Far across the dark corridors of the Ashram, in his chamber, Swami Vairagyanand's eyes opened suddenly—uneasy, disturbed.
Something had shifted in the air.
The son he knew... suddenly felt like a stranger.
The way "Adityanand" spoke, walked, even touched his food—it was as if a stranger had crawled inside his son's skin.
"He doesn't indulge with the same arrogance," Swami muttered.
The younger wives who once whispered of Adityanand's cruelty now whispered something different—kindness. One girl swore she saw him meditating alone. Another said he refused wine.
"Impossible. My blood doesn't change," Swami growled.
He called upon his most trusted devotee, Bhavchand, a man who had been with him since the old days of power-grabs and fire offerings.
"Keep an eye on my son," Swami ordered. "Watch his habits. His breath. Even how he fucks. I want to know if he blinks out of rhythm."
Bhavchand obeyed.
But what neither of them knew—Dev was already watching them too.
---
In the dead of night, when the Ashram slept beneath the weight of its sins, Dev moved like a shadow.
Using Adrishyachakra, the hidden technique from the ancient scrolls, he passed unseen through guarded halls, into the old cellar beneath the Ashram.
A door lay behind layers of crumbling stone and false walls—a secret chamber, forgotten by time.
Inside, dozens of scrolls were sealed with wax and blood markings. These were no religious texts. They were records. Deals with politicians. Blackmail ledgers. Names of raped girls. Photos. Videos. Every crime the Ashram had buried.
And something more.
A black scroll, wrapped in serpent-skin, pulsed with a strange energy. Its text was more ancient than any other—a language older than Sanskrit.
But he could read one phrase clearly:
"Na samay se, na shastra se... keval vidhvaansh se milega mukti."
(Not by time, nor weapon… only through annihilation shall liberation come.)
Dev's breath slowed.
This was a prophecy. A curse. A truth buried by the Ashram's founders centuries ago.
Suddenly—a noise. Footsteps above. The secret chamber's protection was fading.
Someone else was near.
He extinguished his torch, vanished into shadow.
Above, Bhavchand stood still, sensing a presence… but unable to see what moved in the dark.
Swami Vairagyanand sat alone in the sanctum, the thick scent of sandalwood smothering the air. He stared at the flickering diya before him, its flame wavering—just like his certainty.
"Adityanand," he thought. "My son could never bring a woman to tears of joy."
Whispers had begun to echo across the inner chambers of the Ashram.
The younger wives—once fearful, once disgusted by Adityanand's cold, selfish touch—now spoke in hushed awe.
"He's... different now," Leela had whispered one night to Bhavchand, not knowing she was being watched.
"He touches like he listens. Like he feels."
"The old Adityanand never felt anything," another Gopi muttered, laughing nervously.
Swami felt the roots of his power tremble. Who was this man wearing his son's face?
He ordered Bhavchand to fetch the temple astrologer. The old, silent sage who had served his family for decades. One who could see beyond flesh.
"Bring me the truth," Swami commanded, "even if it burns."
—
The moonlight poured silver over the silent banks of the Kshirnadi river. The surface shimmered like molten glass, untouched—except for the faint ripples spreading from a single figure wading into the water.
It was Dev, still cloaked in the shape of Adityanand.
The scroll he had hidden in the folds of his robes pulsed faintly against his chest, guiding him once again toward the submerged temple that only he could see.
But this time… he wasn't alone.
Behind the thick brush near the edge of the river, Bhavchand crouched. He had followed "Adityanand" only out of curiosity—why was the heir of the Ashram sneaking around at midnight like a thief?
He watched, eyes narrowed, as Dev disappeared into the water without hesitation.
The ripples faded. The river grew still.
Bhavchand waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. No sign.
A chill crawled down his spine. "What the hell is under there…?"
---
Dev swam deep down. The spell covering the temple was thinning—he could feel it, like a mist lifting.
As he passed through the invisible veil once more, the ancient Shiva statue awaited him. At its base, more of the inscriptions had begun to reveal themselves with his growing mastery of the Chakras.
He touched the cold stone, and a pulse of knowledge surged through his mind.
"अहं ब्रह्मास्मि। न मृत्यु न जीवन। केवल सत्य।"
"I am Brahman. Neither death nor life—only truth."
This time, a fragment of a new Chakra lit up in his mind's eye: "Nishkramachakra" – the path of no return. It was said only those with no attachment to their past self could awaken it.
Dev stood in the stillness of the temple, unaware that someone now suspected him.
---
Back on the Riverbank
Bhavchand finally saw ripples again.
Dev emerged from the river.
He didn't notice the faint movement behind the trees.
But Bhavchand had seen enough.
"This isn't Adityanand," Bhavchand whispered to himself, backing away slowly.
"And this river… hides something."
---
The dim sanctum of Swami Vairagyanand's inner quarters was lit by a single ghee lamp. The thick scent of sandalwood mixed with the sharp smell of burning incense. A faint hum of mantras echoed in the air.
Bhavchand knelt in front of the Swami, sweat clinging to his brow despite the cool air.
"Swamiji… I followed him. I saw him go inside the Kshirnadi river. And he was inside the river for nearly an hour. As you suspected, he is not Adityanand."
Swami Vairagyanand's eyes narrowed. "Is he possessed… Or something else?"
Bhavchand shook his head slowly. "I don't know if he was possessed or not. But at least it's not him."
Swami Vairagyanand turned to his right. Beside him stood a frail man dressed in saffron, face heavily lined, eyes gleaming like glass marbles. The Ashram's astrologer, Acharya Dattatreya.
He had already called him, when he became suspicious of Adityanand.
"Begin," the Swami said.
The astrologer unrolled a thick scroll of old, tattered birth charts and smeared a vermillion paste on the floor, marking ancient yantras.
He muttered under his breath, fingers twitching in mudras, as he summoned the cosmic energies.
The flames in the lamp flickered violently.
Then—darkness.
A gust of wind blew through the closed room. The lamp extinguished.
Acharya Dattatreya gasped. He fell backward, clutching his chest.
"I-I can see the soul…" he choked. "But I cannot read it. It is shrouded. Masked by divine force—like Mahakaal was protecting it."
Swami stepped forward, anger growing beneath his skin like fire under oil.
"What do you mean, you can't see?"
"There's a wall," the astrologer whispered. "A barrier of cosmic deception. Not even Rahu or Ketu can penetrate it. I know he is not your son, your son is already dead. But he is also not… ordinary."
For a moment, there was silence inside the chamber.
Then Swami Vairagyanand smiled, thin and sharp.
"So… a demon, a god, or something worse."
"Find me proof, Bhavchand. If he is not mine—he will not live."
---
Night blanketed Shree Kshetrapal Dham in velvet shadows, and the grand chamber reserved for the heir flickered with the warm, golden glow of oil lamps.
Dev, still wearing the face of Adityanand, gently caressed Rashmi's back as she lay nestled in his arms. Her breath slowed, skin glistening from the warmth of their shared closeness.
She shows the expression of so much pleasure, since her pussy was filled by his cock.
"Dev…" she whispered.
"What?" Dev asked, looking at her.
"Tonight… I don't want fucked by the Adityanand," she continued, her voice soft but certain. "I want you. The real you to fucked me deeply."
Dev looked into her eyes—it was requesting him.
He hesitated. This mask had protected him.
"Okay," He nodded. And murmured the Sanskrit phrase etched deep within his mind.
"Roopantarasya satyam darshanam — The truth is the only real form."
And then… his face shifted. Bones, flesh, skin—all rearranged like flowing clay. In a blink, Dev was himself again.
Rashmi smiled, reaching up to touch the cheek she knew far too well now.
"You're beautiful… just like this."
She pulled him close again.
"You're also beautiful." Dev said and started pounding her deeply.
---
Outside the Chamber...
Unbeknownst to them, hidden behind a carved wooden screen, Bhavchand stood frozen.
His mouth trembled. His hands were clammy. He had followed out of suspicion, but what he witnessed now shattered him.
Adityanand was dead.
Dev, the orphan servant had taken his place, his face, and even his wife, and the most shocking thing Rashmi knew about this all.
With panic crawling up his spine, Bhavchand silently slipped into the shadows.
---
Two figures stood silently by the banks, far from the Ashram's holy grounds.
They were no ordinary devotees.
They belonged to the inner circle of Vairagyanand's true power—the Yamdoot Sadhana, a cult within the cult.
One was Sundar Nath, a gaunt man with a third eye painted crudely on his forehead. He did not worship gods, but the demoness Maya, the mistress of illusions. Through forbidden rituals, he had gained the ability to pierce reality and see through deceptions—both magical and human.
The other was Gajanan, a hulking brute with wild hair and a snout-like nose. His allegiance was to Mahishasura, the ancient demon king slain by Durga. But from dark rituals and blood offerings, Gajanan had inherited his master's bull strength.
His transformation was grotesque: when enraged, his body swelled, bones cracked, and horns erupted from his skull. In this form, he could overturn trucks, smash walls, and plow through armored gates.
Tonight, they stood at the river, their eyes closed, whispering ancient chants. The ripples of Dev's earlier visit had stirred something. The illusion around the temple was weakening.
Sundar Nath's third eye blinked open suddenly.
"I see it," he hissed. "The veil is falling. A temple hidden beneath the river. It was sealed by gods… but someone has entered it."
Gajanan snorted. "Then let's tear it open."
Sundar shook his head. "No. Not yet. We wait. We tell Swamiji. And we prepare to unleash wrath."