Vikram nodded, his mind racing. Nagarjunasagar wasn’t just a dam; it was a place steeped in history, with ancient Buddhist relics and submerged temples whispering of a forgotten past. Lakshmi’s presence here wasn’t random. He stood, brushing mud from his knees

The mist hung low over Nagarjunasagar, shrouding the dam’s towering concrete face in a ghostly veil. The Krishna River murmured secrets as it flowed beneath, its waters dark and restless. Inspector Vikram Rao stood at the edge of the reservoir, his khaki uniform damp from the early morning dew. A fisherman had found a body at dawn, tangled in the reeds near the dam’s spillway. The call had come to the local police station at 5:47 AM, and Vikram, a man who thrived on instinct and coffee, was already on his third cup.

The victim was a woman, mid-thirties, her face pale and serene despite the violence done to her. Her throat bore a single, precise slash, and her hands were bound with coarse rope. A strange pendant—a coiled serpent carved from black stone—hung around her neck. Vikram crouched beside the body, his sharp eyes scanning for clues. The scene was too clean, too deliberate. This wasn’t a crime of passion; it was a message.

“Sir, we’ve identified her,” said Constable Suresh, his voice unsteady. “Lakshmi Sriram, a history professor from Hyderabad. She was staying at the guest house near the Buddhist ruins.”

Vikram nodded, his mind racing. Nagarjunasagar wasn’t just a dam; it was a place steeped in history, with ancient Buddhist relics and submerged temples whispering of a forgotten past. Lakshmi’s presence here wasn’t random. He stood, brushing mud from his knees. “Get her phone records and find out who she was meeting. And Suresh—check if anyone saw her near the ruins last night.”

The investigation led Vikram to the Nagarjuna Museum, a crumbling structure housing artifacts from the submerged city of Nagarjunakonda. The curator, an elderly man named Dr. Rao, adjusted his glasses nervously as Vikram questioned him. “Lakshmi was researching the Nagarjuna cult,” he said. “A secretive sect from the 2nd century, tied to tantric rituals. She believed they left behind a hidden relic—a ‘Serpent’s Eye,’ a gem said to grant power over life and death.”

Vikram’s gut tightened. The pendant on Lakshmi’s body wasn’t just jewelry. “Did she mention anyone else? A collaborator? A rival?”

Dr. Rao hesitated. “She met a man two days ago. Foreigner, maybe British. He was asking about the same relic. They argued loudly in the library.”

Back at the station, Suresh handed Vikram a grainy CCTV still from the guest house. It showed Lakshmi with a tall, gaunt man in a linen suit, his face half-hidden by a hat. “No ID yet,” Suresh said. “But her phone records show calls to an unlisted number in London.”

Vikram’s instincts screamed: this was no academic dispute. The serpent pendant, the ritualistic killing, the foreign connection—it all pointed to something bigger. He drove to the Buddhist ruins, where ancient stupas loomed like silent sentinels. The air felt heavy, as if the stones themselves were watching. Near a collapsed pillar, he found fresh cigarette butts—foreign brand, Dunhill. The man in the suit.

That night, Vikram staked out the guest house, his Maruti Gypsy parked in the shadows. At 11:23 PM, a figure slipped out, carrying a satchel. Vikram followed, keeping his distance. The man moved swiftly toward the dam, descending a maintenance ladder to the spillway. Vikram’s pulse quickened. He crept closer, his service revolver drawn.

The man stopped at the water’s edge, kneeling to unearth something—a metal box, glinting in the moonlight. Vikram stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence. “Police. Hands up.”

The man spun, his face illuminated—a sharp jaw, pale eyes, and a smirk. “Inspector, you’re out of your depth,” he said, his accent crisp. He lunged, a knife flashing. Vikram dodged, tackling him into the mud. The box clattered open, revealing a blood-red gem pulsing with an eerie light. The Serpent’s Eye.

They fought, fists and steel clashing, the dam’s roar drowning their grunts. Vikram landed a blow, pinning the man. “Who are you? Why kill her?”

The man laughed, blood trickling from his lip. “Lakshmi wanted to expose the Eye, to give it to a museum. My employers… they prefer it stays hidden. Power like this doesn’t belong in a glass case.”

Vikram cuffed him, his mind reeling. The man’s wallet revealed a name: Alistair Crane, private collector. A quick call to Hyderabad confirmed his ties to an international antiquities ring. Lakshmi had been a threat, her research too close to their secrets.

As dawn broke, Vikram stood by the dam, the gem secured in an evidence bag. The mist was lifting, but the weight of the case lingered. The Serpent’s Eye was safe—for now. But Vikram knew relics like this had a way of resurfacing, drawing blood in their wake. He lit a cigarette, staring at the river. Nagarjunasagar kept its secrets, and he’d be ready when they stirred again.