Ayushman’s deranged laughter echoed across the battlefield, a sound so chilling it seemed to claw at the air itself.

His eyes gleamed with a madness that could no longer be contained, his voice rising in pitch as he spat out the words, "I cannot be defeated! You hear me?! I cannot be defeated!"

The blood-soaked earth beneath him seemed to pulse in response to his maniacal energy.

He looked up at the sky, laughing as if mocking the heavens themselves, his expression twisted, frenzied.

"I am power! I am death! You think you can stop me?!"

His voice cracked as he screamed, wild eyes darting to each Kuruvanshi before focusing back on Nakul, his madness teetering on the edge of something darker.

“You will all fall!” he shrieked, his arms flung wide as if embracing his own delusions.

And then, as if flipping a switch, Ayushman’s laughter stopped.

His eyes grew wide, hollow and terrifying, as he mumbled under his breath in an ancient tongue.

The shift in his tone was so sudden, so unnatural, it sent chills up the spines of everyone watching.

He began muttering an ancient incantation, his voice low and guttural, each syllable vibrating with a dark, ominous power.

“Avaash yehan te kanash kaat... rumaan dra’asha vokaar…”

The language was old, primal, and drenched in terror.

Every word seemed to pull the darkness closer, as if the shadows themselves were bending to his will.

The air grew heavy, thick with dread, the sky above swirling with unnatural clouds.

Nakul clenched his fists, watching Ayushman warily.

He could feel the rising power, could feel the weight of Ayushman’s words twisting the very fabric of the world.

But what churned in Nakul’s chest wasn’t fear — it was fury. Cold, relentless fury.

He glanced at Draupadi, standing just behind him, her face still pale with the terror of what she’d endured.

The sight of her broken and bruised stirred something primal in him, a fire that would not be extinguished.

“I swear to you,” Nakul muttered under his breath, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

At that moment, Rana’s voice cut through the air as he mumbled a spell of his own.

With a sharp hiss, weapons materialized in his hands, as well as Drupad’s and Druveda’s.

The three men stood tall, their faces twisted with unbridled rage, their eyes burning with the thirst for blood.

“I will send you back to the death you’ve escaped from!” Drupad roared, brandishing his sword. “I will finish what we have started!”

With a howl of fury, Drupad lunged toward Nakul, his sword slicing through the air.

But before his blade could reach its target, steel clashed with steel.

Bhism stepped forward, his massive form imposing as he deflected Drupad’s strike with his own sword. The sound of their blades meeting was deafening, sending sparks flying.

“You’ve done enough!” Bhism growled, his voice thick with protective rage.

His sword pressed harder against Drupad’s. “As long as I’m alive, you’re not touching any member of my family.”

His eyes blazed as he pushed back with all his strength, forcing Drupad to stumble slightly.

Drupad’s face twisted in a snarl as he recovered, launching himself at Bhism again.

The two warriors clashed, their swords ringing out in a violent symphony of strikes and parries.

Each blow was heavier, more desperate, as the rage between them boiled over.

Across the battlefield, Druveda was met by Yuyutsu, who blocked his advance with a ferocity of his own.

“You’ll have to get through me first!” Yuyutsu spat, his sword flashing as it met Druveda’s with a sharp clang.

The two circled each other, exchanging blows, neither giving an inch as their rage fueled the intensity of their fight.

Suddenly, Rana raised his hands, his lips moving in a dark, twisted chant.

The ground trembled, and slowly, the dead began to rise.

Corpses littered across the battlefield shifted and stirred, their lifeless eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

The sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing filled the air as the dead soldiers rose from the earth, weapons still clutched in their decaying hands.

Ayushman’s laughter returned, more maniacal than before.

"Rise, my soldiers! Rise and fight for me!" He roared, throwing his head back in glee as the dead marched forward. “Kill them all!”

The Kuruvanshis formed a tight circle, their eyes darting around in desperation as the undead closed in.

The Kauravas roared in defiance, their voices rising as they clashed with the reanimated soldiers, their blades flashing in the darkness.

The fight was brutal, chaotic, and relentless.

Each swing of a sword met rotting flesh, but no matter how many they cut down, more undead soldiers seemed to rise in their place.

Nakul’s heart pounded in his chest as he fought alongside his brothers, his rage driving every strike.

His eyes kept darting back to Draupadi, ensuring she was safe.

His need to protect her, to protect his family, burned through him like an unquenchable fire.

And still, Ayushman stood at the center of the chaos, roaring incantations.

His voice grew louder, more crazed, as he summoned more and more dead from their graves.

The ground shook violently as portals flung open all around the battlefield, spilling forth endless waves of undead.

“Oh, lord…” Vikarn cursed under his breath, his eyes wide with disbelief as he watched the onslaught of corpses pour through the portals.

It was endless, a sea of death marching forward to devour them all.

“Die!” Ayushman screamed, his voice shrill and unhinged, his laughter echoing as though the madness had finally consumed him completely.

Duryodhan swung his sword, slicing through a decaying soldier before glancing around in panic.

“Where the fuck are the others?!” He roared, his voice desperate as the flood of the undead continued to overwhelm them.

And still, Ayushman laughed, his eyes wide with unholy glee, reveling in the chaos and destruction he had unleashed.

The battlefield trembled under the weight of the dead as they poured from the gaping portals, wave after wave of lifeless soldiers rising from the underworld, their soulless eyes fixed on the Kuruvanshis.

No matter how many were cut down, they rose again, relentlessly in their pursuit.

The once-victorious dead now clawed their way back to life, driven by dark magic and a thirst for vengeance.

Duryodhan’s sword swung through the air, severing heads and limbs, his strikes brutal and precise.

But no matter how many soldiers he felled, they clawed their way back up, broken bodies knitting together as they rejoined the fight.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming from exhaustion, but his mind was worse. The horror was unshakeable.

He had just watched a man he had slayed, his chest caved in from Duryodhan’s blow, rising once again.

The soldier’s hollow eyes met his, lips curling into a grotesque grin as he lurched forward, a puppet bound to Ayushman’s magic.

Duryodhan’s stomach churned, a wave of nausea nearly overwhelming him.

“How do we fight them if they keep rising?” Duryodhan growled under his breath, wiping sweat from his brow. His gaze flicked to his family, who fought fiercely, but even they were being overwhelmed.

To his left, Bhism and Drupad clashed, their swords singing through the air, sparks flying with each blow.

Every strike Bhism delivered was filled with fury, the rage of a protector, a man who would die before letting his family fall to such evil.

But Drupad was relentless, his bloodlust as strong as the dark magic that fueled him.

Nakul, breathless and bloodied, swung his sword with a vengeance, his strikes swift and deadly, cutting through the horde of the undead.

But amidst the chaos, his eyes fell upon his mother, Kunti, her frail form fighting with all the strength she could muster.

She had found a discarded sword, her movements jerky and wild, yet her face was set with fierce determination.

A scream lodged in Nakul's throat. His heart clenched in terror.

She was trying to fight back, but the soldiers were too many.

He could see one dead soldier creeping behind her, blade raised. Without thinking, he sprinted toward her.

“Mother!” Nakul roared, his feet pounding against the blood-soaked ground.

The clash of steel and the screams of battle filled his ears, but all he could hear was the rapid thud of his heart, the desperate need to protect the woman who had given him life.

He reached her just as the soldier swung.

His sword met the dead man’s, the metallic clang reverberating in the air.

Nakul pushed him back with a snarl, then drove his blade into the soldier’s chest, only to watch in horror as the body shuddered and reanimated once more.

“They keep coming,” Kunti rasped, her eyes wide with fear but steely in their resolve.

“I won’t let them touch you,” Nakul vowed, his voice raw with emotion, standing in front of his mother like an unyielding wall.

But then, that laugh echoed again, Ayushman’s sick, deranged laughter, loud and maddening.

Nakul turned his gaze toward the madman, his eyes narrowing in hatred.

“Come to save mommy, have you?” Ayushman taunted, his voice dripping with venom.

“But who will save your precious wifey, hmm?” His laughter grew louder, wilder, as he flayed the soldiers fighting on the Kuruvanshi side, their bodies crumpling to the ground, lifeless.

“They all fall in the end!” he screeched, his voice a twisted song of madness. “They all fall!”

Nakul’s heart froze. Draupadi. His eyes darted across the battlefield, searching for her, desperation clawing at his throat.

She was still fighting, but barely. A circle of the undead had formed around her, their swords flashing dangerously close to her skin.

His blood roared in his ears.

“No!” Nakul’s voice cracked with fear, his feet already moving before he could think, but Ayushman’s laughter followed him like a shadow.

“Too late, too late!” Ayushman sang, his voice high-pitched and manic.

“You’ll never save them all. Never!”

Nakul’s mind raced, torn between his mother and his wife, the two most important women in his life both in danger.

His hands trembled around the hilt of his sword. His fury burned brighter than ever before, his need to protect overwhelming every thought.

The battlefield was chaotic.

Soldiers—living and dead—clashed, their screams merging with the clang of weapons, and Nakul’s body was alight with fury and fear.

The portals continued to pour more of the undead onto the field.

“Where are the others?” Duryodhan roared, his voice desperate as he slammed his sword into yet another undead soldier.

His gaze flicked across the battlefield. “We need them now!”

But the answer to his question was drowned out by Ayushman’s mad laughter and the growing storm of death.

Time was running out, and Nakul knew that if he didn’t act soon, everything would be lost.

In his heart, a storm raged, but one thing was certain—he would fight until his last breath to save the ones he loved.

The battlefield was a nightmare come to life, drenched in blood and chaos, screams and roars echoing in the air.

The undead swarmed like a relentless storm, and in the center of it all, Draupadi’s terrified eyes widened as the rotting hand of a corpse closed around her throat.

Time slowed.

The Kuruvanshis screamed her name, their voices breaking through the horror that hung in the air like poison.

A heart-stopping terror exploded in Nakul’s chest the moment he saw Draupadi’s sword clatter to the ground, knocked from her hand by the decaying fingers of the undead.

His entire world narrowed to the sight of that rotting hand reaching for her.

"No!" The scream ripped from Nakul’s throat, raw and primal, his vision blurring with red-hot fury.

His body moved on instinct, charging forward, his sword flashing as it cut down every undead soldier that dared stand between him and his wife.

His muscles burned with a fierce, unrelenting need to reach her.

Possessiveness and protectiveness fused into a violent storm within him, igniting a wrath so fierce it threatened to consume him.

Each swing of his blade was ruthless, his strikes fueled by the blinding rage of a man who would slaughter anyone who dared lay a finger on the woman he loved.

But the distance seemed endless.

Despite the carnage he wrought, Draupadi's fragile form remained trapped in the clutches of death, and the horrifying thought gripped Nakul—he might be too late.

Beside him, Duryodhan was equally frantic.

Horror clawed at him as he watched the undead soldier pull Draupadi closer, its rotting lips nearing her skin.

"Draupadi!" he roared, the name escaping him in a guttural cry of fear.

His massive form barreled through the battlefield, slaying undead soldiers with brutal efficiency, but even his strength felt insignificant in the face of the danger his sister-in-law faced.

His chest tightened painfully, dread seizing him.

His heart raced, his hands trembling with the overwhelming fear of seeing her life slipping away before his eyes.

They were both desperate, tearing through the undead like men possessed, their hearts pounding with the agony of knowing they might just be a second too late.

Nakul’s heart shattered as he saw the undead pull Draupadi close, his decayed lips parting to sink his teeth into her flesh.

The sight was too much—terror jolted through him, his legs moving, pushing through the endless sea of enemies.

He slashed wildly, rage and fear driving him forward, but the distance was too great, the moment slipping away too fast.

Duryodhan was close, his face twisted in anguish and fury as he fought like a madman to reach her. But there was no time—no way to stop what was coming.

A surge of helplessness gripped the men as they watched in horror.

Then, like the sky itself had split apart, a roar ripped through the battlefield.

It was not the roar of a man, but of a force of nature.

The sound was so primal, so filled with raw, unchained fury that it silenced even the undead for a brief moment.

A massive wall behind Draupadi exploded as if it were made of brittle stone, debris flying through the air like dust, scattering in all directions.

The sheer force of the destruction sent shockwaves through the ground, and then, from the smoke and rubble, a figure emerged.

Bheem.

He was a beast cloaked in the form of a man, his enormous frame dominating the battlefield.

His broad shoulders and muscular arms glistened with sweat and blood, veins bulging with power.

His hair, wild and dark, fell across his rugged, fierce face, and his eyes burned with a terrifying, unrelenting rage. There was no mercy in those eyes—only a storm of wrath.

His chest rose and fell with each furious breath, and every muscle in his body was taut, coiled like a predator ready to strike.

His skin glowed under the moonlight, a mix of sweat and war-paint smeared across his face, only amplifying the danger he radiated.

He was the very embodiment of raw, masculine power—savage, untamed, and unstoppable.

With a snarl that reverberated through the air,

Bheem lunged forward with terrifying speed. In a single, brutal motion, his massive hand shot out and clamped around the undead soldier’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

The undead’s grip on Draupadi loosened immediately, the surprise clear even in his lifeless eyes.

Bheem didn’t pause. His other hand, like a vice, fisted into the creature’s hair and yanked back with such ferocity that the sickening crack of bones breaking echoed like thunder.

The undead struggled, its decayed limbs flailing helplessly, but Bheem’s grip only tightened.

His voice, when it came, was a low, dangerous growl. “Don’t you dare touch my woman.”

His words were filled with possessiveness, each one dripping with fury so intense it sent shivers through the living and the dead alike.

His anger was palpable, alive, radiating off him like heat from a wildfire. He was a man on the edge of violence—teetering between fury and destruction, and anyone who stood in his way was as good as dead.

Without a flicker of hesitation, Bheem twisted his massive hands, and the undead’s head ripped from its body with a grotesque squelching sound.

The body fell limp, but Bheem wasn’t done. His eyes flashed with dark satisfaction as he crushed the skull between his fingers, tossing the remains aside like trash.

Draupadi gasped, her knees buckling beneath her, but before she could hit the ground,

Bheem was there, his powerful arms catching her mid-fall. His touch, though still trembling with fury, was impossibly gentle as he pulled her close, cradling her against his massive chest.

She was safe in the arms of a man who would destroy the entire world for her if need be.

“Are you hurt?” Bheem’s voice, still rough, softened slightly as he looked down at her, his protective instinct overpowering everything else.

His rugged handsomeness was impossible to ignore—the wildness in his gaze tempered only by the deep love and care he felt for her.

Draupadi shook her head, her breath shaky as she pressed her hands to his chest, feeling the hard, solid muscle beneath her fingers.

Relief washed over her in waves, and her eyes filled with unshed tears as she looked up at him.

“I… I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Bheem’s grip tightened, and his jaw clenched.

“No one touches you. Not while I’m breathing.” His voice was a promise, a vow that echoed through the battlefield like a threat to anyone who dared think otherwise.

As he pulled her closer, the battle raged on around them, but nothing existed in Bheem’s world except the woman in his arms.

His heart still thundered in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but the instant he saw the fear leave her eyes, his own gaze softened, filled with love that ran deeper than any rage he had ever known.

Behind them, Nakul and Duryodhan reached the scene, panting and bloodied, but the relief on their faces was unmistakable.

They shared a silent moment of understanding, knowing that with Bheem here, Draupadi was as safe as she could be in the heart of this living nightmare.

But Bheem wasn’t done.

He gently lowered Draupadi to her feet, brushing his thumb over her cheek one last time before he stood, his body tense and coiled like a predator ready to unleash hell.

His eyes scanned the battlefield, locking onto the source of the nightmare—Ayushman.

Ayushman’s laughter rang out again, maniacal and deranged.

But now, Bheem was here, and Ayushman had no idea the fury that had just been unleashed upon him.

“I’ll kill them all,” Bheem growled, his voice low, deadly, and full of promise.

His enemies had no idea what was coming for them. . .

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