The evening heat of Bahawalpur clung to the city like a punishment. The streets were quiet, weighed down under the orange haze of a dying sun. Younas Bhutta walked with his shoulders squared, fists tight in his pockets, as if every step was a declaration of war against the ground beneath him.
He wasn't running away from home.
He was leaving because the city had become too small for his hunger.
Bahawalpur gave him air, but it felt like breathing through a straw. He needed more. More room, more chaos, more power.
The old library stood near the bazaar, a relic from colonial days. Most of the city had forgotten it existed. He stepped inside, and the air changed — cool, musty, silent. Rows of wooden shelves stretched like soldiers at attention, but most were empty, their books eaten away by dust and neglect.
At the counter, a thin old librarian lifted his eyes. His voice scratched like paper.
"You again, Bhutta's boy? Didn't think you read."
Younas smirked.
"I don't read, chacha. I hunt."
The librarian frowned.
"There's nothing here worth hunting."
"Then I'll find the thing no one else dares touch," Younas said, moving past him. His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he wandered deeper into the shadows.
---
The last row, the farthest corner — that's where he found it.
A book bound in cracked leather, the cover blackened with age. No title on the spine, only a faint embossing in Arabic script: فاتح — Conqueror.
He ran his fingers over the letters. Dust smeared across his skin. For a moment, he thought he felt heat under the leather, like the book had a pulse.
---
Younas carried it to a table, brushed off cobwebs, and opened the first page.
The ink had browned, the parchment rough. But the words struck him with a force no man's punch had ever matched.
> "The world was given to men not to share, but to claim. The weak kneel because it is their destiny. The strong conquer because it is theirs."
His lips curved into a smile.
He turned the page.
> "Children are the trust of the Almighty. Women are the sanctity of the house. Touch them not. All else — claim, break, consume."
Younas whispered the words like prayer.
"Claim… break… consume."
The librarian's voice startled him.
"Careful, boy. That book is cursed. It was written by a warlord who thought himself greater than kings. Men say he bled villages dry in his hunger to rule."
Younas didn't look up. His eyes drank the pages.
"Then maybe he was the only honest man who lived."
The librarian spat softly, muttering something about devils and madmen, before retreating back into the shadows.
---
Younas kept reading. Hours passed. Outside, the city sank into night, lanterns glowing across the bazaar. Inside, only his breath filled the silence.
The book told of conquest not as ambition, but as worship. Every battle described with reverence, every act of cruelty dressed as divine right.
And yet, amid the carnage, one rule burned brighter than all:
> "A Conqueror may spill oceans of blood, but never of his own women, never of his own children. They are his sanctuary, his throne."
Younas closed the book, resting his palm on the cover. His heart beat slow, steady, heavy.
This wasn't just ink and parchment. This was a mirror.
The warlord's voice spoke across centuries, whispering directly into his veins.
He rose from the chair, carrying Conqueror under his arm.
At the counter, the librarian blinked nervously.
"You can't take that out. It's not for borrowing."
Younas leaned close, his shadow swallowing the man. His voice was low, dangerous.
"Do I look like I'm borrowing?"
The librarian froze. Younas walked past him, the book pressed against his chest like scripture.
---
On the street, Bahawalpur's night hummed with the noise of rickshaws and vendors. Younas stood still, staring at the road that led north. Lahore.
He whispered to the book in his hands, like it could hear him.
"You chose me. And I'll make the world kneel in your name."
The Codex was his now.
And tomorrow, Lahore would hear the footsteps of a man who no longer belonged to Bahawalpur.
A man who was no longer just Younas Bhutta.
He was the Conqueror's heir.