Lahore's night breathed differently from Bahawalpur.
It was louder, filthier, hungrier. Rickshaws screamed down the streets, neon signs flickered above tea stalls, and music from hidden dens bled into the alleys. It smelled of sweat, diesel, and sin.
Younas stepped off the bus with a small cloth bag slung over his shoulder. His real treasure — Conqueror — rested inside, wrapped carefully in a shawl like scripture. He paused on the pavement, watching the city move.
"This is no place for small men," he muttered.
And a smile tugged at his mouth.
---
The first test came sooner than expected.
Near the station's corner, three young men lingered by a tea stall. Their clothes were cheap but loud — fake branded T-shirts, gold-plated chains, hair gelled into greasy spikes. Local thugs.
One of them whistled as Younas passed.
"Oye, hero! From village, hain? Bag looks heavy. Why don't you leave it here, we'll keep it safe."
The others laughed, teeth flashing.
Younas turned slowly. His eyes fixed on the speaker — tall, skinny, a badly healed scar running down his cheek. He didn't speak yet. He just stared.
The thug shifted uncomfortably.
"Why looking at me like that, londay? Want to fight?"
Younas's voice was calm, even playful.
"No. I want to teach you how to bleed."
The laughter cut short.
---
The scar-faced thug stepped forward, puffing his chest.
"You don't know Lahore, brother. We eat boys like you for—"
The words never finished. Younas's fist slammed into his mouth, knuckles cracking teeth. The thug collapsed against the tea stall, hot chai spilling and hissing on the pavement.
The second thug swung a broken bottle. Younas ducked, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until bone snapped. The scream tore through the street. Younas shoved the jagged glass into the thug's thigh and pushed him down.
The last one hesitated — fear wide in his eyes. He raised a pocketknife, but his hand trembled.
Younas stepped closer, voice low and cruel.
"Do you believe in scripture, brother?"
The thug blinked, confused, stammering.
"W–what?"
Younas leaned in, his breath hot against the boy's ear.
"Mercy is the lie of the weak. Blood is the truth of the strong."
The Codex.
Then he headbutted him, bone cracking, knife falling. He didn't stop there — he lifted the boy by the collar and smashed him into the stall's counter, again and again, until wood splintered and blood soaked the wood.
The tea-seller stood frozen, hands shaking. Younas turned to him, blood speckled across his face.
"These three won't pay for tea tonight. Consider it… a donation."
He dropped a crumpled note on the counter and walked away, leaving the thugs moaning in the dirt.
---
On the next street, he wiped his hands with a rag. His pulse was steady, calm.
He looked at Lahore's glowing chaos with dark satisfaction.
This city had just taken its first bite of him.
And he had bitten back harder.
He whispered to the book hidden in his bag:
"You were right. Men are wolves. And I… I'm the hungriest of them all."
The night carried his words away. But Lahore had heard him now.
The Conqueror had arrived.