A boy in the market looked at his mother and asked, "Who is Chhota Bheem?"
Kirmada laughed, a sound like grinding mountains. "Face you? Boy, you are already half a myth. Zuhu, show him."
But even as he said it, his gada (mace) flickered—solid, then ghostly, then solid again.
Zuhu dissolved into rust and silence.
Kirmada grinned, his yellow teeth gleaming like tombstones. "Then let the qayamat—the apocalypse—truly begin."
