Samad and Zahir, once trusted allies, now advanced toward Haman and Hamail — their eyes devoid of humanity, like lifeless husks driven by some sinister force. Under the dark enchantment of the Green-Haloed Man, they moved like puppets, compelled by his invisible strings.
They had originally arrived to support Haman and Hamail, but now, turned against them — their minds hijacked, their will no longer their own.
Suddenly, Zahir launched a brutal punch at Hamail. The blow came with such ferocity that Hamail had barely enough time to cross his wrists and block it. Even then, the force pushed him back, his feet skidding over the frozen surface as a thin layer of snow scattered into the air.
"Hamail! Easy! Don't hurt him!" Haman called out urgently. "He's our friend!"
Hamail shot a sharp glare toward Zahir, then turned that same fire toward Haman.
"Your friend... maybe. Not mine. But don't worry," he growled, his voice taut with controlled fury. "I haven't fallen so low as to hurt someone who's not even in control of themselves."
Zahir lunged again—eyes blazing with fury, breath steaming in the frigid air. His hand shot forward like a striking snake, aiming to crush Hamail's throat. But Hamail's instincts were sharper this time. He sidestepped with a swift grace born of countless battles, closing the distance in an instant.
His fingers snaked around Zahir's wrist mid-air, locking onto the joint with a ruthless grip. With a powerful leap, he thrust both feet against Zahir's broad shoulders, pushing upward with all his might.
Zahir's balance shattered.
With a brutal reverse-kick that sliced through the icy wind, Hamail sent him flying backward. Zahir crashed onto the frozen ground with a bone-jarring thud, shards of ice scattering like glass beneath him.
Before Zahir could react, Hamail landed beside him in one fluid motion, his breath sharp in his throat. Without hesitation, he slipped behind Zahir's sprawled form and locked his arms tightly around his head. With a sudden, controlled twist — just enough to snap the neck sideways — Zahir's body jolted once.
His eyes fluttered.
Then, darkness took him.
Hamail held the position a heartbeat longer, ensuring it was done. No blood. No cracking bone. Just the precise application of pressure — enough to shut Zahir down, not end him.
Zahir's body went limp in his grasp, unconscious but alive.
Hamail's muscles screamed with exertion, his heart hammering like a drum in his chest. He hesitated only a fraction of a second, then bent down and hoisted the limp form over his broad shoulders.
With the storm closing in and the biting cold gnawing at his skin, Hamail sprinted into the frozen wilderness—each step a desperate gamble against numbness and exhaustion. Snow crunched beneath his boots, wind slicing through his tattered cloak as he hunted for shelter, for any sign of safety amid the white chaos.
The blizzard howled like a beast, clawing at his face with icy fingers. Frost clung to his beard, his eyebrows stiff with frozen sweat. His breath came in sharp gasps, each one vanishing instantly into the white.
Trees loomed in the distance, their skeletal limbs groaning under heavy snow. Hamail staggered toward them, his vision blurring at the edges. He stumbled once, nearly falling, but gritted his teeth and pushed on. Zahir's body slipped slightly, and he adjusted his grip with a grunt, ignoring the screaming protest in his spine.
Finally—just as his strength began to falter—he spotted it: a break in the trees. A small overhang of rock half-buried in snow, its mouth dark and shallow, but wide enough to offer shelter from the storm. A miracle.
Hamail fell to his knees at the entrance, nearly collapsing. With the last of his energy, he dragged Zahir down from his shoulders and eased him against the rock wall, checking his pulse—still steady. Still alive. Just unconscious.
He collapsed beside him, chest heaving. Snow swirled outside, painting the forest in white, but inside the shallow cave, the wind could not reach them. It was still bitterly cold, but it was bearable. Survivable.
Hamail shifted closer to Zahir, sharing what little warmth he had. He rested his head back against the stone, his heartbeat slowing, breath still fogging in front of his face.
_____
Meanwhile, on the other side of the battlefield, Samad approached — sword drawn, eyes blazing with a sickly green hue. The Green-Haloed Man stood far behind him, watching the unfolding chaos with twisted delight, like a wicked playwright admiring his masterpiece.
Haman's fists clenched. His breath misted in the freezing air. He could feel the power behind Samad's steps — unnatural, corrupted.
"You bastard," he growled through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the Green-Haloed Man. "I won't let you have him."
And still... Haman refused to draw his sword.
He had sworn a vow — never to raise his blade against a friend, no matter the circumstance.
But Samad had no such restraint. Without warning, he launched a razor-sharp slash toward Haman. The steel hissed through the cold air like lightning. Haman ducked, twisted, and retaliated with a spinning kick. Samad absorbed it with surprising balance and turned, now even more aggressive, relentless like a man possessed.
Samad launched a rapid series of four deadly sword strikes — each one faster, more forceful, and more precise than the last.
Haman moved like a shadow in a storm. He ducked the first blow, spun beneath the second, and dropped low to evade the third. The fourth came in a savage arc aimed at his chest — and with no time left to dodge, Haman raised his bare hands to block the steel.
The blade bit into his palms.
Blood spilled instantly, dark red against the pure white snow — staining the ground with the price of his restraint.
But Haman didn't back down.
He held the blade, his grip unwavering, blood streaming from his hands, eyes burning with something far more powerful than pain — resolve.
At that moment, the Green-Haloed Man's attention locked onto something — a ring on Haman's finger.
A smirk stretched across the sorcerer's pale face. His eyes glowed eerily as he whispered another incantation under his breath. A beam of faint green light connected his gaze to Samad's, and suddenly Samad surged forward, his movements no longer just skilled — but inhuman.
The air pulsed with energy.
Snow exploded around them.
The sky cracked with distant thunder.
The duel reached the edge of a towering cliff, where one wrong step would mean certain death.
Samad unleashed a vicious final slash — so close it nearly split Haman's face. Just in time, Haman twisted his body sideways, narrowly escaping. Samad then reached to rip the ring off Haman's finger, but Haman caught his wrist, bent it back, and shoved him away with a grunt.
From behind, the Green-Haloed Man growled, disappointed.
"Fool. Worthless. If you want something done right..."
His voice trailed into venomous silence.
"...you do it yourself."
Samad charged again.
But something changed.
A glow began to rise from within Haman's body — soft at first, then fierce. As if a hidden energy, long dormant, had finally awakened.
He caught Samad's arm mid-swing, yanked the sword from his grip, and hurled it over the cliff's edge. It spun through the air like a dying comet before vanishing into the abyss.
Samad didn't stop.
He went feral — attacking with fists, elbows, knees.
Now unarmed, both warriors clashed in a brutal hand-to-hand brawl.
They grappled, rolled, smashed into the snow and ice, slipping and recovering, punches echoing like war drums across the frozen peaks.
Every move was primal. Raw.
Two beasts locked in a deadly dance.
Eventually, Haman overwhelmed Samad with a series of precise strikes — chest, shoulder, jaw — finishing with a sweeping leg kick that sent Samad crashing to the ground, unconscious.
The silence that followed was deafening.
______
As Haman stood over Samad's fallen form, breathing heavily, the glow from the Green-Haloed Man began to fade.
And then —
his face became visible.
Haman's eyes widened. He froze, paralyzed — not from fear, but from sheer disbelief.
"No..." he whispered, stepping back as the wind howled around them.
His thoughts raced.
Was it... Azam?
Had the sorcerer taken his face?
Or was Azam himself the source of this darkness all along?
"Is this a disguise… or the truth?"
The question echoed in Haman's mind like a scream inside a cave.
The man smiled. Cold. Sinister.
And took a step toward him.
Haman didn't move.
______