The next evening, Younas was summoned again. The butcher's den felt different this time — the air thicker, the smoke heavier, the laughter absent. The men inside watched him enter like jackals circling a lion, every stare sharp with suspicion.
Rauf Malik sat in his usual place, gold chain pressing against his neck, a pistol resting beside his whisky glass. His eyes were steady, darker than before.
"Word spreads too fast in Lahore," Rauf said, voice heavy.
"Two nights ago, no one knew you. Today, men speak your name in corners. Fear is a useful thing. But fear not controlled?" He lifted his glass, sipped slowly. "Fear becomes poison."
Younas said nothing. He only listened, still as stone.
Rauf leaned forward, placing the glass down with a soft thud.
"So tonight, we test you. Properly. No shopkeepers, no beggars. A man. A rival."
A ripple passed through the room. The men shifted, eyes flicking between Rauf and Younas.
"There is a bastard named Sharif," Rauf continued. "A dog who thinks he can bite my hand. He runs cards in Mozang, bribes half the constables, and tells people Malik's power is finished. He refuses to pay his cut. Worse—he mocks me."
Rauf's thick hand curled into a fist.
"Tonight, you will go to Sharif. You will silence him. Permanently."
The silence that followed was heavy, like a noose tightening.
One of the lieutenants spat, shaking his head.
"Why waste this villager? He'll die the second he steps in Mozang. Sharif has twenty men at his back."
Rauf's eyes cut toward him, sharp as blades.
"That's the point."
Then his gaze returned to Younas.
"If you succeed, you are mine. You eat at my table, drink from my cup, share in my gold. If you fail…" He spread his hands.
"Then your bones will be nothing more than another story in the alleys."
---
Younas let the silence hang before he finally spoke, voice calm.
"Where is he?"
The room murmured. No hesitation. No fear.
Rauf's lips curled.
"Mozang Bazaar. A gambling den above a tea shop. Midnight. Go alone. Bring me proof."
He leaned back, smile half-hidden behind his beard.
"You wanted to climb, boy. Tonight, you'll see if the ladder holds… or breaks."
---
Outside, Nadeem caught up with Younas, grabbing his arm.
"Are you insane? Sharif isn't a shopkeeper. He's a wolf. His men have guns, knives, numbers. You can't walk into his den alone."
Younas looked at him, calm as ever.
"Then I won't walk in."
Nadeem frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Younas lit a cigarette, the flame flickering against his face.
"Wolves wait for prey to enter their den. But what happens when fire enters first?"
Nadeem's stomach knotted.
"You're planning something…"
Younas's eyes glinted in the dark.
"I'm planning fear."
---
Midnight. Mozang Bazaar was alive with murmurs and smoke. Men crowded into Sharif's den, the air thick with gambling, shouting, and cheap perfume. At the center of it all sat Sharif himself — lean, sharp-eyed, rings glittering on his fingers, a pistol tucked into his belt.
He laughed loudly, slamming cards down, mocking Malik openly.
"The old lion is losing his teeth! Soon this city will belong to men with fire in their blood, not chains around their necks!"
The room roared with laughter.
Then, outside, the first bottle smashed against the shutter. Fire spread fast, licking the wood, smoke curling through the cracks. Panic erupted. Men scrambled, shouting, grabbing pistols, rushing toward the door.
But the shutter was locked.
Another bottle came, then another. Flames ate the walls.
And in the chaos, the shutter screeched open — and Younas stepped inside.
His eyes burned like the fire behind him. His fists were wrapped in cloth, soaked dark. In one hand, a broken iron pipe gleamed.
For a heartbeat, silence swallowed the room. Then someone shouted—
"Kill him!"
The first man lunged. Younas's pipe cracked across his jaw, teeth snapping loose, blood spraying. Another rushed, knife in hand — Younas seized his wrist, twisted until the bone snapped, then drove the blade into the man's throat.
Screams filled the den.
Younas moved like a storm, pipe swinging, fists crashing, rage tearing through flesh and bone. Men fell one after another, their cries drowned by fire and steel. Blood slicked the floor, the smoke choking the gamblers who crawled for escape.
And at the center, Sharif stood frozen.
Younas shoved another body aside and stalked toward him, pipe dripping red.
"You…" Sharif's voice shook, his pistol trembling in his hand.
"You don't know who I am. Malik won't protect you from me!"
Younas didn't answer. He closed the distance, grabbed Sharif's wrist, and slammed it against the table until the pistol fell. Then he dragged him by the hair, smashing his face into the cards, into the glass, into the wood, again and again, until his screams turned into gurgles.
When Sharif finally slumped, Younas bent close to his ear. His voice was steady, cold.
"You mocked a lion. But it is not lions you should fear."
He drove the pipe down, ending it.
---
By the time he walked out, the den was an inferno. Flames licked the night sky, screams echoing down the bazaar. People gathered at a distance, staring in horror at the figure who stepped from the fire, shawl darkened with smoke, pipe still wet with blood.
Some whispered "devil." Others whispered "ghost."
But no one dared speak his name.
And Younas walked into the night, his mind echoing with the Codex:
"Better to die with the sword wet than live with hands clean."