its eyes shimmered with a cruel sort of wisdom, the kind that had seen gods die and men reborn. The forest seemed to recoil around it; even the air took on the metallic taste of something ancient being remembered.
“Azaraputra Rudra… Seleneputra Riley…” The words rolled from its jaws like a prophecy dragged through gravel.
Riley froze. Seleneputra. His mother’s name carved into that monstrous tone like an insult. His pulse went jagged, throat closing in. “What the hell did you just call me?” he snapped, voice cracking somewhere between rage and disbelief.
The Yaksha only grinned wider, its eyes burning with ancient humor.
Riley turned sharply toward Rudra, jaw tight, hands trembling. “Why did it say that? Why my mother’s name? How does it even—”
Rudra sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if he’d expected this. “Putra means ‘son.’ It’s a form of address—‘Azaraputra,’ son of Azara. ‘Seleneputra,’ son of Selene.’ That’s how the mystic world names lineage—through the mother, not the father.”
Riley went quiet. Too quiet. The way his gaze drifted to the dirt felt like a relapse into something old and sore. “Figures,” he muttered, voice suddenly low. “Even the monsters remember her better than I do.”
The air thickened with an awkward silence, only broken by the Yaksha’s low, rolling laughter. “Ah, Azaraputra,” it said again, staring at Rudra, “and the child of the moon, cursed to crave the warmth he never knew. You both wear your mothers’ skin well.”
Riley’s hand twitched toward his weapon, but his face betrayed it—the brief flicker of hurt, the ghost of a boy who never got to finish saying goodbye. “What the hell does that mean,” he snapped, his voice trembling in spite of himself.
Rudra’s expression flattened, tone disarmingly casual. “He just means we look like our mothers. They tend to talk in this way—metaphorically.”
The Yaksha’s grin widened, tusks glinting with wet gold. “Then it begins.”
Riley frowned, turning his head just enough to glance at Rudra. “Begins what, mate?”
“Yakshas are riddling beings,” Rudra said, straightening his back, his eyes narrowing with a mix of irritation and intrigue. “You could say… like the Sphinx. Only hairier, and far more condescending.”
The Yaksha tilted its head, its voice rumbling like shifting tectonic plates. “Answer well, Azaraputra, lest your bones feed the plains. Speak truth, Seleneputra, lest you forget her name again.”
Riley’s jaw tightened. The name still rang in his skull like a bruise. “I’m starting to hate how this thing talks,” he muttered.
Rudra smirked faintly. “Welcome to mystic diplomacy. No one shuts up, and everything’s a test.”
The Yaksha circled them like a storm with legs, each step trembling the grass beneath their feet. Its riddles came sharp and rhythmic, old as the dust that clung to its fur.
“I speak without tongue, and I breathe without lungs—what am I?”
“Wind,” Rudra said, not even blinking.
The Yaksha snarled but pressed on. “What drinks but never eats, grows but never lives?”
“Fire,” Rudra replied again, his voice calm, flat, bored.
Riley folded his arms, watching like a spectator at a magic show he didn’t sign up for. “You’re really into this, huh?”
Rudra ignored him. “Next.”
The Yaksha grinned wider, its tusks catching the fading light. “Who was the first to dream of light yet was forever drowned in his own reflection?”
Rudra’s brow twitched. “Yaldabaoth,” he said softly. Then his voice hardened. “But don’t speak that name to me again.”
Something in the air broke—like tension snapping a string. The Yaksha tilted its head, amused. “Why fear the Demiurge, Azaraputra? Does his shadow still burn in you?”
Rudra’s eyes flashed, faint trails of heat shimmer rising from his skin. He stepped closer, gaze steady and venomous. “My turn,” he said, voice low. “Let me ask you one.”
The Yaksha straightened, chest puffed in pride. “Very well. Speak.”
Rudra leaned in, a slow cruel smile touching his lips. “How do you increase the weight of your brain by forty grams?”
The Yaksha frowned, thinking, claws twitching. “Forty grams… through—”
A gunshot tore through the plain, echoing like thunder. The Yaksha’s skull snapped back, golden ichor spilling into the grass.
Rudra exhaled smoke from his nostrils, lowering the pistol, tone almost lazy. “Simple. Add a bullet.”
Riley stood frozen for a heartbeat, then muttered, “Mate… remind me never to let you host quiz night.”
Rudra flicked the ash from his gun barrel, sliding it back into his coat. “Riddles are for the living. That thing forgot which side it was on.”
Riley stared at the Yaksha’s corpse, smoke still curling from the hole in its skull. He’d seen Rudra kill before—quick, efficient, without hesitation—but something about this one felt different. The silence after the gunshot wasn’t calm; it was thick, strangled. Rudra just stood there, shoulders rigid, the faint shimmer of heat still ghosting off his skin.
Riley took a slow step closer. “You alright, mate?”
No answer. Just that same flat stare aimed at the horizon, as if Rudra was seeing something far uglier than the blood soaking into the grass.
“...It’s about what happened seven years ago, ain’t it?” Riley finally said, his voice dropping low. “Yaldaboath. Operation Rateater.”
Rudra’s hand twitched. His jaw clenched so tight Riley could almost hear his teeth grind. “Don’t say that name again,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.
Riley’s voice trembled just slightly as he spoke, his rifle slack at his side. “You get that pissed every time someone brings it up. You’re not even mad at the demon—you’re mad at yourself.”
Rudra’s head turned, slow and deliberate. His eyes had gone darker than the sky above, pupils burning faintly like molten glass. The air thickened with heat, the grass at their feet whispering as though afraid to catch fire. “You don’t know what happened in Rateater, Riley,” he said quietly, but there was nothing calm in it—only the echo of something buried and venomous. “You weren’t there.”
Riley swallowed, but he didn’t step back. “No, but I’ve read the files. The whole operation went to hell. Millions dead. You walked out alone.”
For a heartbeat, Rudra looked ready to explode—then he exhaled. The fire in the air dimmed, but his voice was still made of ash. “One hundred twenty-five million,” he said. “Approximate count. Their souls tore from their flesh, and the bodies dissolved into dust.”
The wind howled faintly through the steppe, brushing against their faces like the ghosts of those he named.
Riley’s breath hitched as he pieced it together. “A human-made rapture…” he murmured, almost reverent, almost afraid. “It affected the whole South Asian subcontinent… and southwestern China.” He looked up at Rudra, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thankfully, barely anyone lived in western China. But that day…” He stopped. “That tragedy was named the Red Day.”
Rudra didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the horizon—haunted, empty, reflecting the sunset’s dying crimson. The same color, Riley realized, as the sky must’ve been that day.
After a long silence, Rudra finally spoke, voice low and toneless. “Sleep.” He turned away from the firelight, the faint shimmer of heat still clinging to his outline. “Also, I believe there are some insects here and there, so make sure to burn that paper…” He paused, frowning faintly as though reaching for a memory that refused to come. “What’s it called again?”
“Mosquito coil,” Riley muttered, still watching him.
“Right,” Rudra said. “That. Burn it. I don’t like being bitten by things smaller than my patience.”
He walked off into the shadows, leaving Riley staring after him—unsure if the man was joking or if that was just how he kept himself from breaking.
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