Musa walked through the corridors of the palace, Hussain by his side.
Suddenly, Musa stopped. His eyes held a strange emptiness.
Hussain asked, "Commander, what is it?"
Musa stayed silent for a moment. Then he said, "You go ahead. I need to go back once more."
Hussain frowned. "But why?"
Musa did not answer. He began walking backward, each step echoing through the empty hallway.
He arrived at the president's room. The door was open. The candlelight inside was fading. President Crane still sat in the chair, a sword lodged in his chest. Blood had clotted around it. He was alive, still breathing painfully, eyes wide open.
Musa entered slowly. He stood in front of the president and began—
"I've come back because I never told you something."
Questions filled President Crane's eyes.
Musa continued—
"Fifteen years ago, when you faced me, your soldiers surrounded me. We fought. In the end, all your men were dead. You were left alone, lying on the ground. You closed your eyes, waiting for death—but I let you live. I said, 'Go. Live. But remember… one day I will return.'"
Memories flickered in Musa's eyes.
"A few days later, I went on a mission—into Bangladesh, to the banks of the Meghna River in Shariatpur. My task was to gather information. Suddenly, a stranger attacked me with a knife. I fell into the Meghna River from a launch, fighting for my life."
President Crane's eyes widened.
Musa went on—
"I drifted with the currents and reached the riverbank near a small aunt's house. There lived a little boy named Mumin. He saw me there, clinging to life. In my hand was a recorder, holding the story of my life—who I was, why I fought, what I wanted to do. I handed it to the boy and said, 'Boy, I may not survive. But let my story live. Listen, understand, and if you can… complete my work.'"
Musa paused. His throat dry.
"Mumin received the recorder. He listened to it over and over, until every memory, every piece of my strength, my rage, my courage, was embedded in his mind. Slowly, he began to embody another being—Musa. And I survived elsewhere."
Musa looked into the president's eyes.
"That boy, Mumin, held two beings inside him: the fearful Mumin, and the courageous Musa. The previous president, Morgan Cross, had brought him to Imolodia. Cross threw him from the bridge. Mumin died—but Musa survived. I survived."
The president's face went pale.
Musa said—
"And Zakia? That little girl? She survived. Yes, she survived. After falling from the bridge, the river carried her. My people rescued her. She lives. But her parents—Mahim and Rokeya—they didn't. They died at the hands of the former president."
A fire ignited in Musa's eyes.
"Zakias is with me now. She is growing up. One day she will know who killed her parents. But before that… today, you will see your end."
Musa moved to the hilt of the sword lodged in the president's chest. The president's eyes widened with terror.
Musa said—
"Fifteen years ago, I spared you. Today… I will not. But first, I will tell you something."
Musa began to laugh. A terrifying, bone-chilling laugh.
"You never found me. Never. But I found you. All this time… it was my plan. Two cameras in my room—one I removed, the other I deliberately left. I watched everything. I knew everything. Even the prison incident—it was my doing. Everything under the name of Dark Psycho—was my hand."
Musa's laughter grew louder.
"I was merely acting. Waiting for the right moment. And that time… has come."
He looked at the old photo of former President Morgan Cross on the table, where young Cross sat with seven shadowed figures in black.
Musa stared at the photo and said—
"Accept no god other than Allah. There is no true deity except Him. Everything else is perishable, except His essence."
(Surah Al-Qasas, Ayah 88)
"For every community, there is a fixed term. When their term comes, they cannot delay it for a moment, nor can they hasten it."
(Surah Yunus, Ayah 49)
"They plan, and Allah plans. And Allah is the best of planners."
(Surah Al-Anfal, Ayah 30)
Musa looked again at the photo—
"You said, 'I am the president of this country. I am Allah.' Remember, Cross? You told me on the bridge, 'There is no Allah here. I am Allah.' Where are you now? Your own people ended your life. The seven for whom you did everything—the puppets in your hand—killed you when you were no longer needed."
Musa laughed again. This time, the laughter would not stop. Louder. More terrifying.
The walls of the room trembled. The palace shook. All of Imolodia quivered.
Then, suddenly, Musa stopped laughing and raised the sword.
Just one sound—soft, calm, absolute.
The president's head was severed from his body, rolling to the floor. His eyes still open. Mouth agape.
Blood splattered the walls, the flag, the candle.
Musa lowered the sword. He stood silently for a moment, then whispered—
"This was Mumin's due. This was the price of Zakia's parents' blood. Now, those who remain—their time will come too."
Musa turned and left the room.
Outside, he stopped. Hussain approached.
Hussain asked, "Commander, who will be Imolodia's new president?"
Musa looked at the sky and smiled. A deep, mysterious smile.
"A new president will rise for Imolodia. Who that is… only I know."
He turned to face the palace. "We will stay here now. The game is not over. In fact, it has only just begun."