A hush fell across the devastated battlefield as Rudra rose, battered yet radiant, the starlit pendant casting a quiet azure glow over the ruins. Around him, friends and allies caught their breath, nursing wounds both visible and unseen. For one trembling moment, it seemed the nightmare was over.
But the asuri bracelet at Rudra's wrist—an ancient artifact, engraved with shifting, infernal glyphs—suddenly pulsed. Shadow and fire spilled from it, unlocking at last the powers the asura lords of antiquity had hidden from the gods themselves. Blue-white tendrils wrapped around Rudra's arm, then surged down to his palm, blooming into a weapon older than memory: a trishula forged from the agony and hope of countless souls.
A rip in reality tore the sky anew as Kaaldev, though mortally wounded, tried to crawl away. "You cannot kill the concept of Time!" he spat, voice echoing in every tongue.
Rudra's heart surged with ancestral memory—visions of Naraka, the nether realm of punishment and expiation, blazed across his mind. (Naraka is the hell realm described in Hinduism, a place of torment and suffering for those who have committed grievous wrongs, as in the Puranas and Dharmashastras.)
A deeper voice boomed, not of mortal or asura—Yama himself, lord of death and justice, materialized from a cyclone of black wind and golden light, his mace shining like a newborn star. "Enough," Yama intoned. "This villain has unstitched the order of realms. Let the fruits of his karma be reaped."
Roohi, barely able to stand, looked to Rudra. "This is your moment. End this, for all of us."
Rudra held out the asuri trishula, power coursing from the bracelet through every scar and memory. "Kaaldev, for the worlds you've destroyed, for the lives you've twisted, for every hope you tried to erase—your cycle ends here!" His voice was both mortal and divine.
With a cry that echoed across the multiverse, Rudra hurled the trishula. Time and reality splintered as the weapon struck Kaaldev's chest. The villain's scream peeled reality, but the trishula's binding was absolute. As flames and shadow devoured his form, Kaaldev's soul was yanked violently toward a swirling, abyssal portal—the gateway to Naraka, which now gaped wide in the ruined earth.
Jagged visions of the hells flickered in the portal's depths: boiling cauldrons, forests of knives, rivers of blood, all the punishments reserved for the gravest offenders—Raurava, Taptakumbha, Tāla, Viśasana, and untold other torments detailed in the Puranas. The shrieks of the condemned rose and fell as Yama pointed, condemning Kaaldev to a cycle of suffering only the wicked ever face.
Rudra felt the bracelet's power settle, the trishula dissolving as its purpose fulfilled. Silence thickened as the gods themselves gathered: Yama, Vishnu shimmering in blue and gold, and Devi Parvati, her gaze fierce and compassionate. Together, with a gesture, they sealed the portal to Naraka, its screams cut off as if a door had slammed shut.
Vishnu spoke, his voice soft thunder. "You have restored balance, Rudra, but remember—the power to unmake is never far from the hearts of mortals and deities alike. Guard this world, for the threats of Naraka will always lurk in the shadow of desire and pride."
Parvati offered a blessing, her fingertips brushing Rudra's brow. "You have chosen justice over vengeance. For that, you will never walk alone."
Yama's eyes settled on the bracelet. "Keep this warning, hero: the asura device is a responsibility, not a crown. Use it only for dharma—the greater good."
As the gods faded, the clouds parted. Sunlight returned, falling first on the faces of the survivors, then on the circle of friends who had fought, died, and lived again at the edge of time and hell.
Rudra slumped into Roohi's arms, exhausted and free. He looked at the bracelet—now silent and sealed—and at his friends, who smiled through tears, battered but alive.
Behind them, the grass grew green again and the realms aligned, but high above, a single feather from Yama's crown drifted slowly to earth—a silent reminder that some doors, once opened, may never be fully closed.
And from the distant portal, as the last echo faded, a new silence fell—hopeful, watchful, waiting for what story might be written next.