Hyderabad - March /1945:
A Nizam-ruled princely state, rich in culture and power. Political tensions simmered with India's impending independence.
The city, a Muslim hub, faced an uncertain future regarding accession. Opulence contrasted with poverty.
Among the bustling streets of hyderabad,
A man, his features obscured by a simple shawl, moved through the crowded streets of Hyderabad.
The city buzzed with a nervous energy, a palpable tension that hung in the humid air.
He walked with a purpose, his gaze fixed on a grand palace looming in the distance, its ornate architecture a relic of a bygone era.
As he navigated the throng, he caught snippets of hushed conversations, murmurs that spoke of fear and uncertainty.
The people spoke of assassinations, of Muslim royalties being systematically targeted in recent months.
A chilling pattern was emerging, one that suggested a calculated and ruthless campaign.
He paused, approaching a man with a weathered face and worried eyes. "Excuse me," he said, his voice low, "I keep hearing these whispers. What is happening?"
The man looked around nervously before replying, "Haa... It's terrible, sir."
"Murders. Royalties, all over India. They've already taken the Nawabs of Bengal, the rulers of Junagadh... gone."
"Now, it seems, they're targeting those here in Hyderabad. Before there were, The Nizam's Asaf Jahi family, the Paigahs, the Salar Jungs, and all the other high-ranking nobles... . And now, almost all are dead now, except the Nizam family itself."
A heavy silence descended, a suffocating blanket of dread. 'A cruel world indeed,' the man breathed, his voice thick with despair.
The man in the shawl leaned closer, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. 'The Nizam's palace,' he asked, his voice a silken thread, 'where does it stand?'
The man recoiled, his gaze filled with suspicion. 'Why do you ask?'
'I am a stranger here,' the man replied, a chilling smile twisting his lips, 'and I wish to see the last flame before it is snuffed out.'"
--Fast Forward---
The air in the Nizam's opulent study was thick with the stench of blood and fear.
Bodies lay strewn across the crimson carpet, each one a testament to the swift, brutal efficiency of the massacre.
The Nizam, his face a mask of terror, cowered behind his massive desk, his eyes wide with disbelief.
His once-formidable Razaakar guards, now mere corpses, lay scattered around him, their weapons useless against the unseen assailant.
The man in the shawl moved with a chilling grace, his movements a blur of motion.
Each strike was swift, precise, a symphony of death. He moved like a phantom, a predator stalking its prey.
The Nizam, watching in horror, could only whimper, his voice a pathetic croak in the face of this terrifying display of violence.
Finally, the man stood before the cowering Nizam, his face obscured by the shadows.
"Why?" the Nizam gasped, his voice trembling. "What have we done to you? Why this… this savagery?"
The man remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the fallen figures.
Then, in a voice that was a chilling blend of ice and fire, he spoke, "Vengeance."
The Nizam, bewildered, could only stammer, "Vengeance? For what?"
But his questions were cut short. The man lunged, his fist a blur of motion.
The Nizam's world exploded in a shower of blood and bone, his life extinguished in an instant.
The man stood amidst the carnage, his face a mask of cold fury, the echoes of the Nizam's last, terrified gasp still ringing in the air.
"Last one in this region," the masked man whispered, his voice a low, chilling rasp. "Now, only the League remains... the strongest Muslim power in this cursed subcontinent."
He wiped his hand, the crimson stain smearing across his palm. He had used no weapon, preferring the raw, visceral sensation of his enemies' blood coating his skin.
He walked out of the Nizam's ravaged palace, his gaze sweeping over the carnage he had wrought.
The hallways were a macabre gallery of death.
Some bodies lay with their eyes gouged out, empty sockets staring accusingly at the ceiling.
Others had their scalps ripped bare, their skulls gleaming in the dim light.
A few lay with their heads twisted at impossible angles, their necks snapped like brittle twigs.
But one grim detail united them all:
their tongues were gone, ripped from their mouths, a grotesque echo of his wife's final, silent scream.
Yes, this masked figure was Varun. He had become a force of brutal, unyielding vengeance.
He had systematically eliminated every person connected to the Muslim League and the Muslim royalty, leaving no trace of their power behind.
Men, women, children—none were spared his wrath.
He butchered them with a cold, clinical precision, his heart hardened against any flicker of remorse.
He was determined to eradicate every root and branch of their influence, to ensure that the horrors of the past would never be repeated.
He would leave no grassroot left to grow, even if that meant staining his hands with the blood of innocents.
The whisper of his vengeance was a storm, and he would not stop until it cleansed the entire subcontinent.