The battlefield was an inferno.
Ash and smoke rose like black clouds, blotting out the sun as the siege raged before the gates of Nandigram. Screams mingled with the clash of steel and the bellowing of dying elephants. Vishragarh's fire wagons burned like collapsing pyres, their flames devouring friend and foe alike.
Yet for every machine destroyed, for every beast consumed in fire, the endless tide of soldiers kept advancing. They marched over the corpses of their comrades, shields locked, spears bristling, driven by the iron will of their general.
From atop the walls, Shaurya watched it unfold. His eyes burned like twin embers, but his face remained calm, carved from stone.
Beside him, Captain Rudraksha, his second-in-command, slammed a gauntleted fist on the parapet.
"My lord, the outer defenses will not hold for long. Even with the traps, they keep coming. The nobles' men are faltering. We must sally out or risk being buried within these walls!"
Prince Samrat's banner still waved proudly in the melee, the golden lion carving a path through Vishragarh's soldiers. His sword gleamed like sunlight in storm. The men cheered him, but even his brilliance could not stem the tide for long.
Shaurya's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his black-forged blade, its surface etched with crimson lines that glowed faintly, as if hungering.
He exhaled.
"It is time."
The gate chains groaned as they were drawn back. With a grinding roar, the eastern gates of Nandigram opened—not in surrender, but in defiance. A stunned hush fell upon both armies.
And then he stepped out.
Shaurya descended from the gate like a storm given flesh. His cloak trailed behind him, dark as midnight, its edges smoldering with faint sparks. His armor was unadorned, forged for function, yet in its simplicity it radiated dominance. In his eyes burned the quiet fire of inevitability.
A murmur rippled through the enemy ranks. "Who is that?" "Is that… the strategist?"
The soldiers of Nandigram saw him too—and though they could not name the power they felt, their spines straightened, their fear wavered, and their roars rose louder.
Vishragarh's general raised a gauntleted hand, halting his troops for the briefest instant. From atop his black chariot, his eyes narrowed. He knew power when he saw it.
Shaurya lifted his blade.
The battlefield fell silent, as though the world itself paused in anticipation.
Then he moved.
He crossed the killing field in a blur, faster than the eye could follow. The first rank of enemy spearmen barely had time to lower their pikes before his blade carved through them in a sweeping arc. Steel shattered, men were thrown aside like chaff in the wind. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs that painted the scorched earth.
He did not stop.
With every step, Vishragarh's soldiers fell. His blade was not swung—it was delivered, precise and absolute, each strike felling three, five, ten men. Arrows rained down, but they shattered against the aura of force that swirled around him, his presence alone warping the battlefield.
The war elephants still raged, their tusks gouging through men and walls alike. One thundered toward Shaurya, its massive form blotting out the sun.
He did not raise his sword.
Instead, he extended his hand.
The ground beneath the beast trembled, and in a roar of earth, jagged black spikes erupted, piercing its armored hide. The elephant shrieked and collapsed, thrashing in a storm of blood and dust. Its riders screamed as fire consumed them.
The Vishragarh soldiers faltered. For the first time, they hesitated.
Nandigram's men saw it—and roared.
Prince Samrat, his armor bloodied but his spirit aflame, shouted across the chaos, "Follow him! The demon walks among us, and he is ours!"
The tide shifted. Farmers turned soldiers surged forward, their discipline holding. Nobles' troops, shamed by their fear, hardened their resolve. Together, they pushed with renewed fury.
And at their center, Shaurya carved a path of annihilation.
But power never goes unanswered.
From his chariot, the General of Vishragarh finally moved. He raised his crimson-ash banner, and a new sound rolled across the battlefield—the low, thunderous chant of war priests.
Dark smoke gathered, coiling into shapes unnatural. Sigils burned upon the earth, and from their depths rose armored abominations—hulking warriors twice the height of men, their flesh bound with steel, their eyes glowing with crimson fire.
A hush of dread fell upon Nandigram's forces. Even the bravest faltered at the sight of those horrors.
The general's voice carried like a blade through the smoke.
"Shaurya of Nandigram. Let us see if your blood burns as brightly as your blade."
The abominations charged.
Shaurya stilled. His soldiers behind him waited, breathless, terrified.
He lowered his blade… and smiled.
The first of the abominations swung a massive axe, enough to split a horse in two. Shaurya stepped inside its arc, his movements fluid, effortless. His sword flashed—and the giant's head flew free, a fountain of blackened ichor spraying the ground.
The others came in a storm of iron and fire. Shaurya did not retreat.
He advanced.
Each blow he parried shattered weapons. Each strike he delivered cleaved through flesh and steel alike. Where the abominations struck the earth, the ground itself cracked, but Shaurya danced among them, his form a storm of shadows and crimson light.
And then—he let go.
For the first time, he unleashed the true aura that slept within him.
The battlefield shook.
A wave of crimson-black energy erupted outward, a storm of destruction that sent Vishragarh's soldiers reeling. Men clutched their chests as their courage withered, their weapons shaking in their hands. Even the war priests who had summoned the abominations faltered, blood dripping from their mouths as the weight of his presence crushed them.
To Nandigram's soldiers, it felt as though a mountain had descended beside them—not against them, but for them. Their fear turned to awe. Their roars shook the heavens.
And in that storm, the abominations fell, one by one, until none remained standing.
Shaurya stood amidst their corpses, his blade dripping with blackened blood. His eyes rose, fixing once more on the general across the battlefield.
The general smiled, thin and sharp, and raised his sword in silent challenge.
The real battle was yet to come.
To be continued....