Arya ran through the chaos of the battlefield, pushing past soldiers, his eyes fixed ahead. The tent loomed in the distance, surrounded by guards and attendants. Inside, Rudra's limp form was being carried toward the center, where the vaidya waited.
Behind Arya, the battlefield roared on. Dhanudanda now stood alone at the frontline. The moment Arya disappeared from his side, something shifted in Dhanudanda's eyes—a flicker of disbelief, quickly replaced by molten rage. His blade, slick with blood, glinted beneath the reddening sky.
Sharvas saw the shift. With Arya gone and Ashvapati still recovering from his clash, the center had cracked. He leaned forward, signaling to his captains.
"Push. Now."
The drums pounded. Sharvas' forces surged.
But they hadn't accounted for Dhanudanda's fury.
He charged—not away from the fight, but into it, like a blazing storm. His sword became a whirlwind, cleaving through armored men as if they were made of straw. Each strike carried a roar behind it, fueled by betrayal, anger, and a thirst for justice.
One soldier raised his shield—Dhanudanda shattered it and took the arm with it.
Another aimed a spear at his chest—Dhanudanda caught the haft mid-thrust, yanked the man forward, and smashed his skull with a headbutt.
He wasn't just fighting. He was unleashing.
But it wasn't just Arya who angered him—it was Sharvas. It was the violation of the ancient rules. The sacred blowing of the shankh that signified a halt. A moment to tend to the wounded. Respect.
Sharvas had spit on it.
Dhanudanda's eyes locked onto the warlord at a distance, and his rage found a target.
"SHAAARVAAAAS!" he bellowed, his voice rising over the screams and steel.
On the far flank of the battlefield, Kritipal and Eknandini pressed hard against Savignya and Parashar. The Kshoniraajas loomed over them, the sky darkening behind their monstrous silhouettes.
Kaalraths swarmed one of the giants, coordinating like silent phantoms. One got too close—the giant swung low. A crack of bone echoed, and the Kaalrath crumpled.
The others didn't scream. They just moved.
Three of them vaulted over the fallen body, knives gleaming. One slashed at the tendons behind the giant's knee. Another leapt and drove his blade into its shoulder. The third pierced its side with cruel efficiency.
The giant roared and flailed—but the Kaalraths didn't stop.
They tore into it like wolves.
Ashvapati limped into the storm beside Parashar. The warlord glanced at him, blood trickling down his temple.
"I thought you were resting."
Ashvapati's lip curled. "I was. Now I'm done."
Another Kshoniraaja lunged forward. Ashvapati's hammer met the beast's club with a clang that shook the ground. Sparks flew. The giant tried to push him back—but Ashvapati didn't budge.
His feet dug into the earth.
Then he twisted. The hammer swept low, colliding with the giant's leg. The bone shattered. The beast howled and stumbled.
Ashvapati leapt, bringing the hammer down on its chest.
Eknandini danced around Savignya, her twin daggers gleaming like vipers. One of them grazed Savignya's cheek. Blood trickled.
"You're getting slow," Eknandini said with a smirk.
Savignya responded with a brutal counterstrike that forced Eknandini to backflip away.
Parashar, meanwhile, had locked swords with Kritipal. The two warlords were a study in contrast—Parashar's brute force against Kritipal's sharp, measured technique. Every blow from Parashar forced Kritipal to sidestep, but Kritipal kept drawing him further into the battlefield, cutting little by little.
In the tent, Rudra lay unconscious, his skin pale. The arrow had been removed, but blood still seeped slowly from the wound. The vaidya pressed herbs into the gash, wrapping it with layers of cloth.
Arya burst in, eyes wide, breath ragged.
The men looked up in surprise. Raghav stood near Rudra's side, fists clenched. His eyes were red.
The vaidya didn't look up. "He's alive, but fading. If the bleeding doesn't stop, we may lose him."
Arya stepped closer. Rudra's chest rose and fell weakly.
Raghav turned to Arya. "He didn't get cover in time. He was helping a wounded man when the arrows came."
Arya said nothing. His jaw tightened.
The vaidya looked at him. "He will need time. And quiet. And luck."
Arya nodded. Then turned to Raghav.
"I will be back in some time. Don't let him go. Not until I return."
Raghav looked confused. "Where are you going?"
Arya didn't answer. He turned, walking out slowly.
His face was blank. No rage. No pain. Just silence.
Outside, the sunset bathed the battlefield in crimson. Blood and dust stained the ground. Cries of the wounded rose with the dying light.
Arya stepped out into the madness. Each step was deliberate.
His mind was not calm. It was sharp. Focused.
He wasn't running this time.
He had made that mistake before—staying when he should've left. Leaving when he should've stayed. This time, he was choosing.
Sharvas had broken the code. Rudra was paying the price.
Someone had to answer for it.
Arya reached the frontline. A soldier ran to him. "Lord Arya! You shouldn't be—"
Arya raised a hand, silencing him.
He moved like a ghost through the ranks, passing by the stunned faces of his own men. His sword gleamed at his side, untouched.
Not for long.
The Kshoniraajas were still engaged, but the tide was shifting. Ashvapati had crippled another. Dhanudanda was cutting through the enemy's center like a scythe. The morale of Sharvas' army was cracking.
Then Arya entered the fray.
His sword slid free.
The first enemy soldier lunged—Arya sidestepped and cut his throat clean.
Another tried to flank him—Arya spun and stabbed through the ribs, twisting.
He wasn't fighting with rage. He was fighting with clarity.
Every move calculated. Every strike final.
As the final rays of sunlight kissed the battlefield, Arya's silhouette stood in stark contrast to the chaos around him. Blood spattered his clothes. His hair clung to his face. But his grip was steady. His gaze unblinking.
The war had turned again.
But this time—
There was no room for mercy.