The government, furious after the tunnel sabotage, realized brute force alone couldn’t end the resistance. Flamethrowers charred walls, hoses blasted muck, but the fighters always slipped away. So they hired a force spoken of in dread across the subcontinent: **Ganges Greatest.**

These weren’t ordinary mercenaries. They were yogic specialists of the lower body chakras, trained to weaponize the gut through ancient breathwork. But their real terror was what they could summon. Through deep, guttural chants they birthed **spirit poop hounds**—phantoms with glowing ember eyes, dripping filth as they padded forward.

The hounds didn’t track blood. They tracked methane. One fart, even muffled, could betray a fighter for miles. The tunnels became a nightmare of echoes and growls. Their leader, **Guru Ghanda**, squatted at junctions, slamming palms to stone while chanting until the sewage itself split open. From the cracks came the hounds, snarling, claws scraping, eager for the hunt.

The first resistance cell caught by them never had a chance. Three men guarding a barricade near the Ministry of Finance felt the air grow heavy, the scent of incense curling through sewage. Then came the hounds. Their claws didn’t shred flesh, but sank straight into the gut, draining strength until the men collapsed screaming. Those screams carried up through manholes, a warning to all.

Fear spread fast. Every gurgle, every slip of gas, every nervous grunt became a beacon of death. The tunnels, once the resistance’s sanctuary, were now a hunting ground. Posters appeared above ground: *“Ganges Greatest: Purity Through the Hunt.”*

Whispers grew of countermeasures—charms, rituals, maybe even their own summoned allies. Because now the Poop War was no longer just flesh and fire. It had become a war of spirits, fought in filth itself.