Before answers could emerge, tragedy struck again.
Vikram Bose was found unconscious inside the library.
Poisoned.
But still alive.
The discovery came just after sunrise.
The National Library had barely opened when a junior archivist noticed a briefcase lying unattended near the eastern research wing. At first, nothing seemed unusual. Researchers frequently left books and documents while consulting reference materials.
But the briefcase remained where it was.
And a faint smell of spilled coffee lingered in the corridor.
Curious, the archivist followed the trail.
It ended outside one of the private cataloguing rooms.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, Vikram Bose lay sprawled across the wooden floor.
His spectacles had fallen several feet away.
One hand still clutched a folder filled with handwritten notes.
His breathing was shallow.
His skin had turned unnaturally pale.
The archivist screamed.
Within minutes, the library was in chaos once again.
Police officers rushed through the corridors.
Ambulances arrived.
Researchers were ordered to remain inside the building until every room had been searched.
For the second time in less than a week, the National Library had become the scene of a poisoning.
Professor Adrian Jones and Martin arrived just as paramedics were carrying Vikram Bose toward the ambulance.
Jones immediately noticed something familiar.
The historian's fingertips carried a faint bluish discoloration.
Martin saw it too.
"The stain."
Jones nodded.
"The same one."
Inspector Roy hurried toward them.
"He isn't dead."
Jones looked at Vikram carefully.
"No."
"The doctors say his pulse is weak, but he's still alive."
Jones glanced toward the unconscious historian.
"Then our murderer made a mistake."
"Or changed the plan."
Roy frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"The poison dosage."
Jones watched the ambulance doors close.
"If the intention had been immediate death, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Martin looked uneasy.
"So the killer wanted him alive?"
"I don't know."
Jones adjusted his spectacles.
"But I intend to find out."
The reading room where Vikram had been found was sealed immediately.
Jones began another meticulous examination.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
Books remained stacked neatly.
A fountain pen rested beside an open notebook.
The chair had been pushed back only slightly.
It looked as though Vikram had simply stood up...
...and collapsed.
Martin examined the notebook.
"It's empty."
Jones looked over.
"No."
Martin frowned.
"I don't see anything."
Jones smiled faintly.
"Use the ultraviolet lamp."
Minutes later the hidden writing appeared.
Unlike Dr. Sen's manuscript, however, the message consisted only of numbers.
Rows of them.
Carefully arranged into columns.
Martin copied them into his notebook.
"They look like coordinates."
"Perhaps."
"Or a cipher."
Jones nodded.
"We'll know once we find the key."
Inspector Roy returned carrying the forensic report.
"The same toxin."
Jones wasn't surprised.
"Aconitine."
Roy nodded.
"Nearly identical."
Martin folded his arms.
"So whoever poisoned Dr. Sen poisoned Vikram."
"Most likely."
Roy looked toward the empty corridor.
"Which means our killer is still inside the game."
Jones quietly corrected him.
"No."
"Our killer is still ahead of us."
The hospital placed Vikram Bose under constant police protection.
An officer stood outside his room.
Another guarded the intensive care unit entrance.
Roy wasn't taking chances anymore.
"If someone tried to silence him once," he said, "they may try again."
Jones agreed.
Late that evening, the doctors reported a brief improvement.
Vikram regained consciousness for only a few seconds.
Roy, Jones, and Martin rushed into the room.
The historian's breathing remained labored.
His eyes opened slowly.
They struggled to focus.
Jones leaned closer.
"Mr. Bose."
No response.
"Can you hear me?"
A faint movement.
Barely a nod.
Roy stepped forward.
"Who poisoned you?"
Vikram's lips trembled.
No sound emerged.
Jones remained calm.
"Don't force yourself."
The historian's eyes shifted toward Jones.
Then, gathering what little strength remained, he whispered a single sentence.
"The Master isn't one person..."
His breathing became irregular.
Martin leaned closer.
"What does that mean?"
Vikram tried to continue.
No words came.
Only silence.
His eyes rolled shut.
Alarms suddenly echoed through the room.
Doctors rushed inside.
"Nurse!"
"Increase oxygen!"
"Clear the room!"
Jones, Martin, and Roy stepped back as medical staff surrounded the bed.
Several tense minutes later, the chief physician emerged.
"He survived."
Roy exhaled.
"But?"
"He's unconscious again."
"For how long?"
"We don't know."
The corridor fell silent.
One sentence.
Only one.
Yet it changed everything.
They returned to their temporary investigation office inside the library.
No one spoke for several minutes.
Finally Martin broke the silence.
"What did he mean?"
Jones stood beside the window overlooking the rain-soaked gardens.
"I've been thinking about that."
Roy looked up.
"The Master isn't one person."
Jones nodded.
"Until now, we've assumed The Master referred to a single individual."
"The leader."
"Exactly."
Martin frowned.
"But Vikram disagreed."
"No."
Jones turned toward them.
"I think he corrected us."
Roy leaned forward.
"You think The Master is... what?"
Jones walked toward the manuscript resting on the table.
"The Order of Ashvattha has always emphasized continuity rather than identity."
Martin remembered the hidden message.
"'The Master remains among the living.'"
Jones nodded.
"We interpreted that literally."
"But perhaps we shouldn't have."
Roy frowned.
"Then explain."
Jones slowly traced the Ashvattha symbol drawn on one of the manuscript pages.
"Imagine an organization with no visible leader."
Martin listened carefully.
"Every important decision passes through trusted members."
Roy's expression slowly changed.
"A council."
"Or something similar."
Jones nodded again.
"The title 'The Master' may belong to the organization itself."
Martin's eyes widened.
"So anyone speaking for the Order..."
"...could be The Master."
Jones finished the thought.
"The Master isn't one person."
The realization settled over the room.
It explained centuries of conflicting historical records.
Different descriptions.
Different ages.
Different personalities.
Yet always...
The Master.
Martin whispered,
"So the Order never disappeared."
Jones answered quietly.
"It evolved."
"A hidden group operating in plain sight."
---
The theory changed the direction of the investigation.
Instead of searching for one mysterious individual, they now searched for connections.
Shared correspondence.
Financial records.
Academic collaborations.
Former students.
Library visitors.
Anyone linked to more than one suspect.
Patterns slowly began to emerge.
Several researchers connected to the manuscript had attended the same conferences.
Others had exchanged letters years earlier.
Most insignificant.
A few...
Deeply troubling.
Jones pinned photographs across a large evidence board.
Dr. Sen.
Vikram Bose.
Riya Mukherjee.
Professor Neel Banerjee.
Librarian Meera Dutta.
Thin strings connected one photograph to another.
Martin stared at the growing web.
"It looks impossible."
Jones smiled faintly.
"Good."
Martin looked puzzled.
"Good?"
"When evidence appears simple..."
Jones adjusted another photograph.
"...someone usually wants it that way."
---
The following afternoon, Inspector Roy entered the office carrying an evidence bag.
His expression was unusually serious.
"We've found something."
Martin immediately stood.
"What?"
Roy placed the transparent bag on the table.
Inside lay a small glass vial.
Jones examined it carefully.
"A laboratory sample."
Roy nodded.
"It contains traces of aconitine."
Martin looked confused.
"Where was it found?"
Roy hesitated.
"In Riya Mukherjee's apartment."
Silence.
Martin stared.
"That's impossible."
Roy produced another folder.
"It gets worse."
Inside were copies of library access records.
According to the electronic logs, Riya's identification card had entered both the manuscript vault...
...and the eastern research wing...
...on the nights of both poisonings.
Martin looked stunned.
"But she said—"
"I know what she said."
Roy interrupted.
"The records disagree."
Jones remained remarkably calm.
He examined every page carefully.
Then the evidence bag.
Then the electronic logs.
Finally he looked at Roy.
"When were these discovered?"
"This morning."
"By whom?"
"The forensic team."
Jones nodded slowly.
"Interesting."
Roy frowned.
"What?"
Jones placed the papers back on the table.
"I don't believe them."
Martin looked relieved.
"You think they're fake?"
"I think they're convenient."
Roy folded his arms.
"That's a serious accusation."
Jones looked directly at him.
"Consider the timing."
He pointed toward the board.
"We discover an underground chamber."
"We learn The Master may be an organization."
"Vikram survives long enough to contradict our assumptions."
"And suddenly..."
He tapped the evidence bag.
"...all suspicion returns neatly to Riya."
Martin nodded slowly.
"It is convenient."
"Too convenient."
Roy remained unconvinced.
"The evidence still exists."
Jones smiled faintly.
"So does invisible ink."
Roy sighed.
"You think someone planted it."
"I think someone wants the investigation to end."
Martin looked toward the window.
"If Riya is arrested..."
Jones finished the thought.
"The real conspirators disappear."
---
That evening, Jones requested one final examination of the evidence.
The vial.
The access records.
The security logs.
Everything.
He wasn't looking for fingerprints.
He wasn't looking for poison.
He was looking for something far more subtle.
A mistake.
Because in every carefully constructed deception...
Someone always made one.
Outside, another storm gathered over Calcutta.
Lightning illuminated the ancient walls of the National Library for only an instant.
Long enough for a shadow to move behind one of the upper windows.
Someone was watching.
Not the police.
Not the researchers.
Professor Adrian Jones.
The hidden network had begun to understand its greatest threat.
And somewhere beyond the reach of the investigation, members of the Order of Ashvattha were already preparing their next move.
The second victim had survived.
The first witness had spoken.
The conspiracy had grown larger.
And for the first time since Dr. Arvind Sen's murder, Jones was certain of one thing.
They were no longer chasing a killer.
They were confronting an organization that had spent generations perfecting the art of remaining invisible.