Wind howled across the hanging bridge, its chains clattering like rusted bones swaying under the dying sunset. Beneath the structure stretched a thousand-foot fall into a silent gorge, a reminder that returning home was never meant to be peaceful.
Three silhouettes stood at the mouth of the bridge—Aryan, Abhi, Ahaan. Not youths anymore, not hopeful wanderers returning with promises of glory—something hardened in them now. Their footsteps carried weight. Their shadows no longer looked human.
On the opposite side stood the Patrol Division of Outfit-X.
Around one-hundred twenty armored soldiers, helmets lowered, rifles raised, and pulse-blades lit in a cold blue shimmer. In front of them, three commanders—men, wide-framed, full combat augmentation visible through armored articulation. Rank clearly visible on shoulder plates.
The middle commander stepped forward first.
Thick-necked, beard cut square, eyes like someone who had forgotten mercy long ago.
"Confirm identity," he ordered.
His voice was amplified through his suit. Every word vibrated through the bridge cables.
None of the trio answered.
Aryan stepped forward instead.
His hair swayed in the wind, eyes hollow, strangely calm—neither agitated nor impressed.
"You already know who we are," Aryan said.
No intimidation. No hero tone. Just bored articulation.
The soldiers flinched—not out of fear, but because the three boys weren't behaving like prey.
The commander clenched his jaw.
"We have orders. Arrest on sight. Resist, and I will make your bodies examples of obedience."
That was laughable.
Not to them.
But to the land they had crossed to earn the artifacts.
Abhi spoke next—not emotional, not threatening, but precise.
"If you lay a hand on us again," his voice layered with absolute certainty,
"your men will never return home."
It wasn't arrogance.
It was a promise.
And promises meant blood.
The third commander lifted his hand.
Snap.
The first wave moved.
Not the strong ones—standard protocol.
Test the threat first.
Thirty soldiers rushed forward, boots pounding wood planks, forming a low-angled advance.
No verbal command exchanged between the trio.
Yet each entered battle like choreography they had rehearsed a thousand times.
Abhi moved first
Grace—not speed—grace.
Soldiers swung synchronized batons glowing blue.
Abhi didn't block.
He slipped between strikes—not ducking, not crouching, simply stepping where metal wasn't.
A soldier swung from behind.
Abhi's head tilted half an inch.
The weapon sliced air.
He didn't waste motion.
His elbow dug between ribs—not breaking—compressing.
Soldier collapsed.
Another lunged.
Abhi spun, caught his wrist, twisted—not fast—measured.
Snap.
Shoulder dislocated.
Not wild, not flashy.
Surgical violence.
He never hit more than needed.
One precise strike per opponent.
Blades missed him by centimeters, but never touched him.
To outsiders it looked supernatural.
To him it was mathematics.
Aryan didn't dodge
He walked into them.
A soldier aimed a rifle-blade.
Aryan simply gripped the barrel—barehanded.
Metal warped.
The soldier froze.
Aryan looked into his visor without speaking.
Then crushed the weapon as though metal remembered it was once sand.
Two soldiers struck from the sides.
Aryan back-stepped once.
His knee rose.
Impact—sternum compressed inward.
The soldier folded.
Another tried stabbing him.
Aryan caught his face shield and slammed him downward.
Wood cracked.
His movements weren't elegant.
They were destructive.
Every hit changed the air pressure.
Even soldiers behind paused before approaching him.
He did not fight them—
He erased them.
Ahaan did not move at first
He watched.
Feet apart.
Hands behind back.
Calculating.
Not strategy—weak spots.
"Four attacks from the left in three seconds. One from above."
His head tilted.
Then he struck first.
One blow.
To the gut.
The soldier flew back like pulled by an unseen rope.
Two more approached.
He didn't punch them—
He walked into their formation, disrupting spacing.
One elbow strike.
One palm thrust.
Bodies collapsed.
He used no excess movement.
No flourish.
Just perfect timing—ending attacks before they began.
Ahaan was not stronger.
He was unavoidable.
The commanders realized it
Their soldiers weren't losing.
They were being dismantled.
Not slowly.
Professionally.
One of them muttered into comms:
"They're different. This is not normal enhancement output."
Another grunted:
"No protocol change. Continue containment."
That was a mistake.
A second wave charged—forty men armored heavier, high-impact kinetic shield emitters active.
The vibrations shook the bridge.
Aryan turned his wrist.
Abhi inhaled.
Ahaan exhaled.
And the battle shifted scale.
They surrounded Ahaan first—correct decision.
He was the command-break type.
Five lunged simultaneously.
He stepped into their blind side.
The first soldier stabbed forward.
Ahaan didn't block—he redirected.
The soldier's blade stabbed another soldier's thigh.
The attacker recoiled.
Ahaan palm-struck his chest.
He hit the wooden plank railing.
Cracked.
Dangling.
Ahaan didn't even look at him.
Another came behind—silent.
Ahaan slammed his heel backward.
Not a kick.
A small push.
The soldier wheezed, paralysis rippled.
He fell.
Ahaan hadn't broken a bone.
Yet no one stood up again.
Too many targets.
He couldn't be gentle.
A soldier swung downward.
Abhi grabbed his wrist and—
Popped the joint the other way.
The scream cut across the gorge like torn fabric.
Another soldier grabbed him from behind.
Abhi leaned forward.
That was enough.
He catapulted the man forward using his leverage, slamming him into two others.
He knelt, took ground position, and struck upward—
Right beneath the jaw.
Helmet dented.
Soldier dropped.
Precision.
Execution.
One strike. One end.
Soldiers charged.
He walked into them.
A soldier attempted a stunning baton strike.
Aryan caught it and squeezed.
Internal wiring burst.
The baton sagged in his grip.
He swung the melted end into another soldier's helmet.
Visor shattered.
Night vision screens inside flickered and died.
Third soldier slashed at him.
Aryan raised his arm—took the hit—and headbutted him so hard helmet clamps broke.
Nobody watching expected elegance.
From Aryan, destruction was elegance.
Boards under him cracked under pressure.
He was no longer human strength.
He was closer to a natural disaster.
The commanders finally stepped forward.
They understood something:
Their soldiers were meant for defense.
These three were built for war.
Commander at the center raised hand and roared:
"FULL FORCE! FIRE!"
Rifles elevated.
Pulse cores charging.
Ahaan instantly shouted:
"MOVE!"
That wasn't instinct.
It was calculation.
Aryan grabbed two unconscious soldiers and held them like shields.
Abhi leapt sideways, rolled behind suspended support cables.
Ahaan dropped flat.
A rain of plasma sliced through where they had stood.
Smoke filled the air.
Bridge ropes snapped glowing red.
Planks cindered.
Wind whipped.
The gorge swallowed sound.
The commanders lowered guns.
Smoke parted.
Three figures walked through it.
Untouched.
One soldier whispered:
"...What are they?"
No answer came.
Because nobody had vocabulary anymore.
Ahaan stepped forward first.
"You three. Stay standing. The others can crawl later."
Not loud.
But it reached every corner of the bridge.
The central commander charged at Aryan.
Wrong target.
Aryan didn't move.
Not defensively.
Not aggressively.
He simply tilted his neck and muttered:
"You aren't worth the strength I have now."
Commander swung.
Aryan didn't block.
Instead he grabbed the man's wrist mid-swing—and the commander braced, expecting resistance.
Aryan didn't resist.
He pulled once.
Commander left his feet.
Aryan slammed him into the bridge floor hard enough that splinters erupted.
Two other commanders attacked Abhi and Ahaan simultaneously.
One tried grappling Abhi.
Abhi stepped aside, elbow crashed into neck gap between armor plates.
Commander gasped.
Lost balance.
Abhi swept his leg from the side.
Commander hit ground.
Another attempted head strike on Ahaan.
Ahaan slipped under it, pivoted behind, struck base of skull with controlled precision.
The commander's vision flickered.
One step.
He collapsed.
On the bridge's center now lay:
Dozens unconscious
Dozens crippled
Three commanders no longer capable of rising
Abhi looked at the only one barely conscious—the first commander.
Aryan stepped beside him.
Ahaan followed.
Three stood over one.
Not triumphant.
Just done.
Aryan leaned down—not anger—cold certainty.
"Tell him—"
he paused, letting his shadow fall over the man's visor,
"—we are walking toward Shambhala next."
Abhi continues:
"And we will not kneel."
Ahaan finished:
"So tell him—his time ends soon."
Their eyes glowed—not artifact power—but something that changes men into storms.
The commander trembled—not from injury—from comprehension.
Aryan turned.
They walked away.
Boards creaked under weight that no longer felt like mortals.
The wind behind them carried no fear.
Only warning.