NOVEL WEB Chapter 17: 17. Master The Blaster
"3RD PERSON POV"
(Little R-18 Start)
The night was young, and the sky outside was painted in deep shades of blue and black. Inside the quiet house, Aravind and Suryakantham stood in the kitchen, washing the dinner plates together. The warm light above them cast a soft glow on their faces, making the moment feel cozy and calm.
Suryakantham stood in front of Aravind, a gentle smile playing on her lips as the water flowed over their hands. Aravind stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his hands resting on hers as they moved in sync, rinsing the dishes.
But Aravind wasn't just helping with the plates.
His fingers playfully intertwined with hers, brushing over them slowly, almost teasingly. The cold water splashed softly against their skin as their fingers moved together in a quiet, intimate rhythm. Then, without warning, Aravind leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the side of her neck.
A faint, surprised sound escaped Suryakantham's lips, and she turned her head slightly, whispering, "Aaru, what are you doing?"
Aravind didn't stop. Still kissing the side of her neck, he murmured with a grin, "I want dessert after dinner."
His lips moved up to her chin, and he placed another warm kiss there. Another soft sound left her mouth, a mix of surprise and amusement.
"But we're washing dishes," she said breathlessly, trying to keep her focus.
"The plates are almost done," he whispered between kisses. "Let them soak a little."
Aravind released her hands, his grip shifting to her waist. His lips continued their passionate exploration of Suryakantham's neck, while his hands began a slow, deliberate dance across her skin.
His left hand slipped beneath the hem of her t-shirt, inching upwards until it found the soft curve of her left breast. The kiss deepened, a silent language of desire as his fingers gently closed around her, his thumb finding and teasing her nipple.
A soft moan escaped Suryakantham's lips as a delicious ache bloomed within her.
Simultaneously, his right hand dipped inside the waistband of her shorts, his fingers tracing the delicate line of her inner thigh before finally finding the warm, moist heat of her desire.
A gasp caught in Suryakantham's throat as his fingers began their intimate exploration. Sensations, both exquisite and overwhelming, pulsed through her. "Aa... Aaru..." she murmured, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "No... not now... Aa, Aaru..." Her words were a plea, a protest that was already losing the battle against the rising tide of her own longing.
Just as Suryakantham teetered on the precipice of pleasure, Aravind withdrew his hand. A soft cry, "Aa... Aaru," escaped her lips, a sound of frustrated longing. But before she could fully voice her disappointment, Aravind swept her into his arms.
Instinctively, Suryakantham wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging to him. Aravind's hands tightened on her hips, his thumbs pressing possessively into the curve of her flesh. He looked into her eyes, a deep, smoldering promise in their depths. "Let's continue in the bedroom," he murmured, his voice thick with desire.
Suryakantham could only nod, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A sudden, sharp squeeze on her hip made her moan, a raw sound that only fueled Aravind's passion. He crashed his lips onto hers, his kiss fierce and demanding, his mouth devouring hers. His tongue plunged inside, meeting hers in a heated, intimate dance.
One of his hands left her hip, sliding upwards beneath her t-shirt. He broke the kiss, their breaths mingling in the charged air. With a swift movement, he pulled the garment over her head, his eyes feasting on the sight of her bare breasts. A hungry groan rumbled in his chest as he cupped their fullness, his thumbs stroking and teasing her nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.
Suryakantham's hands framed his face, pulling him closer as they kissed again, their mouths clinging, sucking, devouring. Holding her securely in his arms, Aravind began to walk towards the bedroom.
(R-18 End)
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"3RD PERSON POV"
Sometime later, in the quiet of the bedroom, Aravind and Suryakantham lay asleep, wrapped in each other's warmth. Suryakantham was curled up close to him, her arms wrapped around his torso like a soft blanket, her face gently nuzzled into his chest. Her breathing was steady and peaceful, the rise and fall of her chest matching the slow rhythm of his.
After their intimate moments earlier, exhaustion had caught up with her. She had taken a quick bath and slipped into bed, falling asleep almost instantly in Aravind's arms.
Aravind, however, slowly opened his eyes. He looked down at Suryakantham, his gaze softening. With a quiet smile, he leaned in and kissed her forehead. Careful not to wake her, he gently shifted her arm and slid out from beneath her embrace.
He reached over to the bedside table, picked up a pair of earbuds, and tenderly placed them in her ears, making sure they were snug but comfortable. She didn't stir, still lost in sleep.
Stretching his body with a low sigh, Aravind walked quietly to the door. He glanced back at Suryakantham one more time, watching her with quiet affection. Then, slowly and silently, he stepped outside, pulled the door closed, and locked it behind him.
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"3RD PERSON POV"
The night was dark and silent outside Aravind's house. A group of men stood in the shadows, each holding a gun fitted with a silencer. They moved with caution, their eyes sharp, their footsteps almost soundless as they approached the front door.
One of the men reached out and tried the doorknob. To his surprise, it turned easily.
"It's already open, boss," he whispered, glancing back.
The leader narrowed his eyes and smirked. "Looks like the target forgot to lock the door. Lucky for us. Let's move."
The rest of the group nodded silently and slipped inside one by one, closing the door behind them without a sound. The house was dim, the only light coming from the faint moonlight seeping through the curtains. They entered the living room, their eyes adjusting to the darkness, scanning the space for signs of Aravind's bedroom.
Just as they were about to move further in, a soft sound echoed through the silence—a small click, followed by a low hum.
Immediately alert, the men raised their guns, pointing in the direction of the sound. Their eyes locked onto an old-fashioned radio with a sleek, modern twist sitting on a shelf in the corner. A red light blinked, and suddenly, the speakers came to life, playing a song in a low, almost eerie volume:
"Got the man with the plan right here
Bringing swag with the man right here
Livin' up and sippin' on beer
Yeah, clap for me man right here"
As the old radio suddenly crackled to life and began playing music, a cold sweat formed on the foreheads of the intruders. Their grips tightened on their guns, and their eyes darted around the room, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Without warning, the kitchen light flicked on.
All of them flinched, turning in unison to point their weapons toward the bright doorway. The kitchen was quiet. No footsteps. No movement. Just silence—broken only by the slow, steady beat of the music still playing from the radio.
Their breathing grew heavier. Their hearts pounded harder.
The boss clenched his jaw and whispered harshly, "Hey, go check the kitchen."
One of the men glanced at him, eyes wide with fear. "M-me?" he stammered.
"Yes, you! Move your ass. Now!" the boss snapped.
Swallowing hard, the man nodded shakily. "O-okay…"
Gun raised, he slowly crept toward the kitchen. The others watched, barely breathing.
He stepped past the doorway… and vanished.
There was no sound. No struggle. No scream. Just silence.
Seconds passed. Then a minute.
Still nothing.
Fear spread like a wave through the group. The remaining men glanced at each other, their faces pale. The boss stared at the kitchen entrance, lips slightly parted, as if expecting his man to step back out at any moment.
But he didn't.
The music from the radio seemed louder now, though the volume hadn't changed. The lyrics bounced off the walls, mocking them with their cheerfulness, making the fear in their hearts grow thicker.
Something was very wrong.
The boss turned to another one of his men, eyes wide with tension, and barked, "You! Go check why he hasn't come back."
The man flinched, stammering, "M-me? W-why don't you go yourself?"
Without hesitation, the boss raised his gun and pointed it straight at him. "I said go."
Swallowing his fear, the man nodded shakily. "O-okay… I'm going."
He walked slowly toward the kitchen, every step feeling heavier than the last. The others watched in complete silence, their fingers twitching on their triggers. The radio kept playing in the background, the cheerful beat now sounding twisted in the thick air of dread.
As the man crossed the threshold into the kitchen, he suddenly collapsed with a dull thud—lifeless. A pool of blood began spreading from his neck, the dark liquid glistening in the faint light.
Panic exploded in the room.
"Shit!" one of them gasped.
Without waiting for orders, they all raised their guns and started firing blindly into the kitchen. The silencers muffled the sound of bullets, but each muzzle flash lit up the dark living room like lightning, creating eerie shadows across the walls.
Their breaths were ragged. Their hands trembling. No one dared to stop firing.
After a moment, the shooting stopped. The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by their heavy breathing and the low beat of the song still playing.
Their eyes stayed locked on the kitchen, hands gripping their weapons, knuckles pale from fear.
Then—a foot stepped into view.
Slowly, Aravind appeared at the kitchen entrance, standing tall under the flickering light. In his right hand, he held a bloodied kitchen knife. Thick drops of crimson dripped from its sharp edge, hitting the floor with a soft, chilling pat… pat… pat.
His eyes were calm—too calm.
The men stood frozen, unable to speak, as the radio played behind him, like a haunting soundtrack to the nightmare unfolding before them.
"Hey, no matter what they say
Master the blaster
Hey, no matter what they do
Mr. master the blaster
Riddim!"
Aravind scanned the living room with cold, calculating eyes, his gaze moving over each man like a silent executioner marking names on a list. The air was thick with fear and gunpowder, the only sound the low hum of the radio and the slow drip of blood from his knife.
The boss, wide-eyed and trembling, opened his mouth to shout—maybe an order, maybe a warning—but he never got the chance.
With a flick of his wrist, Aravind hurled the blood-soaked knife. The blade sliced through the air with a silent whistle before burying itself deep into the boss's throat. The tip pierced clean through, jutting out from the back of his neck.
The man gurgled, eyes bulging in shock. Blood bubbled from his mouth and spilled down his chest like a broken dam. His knees gave out, and he collapsed with a heavy thud, twitching once before going still.
A sharp silence fell.
Aravind stepped forward, his voice low and calm, almost too soft for the room.
"Don't shout. My girlfriend's sleeping."
The remaining men snapped out of their shock, adrenaline crashing through their veins. Fear took over—pure, animal fear. Without thinking, they raised their guns toward him, fingers twitching on the triggers.
But Aravind was already gone from where he stood.
In a blink, he appeared in front of one of the men. The man flinched, too slow, too human. Aravind caught his wrist mid-air and twisted. There was a sickening crack as the bone shattered, bending the arm in a direction it wasn't meant to go. The man screamed—but Aravind didn't give him the chance to finish.
Still holding the man's broken arm, he forced the gun upward—pressing the barrel right under the man's chin.
Click.
Boom.
The muffled blast from the silencer was still deafening at close range. The bullet tore through the man's jaw, exited from the top of his skull, and painted the ceiling red. His head snapped back as blood and brain matter splashed the wall behind him. His body twitched, then crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
Aravind didn't even flinch.
His chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled rhythm—like he was just getting warmed up.
And the music played on.
"Hey, no matter what they say
Master the blaster (master the blaster)
Hey, no matter what they do
Mr. master the blaster"
The rest of the men backed away, panic in their eyes, realizing too late—
They weren't hunters.
They were prey.
One of the men, his hands trembling and lips quivering, tried to cry out—maybe to warn the others, maybe just to scream—but Aravind was already gone, swallowed by the darkness like a phantom.
The only light in the house came from the flickering bulb in the kitchen, its pale glow casting twisted shadows that danced along the walls like ghosts. The air grew thick, heavy with silence and the metallic scent of blood. Every breath the intruders took felt like it echoed. They turned in circles, weapons raised, eyes wide and desperate. Their hearts pounded like tribal drums, faster and louder with each passing second.
Then—crack.
The sharp, unmistakable crunch of glass breaking underfoot.
One man spun toward the sound at the end of the hallway, but he was too slow.
From the shadows, Aravind lunged forward like a beast unchained. In one fluid motion, he grabbed a heavy glass vase from the corner table. The man's eyes widened—he raised his gun, mouth opening to shout—but Aravind was already on him.
The vase smashed into his face with a sickening crunch. Bone cracked. Blood exploded. Shards flew everywhere as the vase disintegrated against his skull. The man screamed, stumbling backward, his face a mess of blood, broken glass, and confusion.
But Aravind wasn't finished.
Like a predator with no mercy, he dropped low, swept up a jagged shard of the shattered vase, and drove it sideways into the man's throat.
The glass pierced deep. It sliced through skin, tendon, and artery with horrifying ease. The man's scream caught in his throat, replaced by a wet gurgle as his eyes went wide with terror. Blood spurted out in heavy pulses, splashing against Aravind's arm and the nearby wall.
The man's knees gave out, his body twitching as he collapsed. He clutched at his throat, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was useless. His mouth moved, forming silent words, begging for mercy that would never come.
Aravind didn't pause. His body flowed like water, instincts sharper than any blade. As remaining intruders opened fire, he dropped low and rolled behind the couch. The hiss of silenced bullets tore through the space he'd just occupied, muffled but deadly. The muzzle flashes lit their terrified faces in staccato bursts, sweat glistening on their brows, fingers trembling on the triggers.
Behind the couch, Aravind's eyes locked onto a steel floor lamp. Without hesitation, he yanked it by the neck, ripping the cord from the wall with a snap. One swift twist and the top light fixture snapped off, leaving behind a smooth, solid metal pole—heavy, cold, and perfect for destruction.
Footsteps approached. One of the men edged past the couch, gun raised, breath shallow. He never saw it coming.
With the speed of a striking snake, Aravind lunged from the shadows. The steel pole crashed into the back of the man's knee with a sickening crack, bone shattering like brittle wood. The man howled, dropping his weapon and crumbling to the floor in agony. But Aravind didn't give him time to scream again.
He spun the pole in his hand, reversed the grip, and with surgical brutality, rammed the jagged end down into the man's open mouth. The metal speared through his jaw, punching out the back of his skull with a wet, meaty crunch. The man spasmed once—twice—and went still, his eyes rolled back and blood bubbling around the metal now buried in his brain.
Aravind stood up, yanking the bloodied pole free with a savage jerk. Bone and brain matter clung to the end like meat on a skewer.
Another body hit the floor. Another heartbeat silenced.
And still, he didn't stop.
Only two remained.
Their backs pressed to the hallway wall, chests heaving, eyes wide with terror. Sweat soaked through their clothes, their hands trembling as they waved their guns in every direction, hoping—praying—they'd catch even a flicker of movement before it was too late.
One of them stumbled, his boot catching on a small side table. It toppled with a thud, knocking the old radio. The song stuttered, skipping a beat like the house itself held its breath.
That single moment of distraction was all it took.
The man made the fatal mistake of turning his back to the kitchen.
A shadow stepped out behind him, silent and deliberate.
Aravind hands gripped the cast iron pan from the stove. The black metal was stained with heat, slick with old grease and rage. He raised it high, the muscle in his arm tightening like a coiled spring.
And then he brought it down.
The pan collided with the back of the man's skull with a sickening, meaty crunch. The sound was something primal—like a watermelon crushed underfoot. The man didn't even scream. His body stiffened, then dropped like a sack of meat, legs twitching. Blood poured from his ears, nose, and mouth all at once, dark and thick, pooling beneath him. His head was ruined, the skull caved in like it had been hammered by a god.
Aravind didn't flinch. He just stood there for a second, eyes dead, holding the dripping pan loosely in one hand like it was just another tool.
Only one was left.
He stood paralyzed in the middle of the blood-soaked living room, his gun trembling in both hands, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal, desperately searching for a way out, for some hope of survival. But there was none. Death had already entered the house—and it wore Aravind's face.
Quietly, Aravind bent down and picked up a broken chair leg. He weighed it in his hand, feeling the balance, the weight, the promise of violence it held. Then, from behind the curtain-draped hallway, he hurled it.
The wooden leg smashed against the wall near the last man with a loud crack.
The man snapped around, panic firing before thought could. He emptied his entire magazine into the shadows—bullet after bullet, spraying wildly. But there was no target.
Just air.
Click.
Empty.
His fingers scrambled for a fresh mag, but his hands were shaking too hard. That was when he felt the presence behind him.
Aravind grabbed the man by the collar with both hands and slammed him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. The gun clattered to the floor as the man gasped, wind knocked clean out of his lungs. Aravind didn't give him a second to recover. He reached up, tore a decorative iron wall hook from its screws, and with a savage thrust, jammed it deep into the man's chest.
The hook pierced through flesh and bone, crunching past ribs and sinking into the meat of his lungs. The man let out a strangled gasp, eyes wide in horror as he clutched at the iron still buried in his chest. Blood bubbled from his lips, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.
His legs gave out.
Aravind didn't let go.
He leaned in close, his breath calm, his voice ice. "I told you… she's sleeping."
Then, with a slow twist of the hook, he tore through the man's insides.
A gurgling noise. A final jerk.
Then silence.
The body slid down the wall and hit the floor with a wet thud, leaving a long smear of blood behind.
The house was still once more.
No screams. No sirens. Just the quiet hum of the radio.
"Got the man with the plan right here
Bringing swag with the man right here (live it)
Livin' up and sippin' on beer
Yeah, clap for me man right here..."
The music played on, low and smooth, filling the silence like a taunt.
Aravind glanced around the living room, eyes settling on the trail of broken furniture, shattered glass, and lifeless bodies scattered like trash. Blood stained the floors, walls, even the ceiling fan had caught some of the splatter. He exhaled a long, tired sigh and murmured under his breath, "Now I have to clean all this up... before anyone sees."
Another sigh escaped him, heavier this time.
The radio had gone silent—no more music, just a soft static hum in the background. Aravind narrowed his eyes. That song… he had never heard it before. And yet it played perfectly during the chaos, like it was timed for his entrance.
'SYS,' he called out in his mind, 'care to explain how the radio started playing a song by itself? Especially one I've never even heard before?'
A familiar chime echoed in his head, and a transparent screen blinked into view before him. Bright text appeared:
[Host, it was a theme song. You know—the kind that plays during a hero's entrance or fight scene. I thought it looked cool. Didn't you?]
Aravind stared at the message, face blank. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, after a long pause, he muttered in thought, '...Well, you're not wrong. It did fit the moment.'
[Thank you, Host.]
The screen blinked away with a cheerful chime, leaving only silence behind.
Aravind dragged his hand down his face, eyes sweeping the destruction once more. A splintered coffee table, three holes in the wall, blood dripping from a shattered light fixture. He groaned.
Another sigh.
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"3RD PERSON POV"
Inside the bedroom, Suryakantham slept peacefully, completely unaware of the carnage that had unfolded just beyond the walls. Her breathing was soft, steady, her hand instinctively reaching out to the side in search of Aravind's warmth.
But her arm found only the cold sheets.
Still half-asleep, she murmured, "Aaru...?" Her voice was groggy, barely above a whisper.
She slowly blinked her eyes open, glancing around the dim room. Not seeing him, she assumed he must be in the washroom. Her gaze drifted toward the bathroom door—but it was closed and locked.
She pushed the blanket off her body and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her hair was messy, falling over one shoulder as she stumbled out of bed, her bare feet touching the cool floor. Still drowsy, she walked toward the door, her steps slow and quiet.
Just as her hand reached for the handle, the door suddenly swung open from the other side.
Startled, she looked up.
Aravind stood there, casually holding a water bottle in one hand. His clothes were clean, his expression calm, and there was a gentle smile on his face like nothing had happened.
"Hey," he said softly, as if trying not to wake her more than necessary.
Seeing him, Suryakantham blinked up with sleepy eyes and asked softly, "Aaru… where were you?"
Aravind smiled gently and raised the water bottle in his hand. "I forgot to bring this earlier. So, I went to the kitchen to grab it. Did I wake you?"
She shook her head, her messy hair falling over her face. Without saying anything, she reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against him.
Aravind chuckled quietly and leaned down, slipping one arm under her legs and lifting her with ease. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as she clung to him, her warmth pressing close.
Still holding her, he walked back toward the bed. He set the bottle down on the side table and gently lowered both of them onto the mattress. Suryakantham didn't let go, her arms snug around him like a child afraid to lose her favorite person.
Aravind shifted slightly, pulling the blanket over them. With her head resting against his chest and his arms wrapped around her protectively, he let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.