He didn't bring a weapon.
He didn't wear armor.
He didn't chant or shout or announce his coming.
Aarav just walked.
Into the heart of Bhayanak's dominion—
a city choked with rules, guards, curfews, sacred scripts nailed to every wall.
People whispered, watched, shrank.
Fear ruled here.
But he kept walking.
Every checkpoint challenged him.
He didn't resist.
He didn't argue.
He just breathed.
And their anger couldn't find a grip.
Because stillness confuses systems built on reaction.
By the time he reached the central plaza, hundreds stood watching. Some with hate. Most with confusion. A few with hope they didn't dare name.
And Bhayanak descended.
A titan made of eyes and laws and smoke.
His voice was every warning a mother gave in fear. Every rule written "just to be safe."
"Bow, and I will let them live."
Aarav stood still.
"You already buried them under your mercy."
The god grew. Towered. Roared.
Aarav didn't move.
He didn't need to.
Because one villager stepped forward.
Then another.
And another.
They didn't fight.
They stood up.
And breathed.
Bhayanak's form cracked.
His smoke curled away.
Because fear cannot feed on people who sit with it.
Aarav whispered, not to the god—but to the people:
"You weren't weak. You were waiting."
And Bhayanak crumbled, not with screams…
…but with a sigh.