The war room was steeped in a restless gloom, its walls of jagged obsidian glistening as if sweating shadows. Raktabija stood over the map of Bhu-loka, his clawed hands resting lightly on the table’s edges. The map itself was no ordinary artifact—its surface pulsed faintly with ley-line energy, shifting as though alive. The veins of power converged and diverged across the lands, revealing spiritual strongholds, pockets of resistance, and untapped sources of light.

He reached out, claws tracing the glowing veins of cosmic power etched into the obsidian table. The ripple was faint, but unmistakable—a cosmic footprint left behind by one who had dared retrieve a cardinal relic. His lips twisted into a grimace.

“Who could retrieve it?” he muttered. “It can’t be Atisha. I don’t sense her cosmic powers.”

His grip on the table tightened, the obsidian groaning under his strength. The Northern relic had been disturbed. The balance he sought to tip in his favor now wavered precariously.

He traced a claw across the surface, stopping at the North where the last remnants of Kailashan’s monks had fled. His crimson eyes gleamed as he studied the paths of retreat, weaving through dense forests and rugged terrains.

"Splitting the legions," he murmured his voice a low growl that echoed in the chamber. "Each demon faction advances on its own path, and together, we will eclipse this realm."

The plan was audacious. The demon army had always thrived on the overwhelming, unified force, but Raktabija saw an opportunity to fracture it into factions. The darkness spread faster this way, consuming entire regions before resistance could mount. And the cardinal relics—those elusive shards of divine power—would be found more quickly if his generals scoured every corner of Bhu-loka simultaneously.

Yet, as he planned, a flicker of movement drew his gaze downward. For a moment, he thought the Scimitar at his side trembled on its own. He dismissed the notion, returning to the map, but the blade whispered to him in a voice like cold steel scraping against bone.

"Wise... but desperate. Divided, your forces are strong. And yet, so... fragile."

Raktabija froze. The Scimitar’s voice had grown louder in recent days, creeping into his thoughts. He clenched his jaw, his clawed fingers tightening on the map’s edge.

"Be silent," he muttered. "You are a tool, not a judge."

"Am I?" the voice replied, a cruel lilt in its tone. "You wield me, yet who holds the reins of power, Raktabija? Your strength grows. But your mind... unravels."

He shut his eyes, willing the whispers to fade. They didn’t. Instead, the weapon pulsed faintly, its presence suffocating. For a moment, his vision blurred, and he saw himself—robes of white silk, hands clasped in prayer, his followers chanting his name in reverence.

"Faith," the Scimitar mocked, its laughter sharp and biting. "What a fragile thing. Just as you are now."

The memory shattered, and Raktabija slammed a hand against the table. The map’s ley lines flared briefly before settling into their rhythmic glow. He took a shuddering breath, composing himself just as hurried footsteps approached.

A messenger entered, his grotesque demon form bowing low.

"My lord, news from General Chaayasura. The monks of Kailashan have eluded capture and found refuge."

Raktabija’s gaze flicked to the area on the map in the North, where the ley lines were weak but persistent.

"Refuge?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

The messenger hesitated.

"General Chaayasura believes they are protected by a mysterious man... possibly a Yaksha."

At this, Raktabija straightened, his eyes narrowing.

"A Yaksha?" His tone was laced with intrigue. Yakshas rarely meddled in mortal affairs. Their intervention suggested the monks were more than mere remnants of a lost cause.

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"Interesting," he said, his eyes grim.

He turned to the messenger.

“His forces are insufficient. Send reinforcements from the central legions. Ensure that the Yaksha is brought to his knees, and the monks extinguished."

The messenger bowed deeply and disappeared into the shadows.

Raktabija moved to the western edge of the map, where General Darvasura led an assault on the temples of Satyavan. Reports from the West had been promising, the temples falling one by one, their defenders succumbing to the demon onslaught. Still, the relics eluded them.

"The West will bend," he murmured to himself, his claws tracing the ley lines. Darvasura’s brute strength was effective but lacked finesse. If the relics were hidden deep within the temples, they would require precision to retrieve them without destroying their power.

His attention shifted eastward, where Tamrapatra prowled the jungles in search of the final relic. The East was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, but Tamrapatra was relentless. She would find what he sought—or the jungle would burn.

As Raktabija prepared to leave for the North, the Scimitar pulsing impatiently at his side, another messenger entered the chamber. This one was calm but visibly excited.

"My lord," he said, bowing low. "A report from the West. General Darvasura's forces have discovered a site matching the descriptions of a cardinal relic. The energy readings align with that of the cardinal relic.”

Raktabija froze, his gaze snapping to the messenger. For a moment, the shadows seemed to retreat, leaving the air heavy with silence. Then his lips curled into a cold smile.

"The relic," he said softly. "It reveals itself at last."

As Raktabija turned his attention westward, the map pulsed faintly where the ley lines intersected near the Temple of Satyavan. The report from Darvasura weighed on him. If the cardinal relic truly lay within that temple, the West could become the decisive front in his conquest. Yet, Darvasura’s unchecked ambition lingered in his mind.

The Scimitar pulsed at his side, its whisper soft at first, like wind scraping over bone.

“You place much faith in Darvasura,” it began, its voice curling into his thoughts. “Do you truly believe he can be trusted to serve you and you alone?”

Raktabija’s claws tightened around the edge of the table.

“He has been loyal,” he replied, his voice low, though a flicker of uncertainty crept into his tone.

“Loyal?” The Scimitar’s laugh was sharp and biting. “To whom? To what? His strength, his victories, his glory? Does he not already dream of wielding the relic for himself?”

Raktabija growled, but the blade pressed on, its tone venomous yet calm, as if speaking a truth too obvious to deny.

“Think of it, Raktabija. The cardinal relic is no mere trinket—it is power incarnate. A force that could rival even your dominion. Will Darvasura simply deliver it to you? Or will he see in it the opportunity to carve his own path? Perhaps he already whispers to the troops of his plans, his… ascension.”

The demon lord’s mind flicked to Darvasura’s recent conquests—the zeal with which he tore through the temples of Satyavan, his appetite for destruction insatiable. For the first time, the image of Darvasura wielding the relic formed in his mind: the towering demon clad in shadow and flame, challenging Raktabija’s supremacy with the divine power he sought to control.

“No,” Raktabija said, shaking his head. “He would not dare. He knows the cost of defiance.”

“Does he?” the Scimitar countered, its tone almost amused. “Or does he see the cracks in your control? The whispers of the North, the meddling Yaksha, the relics you have yet to claim? You spread your forces thin, Raktabija. Perhaps he senses weakness… and waits for his moment.”

The words struck like a blade. Though he would not admit it, even to himself, Raktabija knew the Scimitar was not entirely wrong. The West was a crucible of power, and Darvasura was an ambitious flame. The cardinal relic could ignite a fire beyond his control.

Raktabija turned to the messenger. His crimson eyes burned as he delivered his next command.

“Send word to Darvasura: the relic is to remain intact. I will see to it myself soon enough.”

As the messenger bowed and retreated, Raktabija’s grip on the Scimitar tightened. The blade pulsed, its voice now smooth, almost soothing.

“A wise precaution. But will it be enough? Words are wind, Raktabija. Perhaps your hand should guide the relic directly.”

“Enough!” he barked, slamming his claws against the table. The ley lines flickered, dimming momentarily under the weight of his fury. The Scimitar fell silent, though its laughter echoed faintly in his mind.

The Scimitar hummed in his hand, its whispers insistent.

"More relics, more power. But what of the North? Will you leave this treasure to chance?"

Raktabija's smile faded. The Scimitar’s whispers grew louder, threading doubt into his mind. He needed the Northern relic. Whoever was meddling with the relics, needed to be put to rest, for good. But to allow another cardinal relic to slip through his grasp would be unforgivable.

Alone once more, Raktabija gripped the Scimitar tightly, its whispers now a relentless torture in his mind.

The Scimitar’s voice softened, its tone almost mocking. "Two relics. Two choices. How far will your shadow stretch, Raktabija? How much power can you hold before it consumes you?"

He exhaled sharply, his claws flexing against the weapon’s hilt.

"I will hold it all," he muttered, his voice steady but lined with fury. "I will wield the darkness until nothing remains."

With one last glance at the map, he turned and strode from the chamber, his cape billowing behind him like wings of shadow.