Narasimha, Avatar of Wrath

The golden halls of the demon kingdom did not echo with prayers, but with a challenge to the heavens.

Hiranyakashipu had outsmarted fate. He held a cosmic boon that made him entirely untouchable: he could not be slain inside his palace or outside of it. Not during the blistering heat of the day, nor in the freezing dark of the night. Not by the hand of any living man, nor by the claw of any wild beast. Armed with an ironclad loophole in the laws of existence, the tyrant king declared himself the absolute center of the universe. He believed he had broken the system.

Hiranyakashipu forgot that Dharma does not argue with tyrants. It adapts to crush them.

At the exact threshold of twilight, in essence which was neither day nor night, the grand courtyard pillars of the palace began to violently fracture. The stone didn't just crack; it screamed as reality tore open at the seams. Out of the dust stepped an impossible paradox. A terrifying divine beast of razor-sharp iron armor, tattered obsidian capes, and the roaring visage of a golden-eyed lion, the Lord of Wrath.

Neither man nor animal. Standing precisely on the threshold of the doorway to the realms neither inside nor outside.

The entity did not carry a weapon born of mortal furnaces. He wielded a greatsword forged from the weight of collapsing stars, and hands ending in claws meant for systemic purging. Where mortal logic failed, absolute, unbridled cosmic retribution answered. The loophole was closed. The illusion of immortality was ripped to shreds.