Karna's Heir - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Cornered and Tested

Aryan’s brief respite, if one could call holing up in a succession of bug-infested, soul-crushingly bleak lodges a respite, was always destined to be temporary. He knew, with a certainty that settled like a cold stone in his gut, that Shetty was not the forgiving type. Shetty was more the ‘hunt you down and make an example of you in a very public and gruesome manner’ type. It was only a matter of time.

The end of his increasingly frayed rope came on a sweltering afternoon in a crowded, labyrinthine market area near a local railway station. He’d grown a little too comfortable, perhaps, lulled by a few days without any obvious signs of pursuit. He’d even managed to scrounge up enough for a semi-decent meal – some spicy vada pav from a street vendor – and was actually contemplating the luxury of a bottled water that probably wouldn’t give him cholera. Such were the dizzying heights of his new ambitions.

“One must maintain standards, even when one is a fugitive murder-target inhabiting a dead gangster’s body,” he’d muttered to himself, fumbling with Ajay’s meager cash. “A little food poisoning is one thing, but dying of thirst because the tap water could strip paint? That’s just undignified.”

He was just turning away from the vendor, vada pav in hand, when a voice, rough and chillingly familiar from Ajay’s memory banks, cut through the market din.

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with his flea-bitten presence. Shetty’s been asking after you, Ajay. Sends his love.”

Aryan froze mid-step, the vada pav suddenly tasting like ash in his mouth. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The voice belonged to Babu, one of Shetty’s more thuggish enforcers, a man whose knuckles were reputedly on more intimate terms with human faces than his own mother.

Slowly, every nerve screaming, Aryan turned.

Babu wasn’t alone. Two others flanked him, both with the same dead-eyed, predatory look that seemed to be a prerequisite for employment with Shetty. They were big, muscular, and radiated an aura of casual brutality. They effectively blocked his escape route into the denser part of the market.

“Ah, the welcoming committee,” Aryan said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic tap-dance his heart was performing. He even managed a weak, Ajay-esque smirk. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Did you bring a fruit basket, or just an assortment of blunt instruments?”

Babu chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Always a joker, eh, Ajay? Shetty’s not laughing much these days, though. He’s very… disappointed in you. Especially about that package you were supposed to deliver.”

“Package?” Aryan feigned ignorance, stalling for time, his mind racing. There was no way out. The alley behind him was a dead end. “What package would that be? My memory’s a bit hazy. Too many late nights, you know.”

“Don’t play dumb with us, Ajay,” the gangster to Babu’s left snarled. His name was Ravi, if Aryan’s borrowed memories served – quick-tempered and fond of knives. “The item from the docks. The valuable one. Shetty wants it. Now.”

The three of them began to advance slowly, deliberately, forcing Aryan to backpedal into the narrow mouth of the alley. The market crowd, sensing trouble, instinctively melted away, leaving them in a small, isolated pocket of impending violence.

“Oh, that item,” Aryan said, his back hitting the brick wall.

Trapped.

“Right, right. The shiny thing.” He had to think fast. He couldn’t tell them it was currently integrated into his DNA like a very aggressive, very golden parasite. They’d either think he was insane or lying, and either way, the outcome would be unpleasant.

“It’s safe,” Aryan said, trying to inject a note of cunning into his voice, a desperate bluff forming. “Very safe. Somewhere only I know.” He met Babu’s gaze. “And if you even think about putting a scratch on me, or if I, you know, accidentally trip and fatally impale myself on one of your charmingly oversized belt buckles, you’ll never see it again. Shetty wouldn’t like that, would he? Losing such a… valuable asset?”

Babu stopped a few feet away, his eyes narrowing. Ravi and the third goon, a silent hulk Aryan didn’t recognize, exchanged uneasy glances. Aryan’s bluff, as thin as it was, had at least given them pause.

“You think you’re clever, Ajay?” Babu said, his voice dangerously soft. “You think you can play games with Shetty? He sent us to get the item. Or to get you. He wasn’t particular about the order.”

“And I’m telling you,” Aryan pressed, trying to sound braver than he felt, “you lay a hand on me, the item is gone forever. Think about what Shetty will do to you when you go back empty-handed, telling him you ‘accidentally’ killed the only guy who knows where his precious treasure is hidden.” He could almost feel the faint, internal hum of the Kavacha, a silent presence under his skin. Was it his imagination, or was it… responding to his stress?

Ravi, never known for his patience, scoffed. “He’s bluffing, Babu! Let’s just beat it out of him. He’ll sing like a temple pujari once we get started.”

Babu considered this, his gaze fixed on Aryan. Then, he nodded slowly. “Alright, Ajay. We’ll play it your way for a moment. Tell us where it is. And maybe, just maybe, Shetty will be lenient.”

“Lenient?” Aryan let out a short, humorless laugh. “Shetty? The man whose idea of ’employee of the month’ is ‘least likely to be found floating in the Mithi River’? I don’t think so.” He shook his head.

“No, you don’t touch me. I walk away. I’ll think about contacting Shetty when I’m good and ready.”

It was a gamble, a massive one. He was betting on their greed outweighing their desire for immediate violence.

It was a bad bet.

“You little rat,” Babu growled, his face contorting with anger. “You really think you’re in a position to bargain?” He jerked his head at the silent hulk. “Teach him some manners, Shankar. But try not to break him too much. We still need him to talk.”

Shankar, the hulk, grinned, a terrifying sight that involved more teeth than seemed strictly necessary. He cracked his knuckles, the sound like dry twigs snapping. “My pleasure, Babu.”

He advanced on Aryan. Aryan pressed himself further against the wall, his eyes darting, but there was nowhere to go. This was it. The end of his short, spectacularly mismanaged second life.

“Alright, universe,” he thought, a strange calm descending amidst the terror. “Hit me with your best shot. Though I suspect Shankar here is about to do that literally, and with considerably more enthusiasm.”

Shankar’s first punch was a massive, telegraphed right hook, aimed straight at Aryan’s jaw. Aryan flinched, instinctively turning his head, bracing for the explosion of pain, the shattering of bone, the taste of his own blood. He’d been hit before, in his original life – a couple of schoolyard scuffles, one unfortunate encounter in a bar. He knew what was coming.

The fist connected. Or, at least, it seemed to.

Aryan felt a jarring thud, a powerful push that snapped his head to the side and made his teeth clack together. He felt the kinetic force of the blow, a solid impact that should have sent stars exploding behind his eyelids, should have broken something.
But there was no pain.

None.

Not even a sting. Just… pressure. Like being shoved hard by a very large, very angry pillow.

Shankar grunted with the effort of the punch, then stumbled back a step himself, shaking his hand, a look of profound confusion spreading across his lumpy face. “What the…?” he mumbled, staring at his knuckles as if they’d betrayed him. “Felt like I hit a damn wall.”

Aryan, equally stunned, slowly straightened up. He touched his jaw. It was intact. No blood. No throbbing agony. Nothing. “Huh,” he said, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “That usually hurts more. Did you forget to make a fist, Shankar? Or did you pull your punch? Didn’t want to mess up my ruggedly handsome borrowed features?”

Babu and Ravi stared, dumbfounded.

“What are you waiting for, Shankar?” Babu barked. “Hit him again!”

Shankar, looking slightly unnerved, launched another punch, a vicious jab aimed at Aryan’s stomach. Again, Aryan tensed. Again, there was that solid thud, the feeling of being forcefully shoved, but no pain. He grunted from the force pushing the air from his lungs, but the debilitating, gut-wrenching agony he expected simply wasn’t there.

He blinked. “Was that it? My grandmother hits harder. And she’s been dead for ten years. Are you feeling alright, Shankar? You look a bit pale.”

Aryan himself was in a state of shock. The Kavacha. The cursed, assimilated, invisible gold. It had worked. It had actually bloody worked! A hysterical giggle threatened to bubble up. This was insane.

Ravi, impatient and angry, pushed Shankar aside. “Useless oaf! Let me show you how it’s done!” He lunged, aiming a savage kick at Aryan’s thigh.

Aryan saw it coming, tried to move, but he wasn’t fast enough. The kick landed squarely. He felt the powerful impact, was shoved sideways against the wall again, but the expected searing pain, the feeling of a deep muscle bruise or even shattered bone, failed to materialize. It was like being hit with a battering ram made of sponge.

Ravi hopped back, clutching his own foot, his face a mask of pained disbelief. “Aai! What in the devil’s name are you made of, Ajay? My foot!”

Now all three gangsters were staring at Aryan with a mixture of fear, confusion, and growing anger. They’d all clearly landed solid blows. They’d felt the impact. But Aryan was just… standing there, looking more bewildered than hurt, a sarcastic comment on his lips.

“Is this some kind of new street magic?” Babu demanded, taking a step back, his earlier confidence visibly shaken. “What have you done, Ajay?”

“Me?” Aryan spread his hands, feigning innocence, though his mind was reeling with the implications. “I haven’t done anything. Maybe you guys are just… out of practice? Too much alcohal, not enough hitting things? Or perhaps,” he added, a wild, exhilarating idea dawning, “I’m just having a really, really good day. The kind where Newtonian physics decides to take a coffee break specifically in my immediate vicinity.”

Shankar, driven by frustration, charged again, bellowing, and threw a wild flurry of punches at Aryan’s chest and head. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each blow landed with palpable force, pushing Aryan around like a human punching bag, but none of them caused any actual pain or injury. He could feel the impacts, like being repeatedly struck by a medicine ball, but there was no bruising, no breaking, no agony. He could even perceive, if he concentrated, the faintest shimmer in the air an instant before each blow connected, a barely visible distortion, like heat haze, that solidified into an unbreakable, invisible barrier.

“Keep trying, boys,” Aryan gasped, more out of breath from being shoved around than from any actual harm. “Maybe if you hit me enough times, candy will come out. Or a coherent explanation for why I suddenly seem to be immune to your particular brand of thuggish persuasion.”

The gangsters finally stopped, panting, looking at Aryan as if he were some kind of demon. Their fists were aching. Their confidence was definitely shattered. They had encountered something far outside their experience of street brawls and casual brutality.

Babu stared at Aryan, his face a mixture of fury and a new, dawning apprehension. “This… this isn’t natural, Ajay.”

“Natural?” Aryan raised an eyebrow, a genuine, almost manic grin spreading across Ajay’s face. He felt a surge of power, not physical strength, but the intoxicating power of inexplicability, of invulnerability. “My friend, my entire existence for the past week has been a flagrant middle finger to the concept of ‘natural’. You have no idea.”

He was still trapped. He was still hunted. But the rules of the game had just fundamentally, miraculously, changed. The golden burden, it seemed, was also a golden shield. And Aryan, the hunted man, had just discovered he had teeth. Or at least, a really, really tough hide.