Chapter 3: Blood, Blunders, and a Rescue

The wounds on his body are so gruesome, they hurt just to look at.

For a moment, I can’t breathe—old scars crisscross fresh ones, each one a story untold. My mind flashes to childhood—scraped knees, Amma’s soft hands. Here, there is no one to comfort him.

I don’t dare look closely.

Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, fingers hovering above his chest, afraid of hurting him more.

I close my eyes, feeling around his chest with my hand.

His skin is warm beneath my palm, the scales rough and unfamiliar. I pause, listening to his heartbeat—fast, unsteady, yet stubbornly strong.

Found it.

My palm brushes against a bump—must be the heart-protecting scale.

It’s different from the rest—harder, almost pulsing beneath my touch. My heart skips a beat. Am I really about to do this?

I get a little excited—finally about to finish the quest!

After so much drama, at last, some progress! I almost feel a thrill, like scoring full marks in a surprise test.

I tug hard.

Arjun lets out a muffled grunt.

The sound jolts through me—not anger, but pain, raw and sharp. My grip falters, guilt rising like a tidal wave.

I’m so startled I open my eyes.

His face is flushed, sweat beading along his jaw. He bites his lip, fighting back another sound, and I realize with a jolt that I’m the cause.

A few strands of Arjun’s hair fall over his forehead, his face flushes, and his body heats up.

He looks vulnerable, almost too human—a world away from the fearsome general I’d always known.

My eyes get red. He looks like he’s in so much pain.

A lump rises in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. I want to say sorry, to take it all back, but it’s too late.

I hurt him. I’m about to pull out his scale. It must hurt so much.

The weight of my actions presses down, heavier than my tail. I want to run, to hide, to do anything but this.

My tears fall uncontrollably.

Crying, I rub him a little, hoping he’ll feel better.

I reach out, almost by instinct, my hand gently moving over his wound. I almost start humming the lullaby Amma sang when I had a fever—soft, shaky, but full of apology. ‘Shh, sorry, sorry,’ I whisper, my voice barely a breath. I wish I had Vicks, or Amma’s old haldi paste.

Arjun’s cold face twists with pain. He bites down, glaring at me like he wants to tear me apart.

But even through his anger, I see confusion. Maybe he never expected kindness from a villain. Or maybe he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Did I hurt him again? Will he die?

A terrible panic grips me. ‘Don’t die, don’t die,’ I pray silently, the way I used to during board exams.

I’m so guilty, I’m bawling.

Wuwuwu I’m a bad person.

My sobs echo off the cell walls, louder than a school assembly. My guilt floods the water, making everything blurry.

The system loses patience.

Are you dumb?

There’s a sharpness to the system’s voice now, like an exasperated elder brother. I almost expect it to pull my ear.

How many times have I told you—the mermaid princess is a villain! Do you know why she’s called a villain?

I sniffle, wiping my nose on my sleeve. Even villains have feelings, na?

The system realises it’s being too harsh and softens up.

Stop crying, be bold, rip it out!

He’s the male lead—no matter what we do, he won’t die.

That last bit comforts me, oddly. ‘Main lead hai yaar, plot armor hai uske paas.’ I almost smile. (😂)

I blink, wipe my tears, and bite my lip.

The taste of salt lingers, but determination hardens in my chest.

The system’s right. If I fail again, not just me, the system will be in deep trouble too.

The weight of responsibility settles over me. ‘Bro pe bharosa hai,’ I tell myself.

I steel myself, lean close to Arjun’s ear, and trembling, announce:

Arjun, this time I’m using all my strength.

My breath fans against his skin, and for a second, he looks at me with something almost like surprise. ‘Yeh ladki kya kar rahi hai?’

The scale on his chest is getting harder under my fingers, but no matter how I pull or scratch, it won’t budge.

I try everything—nails, knuckles, even a silent prayer. Nothing works. The scale is stubborn, like my old neighbour’s rusty gate.

Arjun’s breathing gets faster and faster, but tied up by the spirit-binding rope, he can’t fight back.

Every muscle in his body is taut, veins standing out beneath his skin. My own pulse echoes his, wild and fast.

His body is taut, his chest burning hot.

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. The river water feels warmer, thicker.

He seems at his limit.

I hesitate, the urge to comfort him warring with my orders. What am I doing to him?

Suddenly, Arjun lets out a roar.

The sound is primal—it rattles the oyster shells, sending tremors through the water. I jerk back, my tail thrashing.

A burst of naga aura explodes from him, scaring me into retreat, my fish tail flipping up in fright.

The water shimmers with golden light, swirling around us like Diwali sparklers. For a moment, I forget to breathe.

The system finally gives me some credit.

Nice! This guy’s screaming like he’s dying. Must hurt a lot.

A strange pride blooms in me—not for his pain, but for finally doing something right.

I check the panel—whoa, his anger value is skyrocketing.

The numbers spin so fast, it looks like the Mumbai local’s rush hour.

Wait, why’s the excitement value going up too?

Is this a glitch? Excitement? In this situation? I squint at the panel, confused.

The system goes quiet, then suddenly realises: Must be the anger lighting his fighting spirit.

Men, am I right? The more riled up, the more fired up.

‘Typical,’ I think, remembering my old school cricket matches—the angrier the boys got, the better they played.

I nod and ask softly:

Then should I... rub him some more?

But then I remember the main task and get confused.

But I still haven’t pulled out the scale?

My tail droops. ‘Kya yaar, ab kya karein?’

The system explains: In the original plot, the mermaid princess Priya tried every torture, but still couldn’t pull out Arjun’s heart-protecting scale.

There’s relief in the system’s tone now, as if it’s recounting the plot of a TV serial where the vamp’s plan always fails—and that’s the point.

But she did hurt him a lot, and maxed out his hatred value.

I gulp. Hatred—that’s a heavy word. Amma used to say, ‘Beta, nafrat ka bojh sabse zyada hota hai.’

It was never meant to come out.

So all this drama, all these tears—just for nothing? The futility stings.

But something’s still missing. I check the panel again.

I scroll through the glowing blue screen, squinting. There—a tiny red warning symbol, blinking like the old inverter light.

Found it—this part of the plot needs some blood spilled to count as complete.

My heart skips a beat. Blood? I look down at my trembling hands, at Arjun’s bruised skin. ‘Yeh sab sach mein zaroori hai?’

The system gives me a tip:

Go make him cough up blood.

No, better yet, slap him with your fish tail. Tails hurt more.

The system sounds almost gleeful. I can picture it—rolling up imaginary sleeves, ready to make some mischief.

I haven’t had this tail for long, still not used to it.

My tail flaps nervously behind me, unsure of its own strength. The water ripples, sending little fish darting away.

When I hear I have to slap someone, my tail shakes with fear.

All those years of being told to behave, to sit properly—now, I’m supposed to hit someone? My conscience rebels, but the system’s pressure is relentless.

I don’t want to hurt Arjun again. It’s not his fault for growing naga scales.

I bite my lip, glancing at his face—half-expecting him to spit out a snarky comment. But he just glares, silent, waiting.

But I don’t dare anger the system either.

Bro’s threats are legendary—he once crashed my digital fridge for refusing a quest. I shudder at the memory.

Like a seahorse, I awkwardly swim up to Arjun.

I move with all the grace of a beached whale, but determination steels my heart. I square my shoulders, such as they are.

I gather my courage, lift my broad tail fin, and slap it toward his handsome face.

The moment stretches—my tail sweeps the water, sparkling with blue light. ‘Bas, ek kaam toh sahi ho jaye.’

The blue fin sweeps through the water, barely brushing Arjun’s cheek as it lands on him.

A faint red mark appears. He blinks, surprise flickering across his features—like he didn’t expect me to actually try.

Arjun’s eyes flicker with surprise at my move.

For a heartbeat, he looks almost... impressed? Or maybe just bewildered.

The system wants to poke my forehead and scold me.

Are you wiping his sweat, behen? Why not use a feather duster? Worried he’ll catch a cold?

I blush, feeling like a small-town girl caught acting in a city play. ‘Behen, please.’

Can you be any less reliable? Just tell me if you can do it or not!

The system’s exasperation is almost comical now. I nod, tears in my eyes, trying to look braver than I feel.

I nod, tears in my eyes.

I give myself a pep talk, recalling old motivational WhatsApp forwards. ‘You can do it, Priya!’

Biting my lip, I swim a bit farther from Arjun.

Giving myself some distance, I psych myself up for the big move. ‘This is it, girl.’

The system asks impatiently: What are you doing?

I scoop up a handful of pearls and whisper:

I want to get a running start—uh, a swimming start. More power.

There’s a logic to this madness—even in cricket, you need a proper run-up to bowl fast.

Finally, some brains. Go for it!

I square my shoulders, focusing on Arjun. ‘Jai Bajrangbali,’ I mutter under my breath.

I lock onto my target, swing my tail hard, and swim toward Arjun.

Water surges around me, the world blurring at the edges. I feel strong, almost unstoppable.

Just as I’m about to reach him, the system shrieks in my head:

Stop! Stop! I just checked—in merfolk culture, smacking someone with your tail is a proper courtship display!

A thousand memories of old TV serials and whispered tales flood my mind. ‘Aiyyo, ab kya kiya?’

The system barely finishes speaking—

My tail has already hit Arjun’s lower abdomen.

The world slows—impact, resistance, and then pain, hot and sharp.

I used too much force—blood splatters all over him.

It’s everywhere, the water turning red. For a moment, I panic—is this it? The end?

From his face to his stomach, all bright red.

But the blood isn’t his—it’s mine. The realization makes my head spin.

My blood.

My tail fin struck the spirit-binding rope and sliced it off.

The rope falls away, fraying at the ends. A sliver of pride sneaks in—maybe I’m stronger than I thought.

The system is stunned for a second, then screams:

Arre Ram, what are you doing, you big Rohu? Why are you so reckless?

I almost want to giggle, despite the pain. ‘Big Rohu,’ it calls me—what an upgrade from my usual ‘pagal ladki.’

With the rope broken, Arjun is free.

He surges forward, confusion and fear battling in his eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look so lost.

He looks at me, pupils dilating, disbelief on his face.

His mouth opens, then closes, words sticking to his tongue. There’s something soft in his gaze now.

Then, his cold expression melts into panic.

His hands fumble, gentle yet desperate, as he pulls me close.

He grabs me and pulls me into his arms.

I go limp, blood trickling from my tail, staining the water between us. For a moment, the world narrows to the circle of his arms.

Naga roars echo around us.

The sound reverberates, primal and ancient, shaking the water cell’s very foundations. It’s like the conch shell blowing at the start of war.

Red blood pours from my tail fin, like countless threads wrapping Arjun and me together.

It’s almost poetic, the way our fates seem knotted together by my own lifeblood. My vision blurs, the world spinning.

I’ve lost so much blood, the pain has me gasping, belly nearly flipping up.

I struggle to stay conscious, willing myself not to fade away. ‘Bas, thoda aur, Priya.’

Arjun trembles as he cradles my tail, pouring spiritual energy into me.

His hands glow faintly, warmth spreading through my body. For a second, I think I see his true self—fierce, yes, but caring too.

Half-conscious, I ask the system:

Blood... has been spilled, does that count?

My words are slurred, floating up through the water. I can barely hear the reply.

The system yells:

You silly girl! Even if there’s blood, it can’t be your own!

I flinch, guilt mixing with shame. ‘Galti ho gayi, bro.’

Then it suddenly cries out:

Hai Ram, the male lead’s panic value just maxed out!

Numbers flash on the panel, alarms blaring. The system is practically dancing.

The panel updates the task status.

Panic value: achieved.

Anger value: achieved.

Blood spilled: achieved.

Panel detects: task over-completed.

Reward issued—

Host revival points +30.

System revival points +30.

I grin through the pain, relief washing over me. ‘First task done, Priya!’