By dawn, the shutter of the grain shop still bore the dents of Younas's rage. Inside, blood had dried across the counter, sacks ripped open like gutted animals. The shopkeeper lay on a cot in the corner, ribs bound with cloth, his eyes hollow. His sons had sat awake all night, watching, frightened, knowing something greater than hunger now loomed over their family.
And by mid-morning, he paid. Every rupee. Quietly. Without argument.
But Lahore was not a city that kept secrets. By evening, half of the bazaar knew — the nameless brute who had turned a shop into a slaughterhouse. By nightfall, the whispers had traveled further: chai stalls, rickshaw stands, the smoke-filled card dens where small criminals bragged and listened.
---
At a roadside hotel, three men sat hunched over their food, speaking in hushed voices.
"They say he lifted the shopkeeper like a sack of flour and smashed him against the shutter."
"Baseless talk. No man can throw another like that."
"Then why did the old man pay this morning? Every coin, with tears in his eyes?"
A silence followed. Even the clink of spoons seemed too loud.
"He's not like us," the third man muttered finally. "We take money. We threaten. But this one? He breaks men first. Makes them feel death, then leaves them alive to remember. That's worse."
Their voices fell lower. Somewhere behind them, a stranger sat with his tea, listening. He said nothing, only smiled to himself.
The whispers were working.
---
Rauf Malik's den that night was different. The laughter was less careless, the smoke thicker, the dice quieter. Even his men, rough as they were, felt the weight of something new in the air.
When Younas entered, the room grew still. Not out of respect, but out of something darker: unease.
Rauf leaned back on his charpoy, a glass of whisky in hand. His gold chain glinted under the bulb, but his eyes — sharp, calculating — never left Younas.
"You did well," Rauf said. His voice carried easily, cutting through the silence.
"The shopkeeper paid. Quicker than most. You've made me richer."
Younas didn't smile. He only nodded, settling into the room's heavy atmosphere as if it belonged to him.
"But…" Rauf set down the glass. "You also made me something else. You made me a rumor."
He leaned forward, thick fingers steepling together.
"Men say you fight like no other. That you don't just collect money — you carve fear into the bone. They are more afraid of you than of me. Tell me, boy… is that what you want?"
The men around them stiffened, hands inching toward their pistols. The test was naked now, the threat clear.
Younas tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"I want nothing that isn't already mine."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Rauf's eyes narrowed, trying to read them.
"And what is yours?"
Younas's gaze swept across the room, taking in every man, every gun, every breath. Then he leaned forward, voice low, steady, deadly.
"Fear."
For a long moment, silence pressed heavy. Then Rauf barked out a laugh, loud and sudden, slapping his thigh.
"Fear, is it? Then may Allah grant you plenty. But remember — fear can turn. Fear can bite. And when it bites, it kills."
The tension broke like a string snapping. Laughter rose again, though thinner this time, forced.
But the looks in their eyes told the truth.
They had laughed… but they were afraid.
---
Later that night, in the alleys outside, Nadeem — the wiry man who had first brought Younas in — caught up to him.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he muttered, pulling him into the shadows.
"Rauf smiles, but I've seen that look before. He's thinking. Calculating. Men like him don't share power. They test it, then they crush it."
Younas lit a cigarette, the flame flickering against his face.
"Then let him test."
Nadeem stared at him.
"You don't understand Lahore. This city isn't like your village. Here, kings don't last. Dogs tear them down, piece by piece."
Younas exhaled smoke, eyes steady.
"Then I'll tear the dogs first."
Nadeem swallowed, falling silent. Something in Younas's tone, in the calm with which he said it, made his stomach twist.
This wasn't bravado. This was conviction.
---
By midnight, Lahore buzzed with one name — though no one knew if it was real. Some said "the butcher." Others whispered "the madman." Still others claimed he had no name at all.
But they all agreed on one thing.
Whoever he was, he was not a man to be crossed.
And deep inside his shawl pocket, Younas felt the weight of the Codex against his chest. Its words burned in his mind like fire:
"Every throne sits on bones. The only choice is whose."
He smiled in the dark.
This was only the beginning.