Chapter 1:
Chapter 1 The Devil Comes
The Last Prayer Part 1 : Send Us the Devil
Dhaara should have been beautiful. The river’s mist rises each dawn like white veils across black hills. The soil is rich, the forests lush, the horizon painted in fire by sunsets that bleed into the water. From a distance, Dhaara looks like paradise.
But up close, it reeks of hell.
The diamond mines tear open the earth like old wounds, bleeding dust and ash into the river. The banks are lined with corpses buried in shallow pits—men who dug until their lungs collapsed, women who defied their overseers, children who never lived long enough to become slaves. The vultures circle low, fat and slow from the feast. Even the river runs red when the rains wash the blood-soaked earth downstream.
The Lords call it wealth.The slaves call it a curse.
Every dawn, the mines echo with the crack of whips. Overseers ride horses along the pits, their boots polished with the sweat of dying men. Shackled workers are forced into the earth before the sun is high, crawling into tunnels no wider than coffins. Their nails tear. Their backs split. Their lungs choke on stone dust. If one dies, his body is dragged out like discarded meat, and another is shoved in.
The diamonds they pull out sparkle in the light, sharp and pure—stones worth kingdoms. But those who dig them out will never touch gold, never taste freedom. They will die choking on the very dust that made the Lords rich.
And as if the mines weren’t enough, there are the women. At dusk, soldiers raid the huts at the edge of the pits, taking daughters for the Lords’ “pleasure feasts.” The screams echo across Dhaara each night until they fade into silence. Mothers weep into their palms, fathers clench fists around shovels they dare not raise. To resist is to die. To speak is to vanish.
Generations have lived this way. Generations have died this way.
In Dhaara, even hope has been outlawed.
Yet, in secret, the people tell stories. They whisper in the dark when the overseers sleep, stories they’ve passed down like forbidden scripture. Stories not of kings or gods—for those abandoned them long ago.
"If no savior comes," they whisper, "then let the Devil rise."
It is not a prayer for mercy. It is a promise of vengeance. They imagine a man forged in the mines themselves—hard as stone, merciless as fire, carrying weapons instead of blessings. A shadow that will tear the Lords from their thrones and bury them in the same earth they poisoned.
Children listen wide-eyed, trembling, wondering if the Devil is a hero or a monster. Mothers hush them, saying only: “Pray he comes, or you will die waiting for angels.”
And so Dhaara waits.
The Krishna River runs past like time itself, carrying away the bones of the forgotten. The mines continue to swallow lives. The Lords grow fat on blood. The people bury their dead and whisper their myth.
But tonight… the myth begins to walk.
Somewhere beyond the hills, the sound of boots crushes gravel. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Each step carries the weight of inevitability, like thunder rolling before a storm. The land itself seems to shiver, as if it knows.
For centuries Dhaara has been ruled by chains and fire.But tonight, a darker power comes to claim it.
The people asked for no savior.They asked for the Devil.
And the Devil is coming.
The sun dipped below the horizon, staining the Krishna River crimson. Dhaara’s nights were worse than its days—when work ended, punishments began. Fires lit the hilltops where the Lords drank and laughed, their fortress-palaces glowing like fangs above the darkness.
But on the dirt roads leading into Dhaara, shadows moved.
A caravan of dust-covered trucks crawled across the hills. Men inside spoke in low voices, their guns wrapped in cloth, their eyes hard. These were not traders. Not pilgrims. These were men who knew violence like others knew prayer.
One of them spat into the dust. “Why here?”
Another man—older, scarred—replied without looking at him. “Orders. There’s someone we need to find.”
“Who?”
The scarred man’s lips curled in a humorless smile. “A ghost. They say he’s walking toward the mines.”
The younger man scoffed. “A ghost? What kind of job is this?”
The scarred man’s eyes narrowed. “Not a ghost. Worse. The people call him… the Devil.”
The truck jolted as it hit a stone, but no one spoke again. The word hung in the air like a curse.
---
Inside Dhaara, beneath the stench of dust and blood, another secret stirred.
The Lords were men of cruelty, but also of amusement. When their feasts ended, when their bodies were satisfied, they sought other pleasures. They had built something hidden beneath the mines, away from foreign eyes—a pit where slaves fought each other like beasts.
It was not for freedom. It was not for gold.
It was for the Lords’ laughter.
At the center of the mine, torches burned, throwing long shadows across a crude circle of stone. Dozens of slaves stood around it, their faces gaunt, their bodies scarred. Soldiers watched with rifles ready, their boots planted in the blood-soaked dirt.
A whistle blew.
Two men were shoved into the pit. Shackled but furious, they lunged at each other, teeth bared, fists swinging. The crowd of soldiers cheered, coins exchanging hands.
The fight was savage—bones cracked, skin split open, the floor turning slick with blood. When one man finally collapsed, his skull caved in, the other stood heaving, his victory hollow. The soldiers laughed and dragged the loser’s body out like garbage.
Another whistle. Another pair shoved in.
The night dragged on like this—fight after fight, suffering paraded as sport. But then, something different happened.
A figure stepped into the circle.
Unlike the others, he did not stumble. He did not beg. His chains clinked against the stone, but his back was straight, his head bowed slightly, as if studying the pit itself. His presence was heavy, suffocating, though he had not spoken a word.
The soldiers frowned. This one did not look broken.
The whistle blew again. His opponent—a hulking miner with arms like tree trunks—charged forward, roaring, swinging a fist meant to shatter skulls.
The figure moved.
It was not clumsy, not desperate. His head tilted, his body shifted just enough, and the fist cut through air. Before the crowd could even gasp, his elbow drove into the giant’s jaw with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed. Teeth scattered on the ground like gems.
The crowd went silent.
The giant staggered, stunned, but the figure was not done. He seized the man’s head, twisted sharply, and a snap echoed louder than the torches’ crackle. The giant collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Dead.
The figure straightened, his shadow stretching across the bloodstained floor. His face was hidden beneath the dim light, but his eyes—cold, merciless—gleamed for just an instant.
A soldier muttered under his breath, voice trembling. “Who… who is he?”
No one answered.
The figure said nothing, did nothing more. He simply stepped over the corpse, walking out of the pit as if he had only taken a stroll. Chains clinked softly behind him, but he moved like a predator returning to the dark.
And in the silence
e he left behind, a whisper began.
“The Devil has come to Dhaara.”
High above the mines, where the air was cleaner and the blood could not reach, the fortresses of the Lords loomed like vultures perched on the hills. Each fortress was built of black stone and iron, towering over the land it consumed, its walls lined with guards and cannons.
Together, they were known as the Five Thrones of Dhaara.
Each Lord ruled a territory carved out like a kingdom, yet bound in an unholy pact: they shared the mines, the diamonds, and the lives of the people. Their rivalries were real, but their greed kept them united.
---
Lord Varma – The Broker of Blood
His fortress rose on the northern ridge, closest to the Krishna River. Once a merchant prince, Varma had built his power through trade in weapons and diamonds. His reach extended far beyond Dhaara—into ports, markets, and black alleys across the subcontinent. He dressed not in armor, but in silk, his hands soft, his smile softer. Yet every deal he struck was sealed in blood.
It was said that a single word from Varma could raise or starve an army. He controlled the flow of food, medicine, and supplies into Dhaara. Those who obeyed ate. Those who resisted starved.
---
Lord Dhanraj – The Iron Fist
South of the mines, where the tunnels ran deepest, ruled Dhanraj. A former general, he commanded the largest private army in Dhaara. His men were loyal not out of love, but out of fear, for Dhanraj’s punishments were legendary.
His fortress was a barracks of steel and stone. Cannons lined the walls. Soldiers marched day and night in perfect formation. No rebellion had ever risen in his lands—for every whisper of defiance was silenced before it became a word.
Dhanraj believed only in order. To him, the people were cattle, and he was the butcher.
---
Lord Kaif – The Shadow Prince
The western hills were ruled by Kaif, the youngest of the Lords, but perhaps the most dangerous. Born of bastards and betrayal, he learned early that survival was a game of knives. His fortress was less a palace and more a labyrinth of hidden chambers, where spies and assassins moved like ghosts.
Kaif’s power lay not in armies or wealth, but in secrets. He controlled the networks of informants, the underworld of thieves, smugglers, and killers for hire. No deal, no betrayal, no movement in Dhaara went unseen by Kaif’s eyes.
It was said that Kaif did not need to raise a sword—he only needed to whisper your name, and you would vanish.
---
Lord Gonsalves – The Vulture of Trade
On the eastern banks rose the fortress of Gonsalves, a foreigner who had come generations ago and carved his bloodline into Dhaara with steel and gold. His ships sailed the Krishna River, carrying diamonds out and weapons in. He controlled the docks, the smuggling routes, the bridges.
Greedy beyond measure, Gonsalves’ eyes glittered like the gems he hoarded. He was ruthless in business, offering protection with one hand and debt with the other. Many villages along the river bent to his rule simply because they could not pay what they owed.
His soldiers wore imported rifles, his ships mounted foreign cannons. Gonsalves was Dhaara’s link to the outside world—and he made sure to keep it a leash.
---
Lord Shamsher – The Beast of Dhaara
At the very heart of the mines, in a fortress carved directly into the stone, lived Shamsher. If the other Lords were kings, he was their executioner. Once a slave himself, he had risen through violence, breaking bones until no man dared oppose him.
Where others wore silks or armor, Shamsher wore scars. His voice was a growl, his laughter a snarl. He ruled not with diplomacy, not with soldiers, but with sheer terror. His men were savages, trained not in discipline but in cruelty.
It was Shamsher who oversaw the pits, the whips, the nightly feasts of stolen daughters. To the slaves, his name was worse than death.
---
Together, these five Lords carved Dhaara into a nightmare kingdom.
They controlled the diamonds. They controlled the armies. They controlled life and death itself.
The world outside saw them as wealthy merchants, noble lords, respected rulers. But inside Dhaara, they were monsters cloaked in human skin.
And yet, despite their cruelty, they shared one belief:
No man could ever rise against them.
---
But in the underground fight pit that night, a corpse lay cooling in its own blood, its neck broken with one effortless twist. And somewhere in the shadows, a silent figure walked away, chains clinking softly at his heels.
The whispers had begun.
“The Devil has come.”
And soon… the Lords would hear it too.
The pit stank of sweat, smoke, and iron. Torches flickered along the walls, their flames licking shadows across the stone circle. The floor was slick, stained black from countless fights, a graveyard where the dead were never buried—just dragged out and thrown to the vultures.
The soldiers leaned against the rails, laughing, passing bottles, betting coins. They had seen men beaten to death a hundred times before. For them, it was sport. For the Lords, amusement. For the slaves, survival.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, the whispers had begun.
---
The whistle shrieked. Chains rattled. Two more slaves were shoved into the circle. One was skeletal, trembling, scars fresh on his back. The other was broad-shouldered, his eyes dead long before his body would be. They looked at each other, broken men forced into cruelty neither wanted.
Before they could move, a shadow stepped between them.
The man from before.
He didn’t wait for the rules. Didn’t wait for the whistle. He surged forward, silent as a storm breaking loose. His fist slammed into the broad man’s ribs. Bone cracked like dry wood. The man screamed, blood spraying from his mouth.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. This wasn’t desperation. It was slaughter.
The skeletal slave tried to back away, fear in his eyes. But the figure caught him by the throat, lifting him with one hand as if he weighed nothing. He studied the man’s face, eyes cold, unreadable—then hurled him against the stone wall. The skull split with a sound that silenced even the soldiers.
The body slid down, lifeless.
---
The pit smelled thicker now. Iron. Blood. Fear.
A soldier snarled. “Put more in!”
Three men were shoved forward, chained together. They hesitated, staring at the figure who stood in the center like a reaper. Sweat trickled down their necks.
The Devil moved.
The first came swinging a broken chain, the metal whistling through the air. The figure stepped inside the arc, caught his wrist, and snapped it backward with a crack so loud it echoed. The chain dropped. The man screamed.
The second lunged with a sharpened shard of stone, aiming for the figure’s gut. But the Devil caught his arm, twisted, and drove the shard into the man’s own throat. Blood geysered across the dirt. He collapsed, choking.
The third tried to run.
The figure caught him by the back of the neck, slammed his face into the wall once. Twice. A third time. The skull caved, painting the stone with gore. The body dropped like a sack.
The crowd was silent now. Soldiers shifted uneasily.
This wasn’t a fight. This was a message.
---
The figure stood still, chest rising and falling, his hands slick with blood. His eyes scanned the pit, not at the soldiers, not at the Lords, but at the slaves watching from the shadows. The hopeless, broken men whose hearts had stopped daring to beat.
And for the first time in generations, they felt it.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But fear.
Fear—for the Lords.
One of the soldiers spat, trying to break the silence. “Enough. Kill him.”
Rifles lifted. Metal clicked.
But when the torches flickered, when the crowd blinked, the figure was gone.
The pit stood empty, corpses scattered, the chains still swaying where he had stood.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
“The Devil walks among us.”
“He’s not a man.”
“He’s death.”
---
That same night, away from the pit, in the slave quarters at the edge of the mine, chaos broke out.
A girl—no older than seventeen—ran barefoot through the dust, her dress torn, her face streaked with blood and tears. Her breaths came sharp, ragged, but she did not stop. Behind her, the soldiers’ voices roared, boots pounding, torches flaring.
She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Every step was survival.
The night air stung her lungs. The river’s distant roar echoed in her ears, calling her toward it, away from the fortress, away from the screams.
Somewhere in the dark, chains clinked softly.
She froze. Her heart hammered. A shadow stood ahead, broad-shouldered, silent, watching.
For one terrible moment, she tho
ught it was death itself.
And then she realized—
maybe that was exactly what she needed.
Please sign in to leave a comment.