Karna's Heir - Chapter 15

Chapter 15: The Collectors’ Interest

While Aryan Sharma, now uneasily inhabiting the skin of Ajay and the even more unsettling role of Ananya’s temporary husband, braced for the imminent explosion from her traditional family, another, far more visceral storm was brewing in the grimy underbelly of Mumbai. In a dimly lit, smoke-filled back office of a transport company that served as a flimsy front for his less legitimate enterprises, Rakesh Shetty, Ajay’s former boss, was a volcano on the verge of a catastrophic eruption.

The air in the room was thick enough to choke on – a noxious blend of stale cigarette smoke, cheap incense fighting a losing battle against body odor, and the palpable, metallic tang of fear. Shetty, a portly man whose expensive silk kurta did little to conceal the brutal bulk beneath, slammed a meaty fist onto his cluttered desk. Papers, empty tea glasses, and a tarnished brass paperweight jumped in protest.

“Gone!” he roared, his voice a gravelly rasp that promised violence. “The bloody street rat is gone! And the merchandise with him! Vanished! Into thin air!” His small, piggy eyes, bloodshot and furious, scanned the faces of the half-dozen trembling underlings unfortunate enough to be summoned for this tirade. “And none of you,” he spat, “none of you worthless, gutless excuses for men can tell me where!”

His gaze settled on a particularly nervous-looking individual named Deepak, who had been part of the team tasked with keeping an eye on Ajay’s known haunts. Deepak flinched as if struck.

“Efficiency,” Shetty purred, a terrifyingly soft sound that was far more menacing than his shouts. “That is what I demand. What I pay for. And lately, efficiency has been… lacking.” He picked up the brass paper weight, its weight feeling good in his hand. “Perhaps a practical demonstration of performance metrics is in order. To… encourage… a renewed focus on results.”

Before Deepak could stammer out an excuse, before anyone could move, Shetty’s arm blurred. The heavy brass paperweight connected with Deepak’s temple with a sickening thud. The man crumpled without a sound, a dark stain blooming on the cheap linoleum floor.
The other goons froze, their faces ashen.

Shetty calmly placed the Paper Weight back on his desk, now speckled with a fresh coat of crimson. “There,” he said, almost conversationally, though his chest heaved with barely suppressed rage. “A slight improvement in our collective focus, I believe. Now,” his voice hardened again, “does anyone else have nothing to report? Or perhaps someone has found a sudden surge of… competence?”

It was into this charged, terrifying atmosphere that Babu, his left arm in a crude, bloodstained sling, and Ravi, whose face was still pale with a mixture of fear and remembered disbelief, were finally ushered. They practically fell to their knees before Shetty, their usual swagger entirely absent.

“Boss…” Babu began, his voice hoarse, “Boss, we found Ajay.”

A flicker of something dangerous – hope mixed with suspicion – lit Shetty’s eyes. “And? The package? Where is it? Where is he?”

Babu swallowed hard, exchanging a terrified glance with Ravi.

“Boss… it’s… it’s complicated. Ajay… he’s not… he’s not normal anymore.”

Shetty’s eyes narrowed. “Not normal? What do you mean, ‘not normal’? Did the cheap hooch finally pickle his brain entirely? Is he running around barking at lampposts?”

“No, Boss,” Ravi chimed in, his voice trembling. “Worse. Much worse. We… we tried to take him. Like you said. We tried to… persuade him to tell us where the item was.”

“And?” Shetty growled, leaning forward, his bulk casting an ominous shadow.

Babu took a deep, shaky breath. “Boss… we hit him. Shankar hit him. Hard. Punches that would drop a buffalo. Nothing. He just… stood there. Smirking.”

“Then Ravi used an iron bar,” Babu continued, his voice dropping to an awed whisper. “Hit him square. The bar bent, Boss. The bar bent. Ajay just… complained about his clothes getting dirty.”

Shetty stared, his furious red face slowly paling. “An iron bar… bent?”

“And the taser, Boss,” Ravi added, his eyes wide with remembered horror. “Shankar used the taser. Ajay… he said it tickled.”

A heavy silence descended on the room, broken only by Shetty’s ragged breathing. He knew, with a sudden, dawning certainty, what kind of “ancient item” he had entrusted to that worthless drunkard Ajay. He’d been given specific, though veiled, instructions by his own superiors about its handling – extreme care, no direct contact if possible, immediate delivery. He’d suspected it was more than just old gold or jewels, but he hadn’t grasped…

“And then,” Babu almost whispered, his face clammy with sweat, “then I… I shot him, Boss.”

Shetty’s head snapped up. “You shot him? Is he dead? Did you get the package?”

“No, Boss,” Babu said, his voice barely audible. “That’s the thing. I shot him. Point blank. In the leg. The bullet… Boss, the bullet shattered. Like glass. He… he wasn’t even scratched.” Babu held up his broken, bandaged arm. “And Shankar… Shankar is dead, Boss. Ajay… he fought back. He’s like a demon.”

Shetty’s eyes, which had been wide with a mixture of emotions, now threatened to pop out of his skull. Shattered. A bullet shattering on impact. An iron bar bending. A taser having no effect. He felt a cold sweat break out on his own brow, a sensation far more chilling than his earlier rage.

The artefact. The one the Collectors had been seeking for decades, the one they’d paid him a king’s ransom just to acquire and transport. It hadn’t just been stolen back by Ajay.

It had been activated.

The street rat, the drunken fool Ajay, had somehow done what generations of shadowy figures, scholars, and occultists had failed to do. He had awakened the power within the ancient relic.

Shetty felt a wave of nausea. This was beyond him now. Far, far beyond his pay grade, beyond his understanding of the Mumbai underworld. This was stepping into a different, older, and infinitely more dangerous world.

Without a word to his terrified underlings, Shetty rose, his movements stiff, and walked into a smaller, even dingier room at the back of his office. This room contained only a single, bare table and a heavy, antiquated telephone that was connected to a dedicated, secure line – his only direct link to his own superiors.

He picked up the receiver, his hand surprisingly unsteady, and dialed a sequence of numbers that were burned into his memory, numbers he prayed he’d rarely have to use.

The line connected with a series of strange clicks and hums before a voice answered – a voice that was utterly devoid of inflection, flat, and as cold as a tomb. “Registry. State your designation and purpose.”

“This is… Operative 73, Mumbai Sector,” Shetty managed, his own voice sounding reedy and weak to his ears. “I have… an urgent update. Regarding… Acquisition Protocol Gamma-Seven. The… the asset.”

“Proceed,” the cold voice said, without a hint of curiosity or urgency.

“The asset… it’s active,” Shetty blurted out. “The vessel, Ajay… he’s activated it. He’s… unkillable. My men confirmed. Bullets… they shatter on him.” He relayed Babu and Ravi’s horrifying account, his voice trembling despite his efforts to control it.

On the other end of the line, in a location that existed on no known map, the information was received with chilling calmness. The individual – or entity – known only as the Registrar listened, its unseen face impassive.

As Shetty babbled his terrified report, the Registrar made silent, intricate notations on a data slate that glowed with unfamiliar symbols.

The room the Registrar occupied was vast, circular, and lined floor to ceiling with alcoves containing countless artefacts – some glowing with faint, internal light, others radiating an almost palpable aura of dread, a few seemingly inert but exuding an unnerving sense of ancient, slumbering power. This was a Vault of the Collectors, one of several hidden across the globe. For millennia, this shadowy organization had dedicated itself to a singular, all-consuming purpose: to find, acquire, and ultimately control the various magical, divine, and inexplicably powerful artefacts that littered the fragmented history of humankind, believing that true global dominion lay not in armies or economies, but in the mastery of these forgotten powers.

When Shetty finally finished his report, his voice hoarse with fear and exertion, the Registrar spoke again, its tone still utterly flat, utterly detached.

“Operative 73. Your report is logged. The asset you refer to is Item 47, Sub-Designation ‘Karna-Vijaya Panoply.’ Comprising two primary components: Kavacha, a dermal-integrated invulnerability matrix, and Kundalas, a bio-energy amplification and regeneration source.” The Registrar paused, as if consulting an internal database. “Confirmatory analysis of your field report indicates a successful, albeit uncontrolled, symbiotic fusion between the vessel ‘Ajay’ and Item 47. As anticipated from historical data, the Kavacha component renders the vessel impervious to conventional kinetic and energy-based assaults up to Tier Seven parameters. The Kundalas ensure continuous operational viability and accelerated cellular regeneration, effectively negating fatigue and most forms of systemic biological failure.”

Shetty listened, dumbfounded. He understood perhaps a quarter of the jargon, but the implications were terrifyingly clear. Ajay wasn’t just lucky; he was wearing a god’s armor.

“The vessel, who will now be designated ‘Target Ajay-Alpha’ for tracking purposes, is indeed unkillable by standard methodologies,” the Registrar continued, its voice a cold, emotionless drone.

“However, Item 47 does not confer enhanced physical strength, speed, or other offensive capabilities beyond baseline human parameters augmented by the Kundalas’ vitality boost. The vessel can be subdued, contained, and extracted.”

A cold dread settled deeper in Shetty’s gut. Extracted. He didn’t want to know what that entailed.

“Your previous orders stand, Operative 73,” the Registrar said. “Secure Target Ajay-Alpha. He is now of paramount importance. The uncontrolled activation of such a significant artefact requires immediate… calibration.” There was no menace in the voice, but the word “calibration” sent a shiver down Shetty’s spine.

“But… my men… he’s unkillable!” Shetty protested, his fear momentarily overriding his deference. “How can we…?”

“You will be provided with assistance,” the Registrar interrupted, its voice still utterly devoid of emotion. “An Acquisition Team, designation ‘Scythe,’ is being mobilized from an regional station. They specialize in Type Gamma Artefact Bearer containment. They will liaise with you within twelve standard hours. Your role will be to provide local intelligence and support. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt direct engagement with Target Ajay-Alpha again with your current resources. You will fail. And failure, Operative 73, incurs… reclassification.”

Reclassification. Shetty knew what that meant. It was a Collector euphemism for a very permanent, very unpleasant form of retirement.

“Understood, Registrar,” Shetty breathed, his forehead slick with cold sweat.

“See that it is, Operative 73,” the cold voice said. “The Collectors have invested significantly in Item 47. We expect a return on that investment.”

The line went dead, leaving Shetty standing in the small, silent room, the antiquated receiver still clutched in his trembling hand.

He was no longer just dealing with a runaway street thug and a stolen package. He was now a minor cog in a vast, ancient machine that had just been set in motion, a machine whose sole purpose was to reclaim its property. And Target Ajay-Alpha, the man formerly known as Ajay, now fused with the power of a sun god, was about to discover that there were hunters in the world far more dangerous, far more relentless, and far more knowledgeable than a mere Mumbai gangster like Rakesh Shetty.

The game had just escalated to a level Ajay couldn’t even begin to imagine. And the Collectors, with their chilling calmness and terrifying efficiency, were coming.