The cliffs of Dhaurahal rose like jagged teeth, their flanks carved from limestone, slate, and gneiss. The shade of purple trees was a wonder to behold, but the air reeked of blood. Mist drifted upward from the valleys, veiling the violet ridges below in an uneasy calm.
Shreesh had ordered his troupe to split, intercepting at each of the five points along the trade routes. He suspected that somewhere among them lay the consignment they were searching for. It was like seeking a needle in a haystack, for there was no certainty—only suspicion, inference, and the tactics he knew so well. Yet even in this uncertainty, Shreesh brimmed with confidence.
His gaze followed only one figure now.
Arzu Rakha.
Red braid glinting against the grey stone, shoulders broad as a mason's wall, one eye burning amber, the other pale and devoid of a pupil. A captain from a clan reviled as the lowest rung of Shambhalan society, condemned never to rise above OF-2, yet standing proud at the edge of a kingdom that had forsaken him.
He sat perched on a sivak, a native beast of Shambhala, leaner than a horse but equally sturdy, its narrow frame built for the ridges. The animal moved carefully, lowering its stance to balance its master. But Arzu's gaze was not on the path, it was fixed entirely on the man above. He had imagined this meeting, and had anticipated it.
"Shreesh," Arzu said evenly, voice calm as steel. "I was told you would come this way. Seems Saubal's intuition was right."
Shreesh's eyes narrowed. He leapt from the cliff, landing thirty feet below with the impact of a falling boulder. Dust rose, and the ground trembled faintly. His aura rippled, unsettling even the onlookers hidden nearby.
Arzu was unfazed. He alighted from the sivak to meet him on equal ground. There was a flicker of awe in his expression, but his resolve did not waver, Shreesh was his enemy.
"You appear every bit as Mayavi as they describe," Arzu said, acknowledging the brilliance that seemed to radiate from Shreesh's mere presence.
Shreesh chuckled at the praise from an opponent. "A beast, clad in blood's scent, blazing with radiance invisible to the fools who waste you, and you call me the beast. I am honored by the compliment." He exhaled a deep sigh, lifting his gaze to the sky, where the first rays of dawn bled orange into the violet hues above.
"Why don't you join Nirvana?" Shreesh asked suddenly, a gleam in his eyes.
Arzu smiled faintly, almost pitying the naivety of the offer. "May I ask again, what are you chasing?"
Shreesh's eyes fell to the ground, his voice steady. "Dharma. My Dharma to protect the weak and underprivileged, my path to righteousness." His gaze snapped back to Arzu's, searching for a reaction, but he found him unfazed. Shreesh shifted into his stance regardless.
"Then my answer is the same," Arzu replied bluntly. "My Dharma is to protect my family's tranquility, something I will never achieve at your side." His feet spread, body settling into Tahtib form.
"You are blind," Shreesh said coldly. The words were the last before the silence of battle fell.
Two souls poured their truths into combat.
Shreesh's movement carried the fluid grace of Kalaripayattu, agile and flexible. Arzu's Tahtib strikes came blunt and unyielding. They exchanged barrages, forearms clashing, kicks striking high and low, bodies weaving and twisting like mirrored storms. Shreesh's lean frame gave him speed, his movements snapping faster than Arzu could counter.
Pressed back, Arzu sliced the air with his palm. Moisture bled from moss and vine, condensed into sharp, whistling bullets that he hurled at Shreesh.
Shreesh did not flinch. His Tatva shimmered, bending light into illusions—mirage ledges, phantom footholds, false outcrops that carried his weight and dissolved under the barrage. To the untrained eye, Arzu seemed hopelessly outmatched. Water bullets shattered harmlessly against illusory stone as Shreesh danced across paths that existed only for him.
"You're slipping on purpose."
"How can someone so massive stumble against a smaller man?"
"That's Rakha for you, worthless."
"A Rakha should always crawl at our feet."
"Good for nothing. Finished."
The jeers echoed in Arzu's head, the voices of caravan guards and clansmen who spat on his bloodline. His fists trembled. He faltered, and Shreesh swept the ground from under him.
Arzu's mind flashed back.
"Maa, why do we get so much hate?" The boy's eyes had been wide, his red hair tangled, his tiny body clothed in rags. He lay in his mother's lap beneath a crumbling pillar.
Her body was frail, her voice weary. "It is our punishment for being too naïve to understand the rules of this world. Tattva has not blessed us, and the world hates us for it." She brushed his cheek, tears streaking her face.
The boy chuckled softly, stubbornness in his eyes. "Then I will learn the rules. I will make Tattva love us."
The memory jolted Arzu back as Shreesh closed in. Instinct saved him, his body pulled him clear of a finishing strike.
"Hey old fools!" Arzu roared, turning his fury on the unseen chorus in his mind. "I fight for my Dharma, my family! You can all rot!"
The venom in his glare silenced even the bravest of hecklers. They envied him, feared him, yet none dared move against him.
Arzu's eyes turned back to Shreesh with ominous intensity. He lunged, unleashing a storm of strikes meant to bury his foe.
The battle raged along Dhaurahal's razor edge. Arzu advanced with ruthless precision, his rhythm sharpened by years of suffering. Now it was Shreesh who staggered, breath growing heavy.
"Am I this sluggish… or has he grown faster?" Shreesh thought, shaken as blood spurted from his nose, ears, and lips.
I am D-6, and he is D-3. How is he overpowering me? Something is wrong.
His eyes darted, Arzu's bullets were swelling, growing denser with each strike.
How is his Tatva manifesting water so easily? And why the growing intensity?
Every blow told a story, pain, sorrow, dejection, fear, loneliness, anguish. Shreesh saw it all, as though Arzu's emotions were carved into each strike. And for a moment, he projected himself into that struggle.
He is the same as me. My Dharma… Do I even remember why I fight?
Doubts coiled around him. He slackened.
Arzu saw it. "Stop fooling yourself. Be honest. I fight for my Dharma with all I have, you should do the same!"
He slammed a fist into Shreesh's chest, sending him skidding across the stone until his back hit the cliff wall with a dull crack.
"Come back to your senses!" Arzu barked. "It is against my pride to look down on anyone, even after being looked down on all my life!"
Shreesh gasped against the rock, his body trembling. Yet something stirred.
So that's it. I follow Dharma not to glorify myself, but so no one else suffers. To protect, to bring joy, to give life meaning. Hope, love, support. That is why I chose this path. No matter how many times I fall, I will not let anyone suffer again.
A chuckle escaped him, low but steady. He pushed himself upright. "I am serious about making you my companion, Arzu."
The declaration surprised Arzu, his lips twitching with a reaction he couldn't suppress. For a moment, he faltered.
"I'm draining your stamina," Arzu admitted flatly. "Siphoning moisture from your body."
"I know," Shreesh answered, calm despite his ragged breath.
Arzu blinked, stunned. "Then why don't you hate me? Is it so hard to hate your enemy?"
"Because I know you are suffering too."
The words pierced deeper than any strike. Arzu's pale eye glistened, and for the first time in years, tears spilled down his cheek. His will faltered, though his grip remained tight.
"So be it. There is no point in words." His stance hardened again.
Shreesh welcomed it, his illusions surging.
Arzu's every breath drew more moisture, bullets screaming through the mist. Shreesh bent the world with Maya, false trees, doubled shadows, endless mazes of rock.
But Arzu's pale eye refused illusion. His strikes carried on, relentless, draining strength from the land itself.
The cliffs rang with their battle, blow against blow, truth against truth. Neither fatigue nor deception broke them. Both men locked into a dead heat, one drained, one determined yet neither willing to yield.
Arzu's palms cut the air in rapid succession, bullets of water screaming forth, heavier and sharper than before. They tore through stone, carving grooves into the cliff wall. Shreesh slipped between them, his body blurring in streaks of illusion. One moment he was two paces away, the next behind Arzu's shoulder, then in front again, every image daring Arzu to guess which was real.
Arzu's pale eye flicked and judged, striking where others would have faltered. His fists landed heavy, breaking through illusions to graze flesh. One strike clipped Shreesh's shoulder, spinning him sideways; another hammered into his ribs, cracking the breath from his lungs.
But Shreesh endured. His emotions, strained but alive, rang against the cliffs. "Yes… but this is not sufficient."
"See you in the afterlife." He narrowed his stance once more.
With a roar, Shreesh shed his remaining mirages and charged. His katar glistened in his grip, the curved blade humming with intent. He vaulted off an illusionary ledge, twisting mid-air, his eyes fixed on Arzu's chest.
Time seemed to slow.
Arzu's defenses were raised, but his body lagged a fraction, weakened by the battle, by exhaustion, by the slow burn of moisture he had stolen. His pale eye widened as the blade cut toward him, and for a fleeting heartbeat he saw not an enemy, but destiny's judgment.
Steel met flesh.
The katar drove into Arzu's chest, angled with lethal precision. It sank deep, a line of fire tearing across his ribs. Arzu staggered back, air bursting from his lungs in a strangled gasp.
Yet when he looked down, wide-eyed, he realized the truth.
The blade had missed his heart.
By choice.
Shreesh's strike had been clean enough to kill, yet the angle veered just short of the vital organs. Blood spilled, hot and red, but not mortal. It was a blow of dominance, not execution, a statement that the phantom of Nirvana could end him, yet chose not to.
Arzu dropped to one knee, breath ragged, his fist pressed against the wound. The mist curled around him like smoke from a smothered fire.
Shreesh stood above, chest heaving, his katar dripping crimson. His eyes locked onto Arzu's with a strange clarity, not of malice, but of understanding.
"That was my answer. You see now? We are bound by the same Dharma, Arzu. The only difference is how far each of us is willing to go."
The wind howled across the cliff's edge, carrying the echo of the strike, of blood falling onto stone, of two warriors locked in a destiny neither had chosen, yet both had embraced.
And after the long battle, silence fell, broken only by Arzu's ragged breath and the steady drip of blood from Shreesh's blade.
Shreesh helped Arzu's body sag against the stone, the wound in his chest burning like a brand. His hand pressed hard to keep the blood from flowing freely, but the strength in his arm was already waning. His pale iris dulled as his vision swam, and in that blur, memories rose unbidden.
He saw his family.
His mother, frail and stooped, her hands rough from a life of labor, whispering quiet prayers even as hunger gnawed at her belly. His wife, with her soft smile, who had stood by him through poverty and scorn, her spirit never broken though the world spat upon their name. His daughter, laughing, throwing tantrums, her red hair a rebellious flame against the darkness of their station.
And his son, his heart clenched at the image. The boy's wide red eyes full of hope, his ribs showing beneath the skin, his voice still strong even when his body was failing. A child who dreamed of making Tattva love their clan, but who died with that dream unfulfilled, claimed by hunger before he could become a man.
The vision of Shreesh in the child's form, an imagination, struck too deep for Arzu—overlapping with what his son would have looked like if he had lived long enough. Now, as blood drained and time faltered, Arzu tried reaching his hand toward Shreesh. Shreesh, without hesitation, grasped it. For Arzu, it felt as though he were holding his son one last time.
He closed his eyes, whispering into the cold air: At least I gave them something. A roof. A name that did not crumble. My family has known hunger and loss, but no more. If nothing else, I secured their life. He imagined it to be a perfect ending for a soldier who could keep his head high even if he was gone, trusting that the government would protect them.
Shreesh, standing above, heard the words. His gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment the battlefield grew quiet. Their breaths mingled in the mist, and their words became a low exchange: half philosophy, half confession.
"You fought cornered and swayed by your emotions, reaching out far, scrambling for the regrets of an unfulfilled life," Shreesh said quietly. "Yet you never once bent for yourself. Only for them."
Arzu chuckled, though the sound was ragged. "That is my Dharma. My family is all I have… all I am. Even if the world seared me, even if they spit on my name, they will never be able to steal what I secured for them."
Shreesh's eyes narrowed, as though weighing the truth of those words. "Then perhaps we are closer than I thought."
Before Arzu could answer, the air shifted.
From the treeline, two figures emerged, both wearing the insignia of OF-2 captains. Their footsteps cracked branches and stirred the mist, and without hesitation they wove Tattva into bark, roots lashing like serpents.
In an instant, Shreesh's limbs were bound, bark wrapping him against the trunk of an ancient tree. The wood constricted, hard as stone, rendering him immovable. His katar clattered against the ground.
Arzu, gasping, tried to rise. His chest burned, his blood leaving him weaker with every heartbeat. The captains sneered as they approached, their words dripping with venom.
"So this is the Rakha dog," one spat. "Bleeding like the mongrel he is. Do you think your cursed clan deserves mercy?"
The other bent low, his face twisted in a cruel smile. "Your line should have ended with you. But do not worry. We will take care of what you leave behind. Your wife and your precious daughter will serve us well, in Kupawara they pay handsomely for slaves with rare hair and eyes. Perhaps we will enjoy them first, before the trade."
Arzu froze. His pale eye widened, blood roaring in his ears louder than the pain in his chest. Rage burned hotter than the wound.
"You… bastards," he rasped, struggling to stand. His legs quivered, his body refused him, yet his spirit clawed forward. He tried to summon water, to pull from the mist, but his body was drained dry. His fists shook with impotence, his heart cried out with fury.
The captains laughed, mistaking his weakness for surrender. "Look at him. Fight for Dharma? Don't give us this absurd shit. You live in the stone age or what? There is no Dharma, only Adharma." One of them laughed loudly, mocking both the ideals of Arzu and Shreesh.
Shreesh struggled against the bark, his eyes flashing with fire. "You morons. You don't know what Dharma is. You measure power in rank, in Tattva, in cruelty. But Dharma is what we live for. Dharma is what makes us who we are. You have abandoned it for pleasure, but Dharma is incomplete without Karma, and you are bound to that cycle."
Arzu's lips trembled. He wanted to believe, yet the weight of his wound dragged him down.
Summoning what little Tattva he had left, he drew the last traces of moisture from the air. His vision blurred, his veins screamed, but he lifted his hand once more.
With a roar torn from the core of his being, Arzu fired a barrage of water bullets, sharper, heavier than any he had summoned before. The volley struck true, shredding the bark that bound Shreesh. Splinters exploded across the clearing, the roots snapping apart.
Go, my son. Live it the way you want. The thought burned in his mind as a farewell, his son's face vivid before him, before he collapsed.
Shreesh was free.
Like a storm unleashed, he lunged forward. His katar swept up from the ground, his movements a blur of fury and precision. The first captain had no time to scream before Shreesh's blade sheared through his arm, then his leg, leaving him writhing helpless in the dirt. The second fell just as swiftly, a clean strike severing tendons, rendering him immobile.
The forest echoed with their screams.
Shreesh stood over them, blood spattered across his face, his voice cold as iron. "You sick bastards. Feel the pain, the agony of withering, and mourn for your own death in solace. Think again and again, and be reborn. Start over and reflect in your next birth. Adieu." And the curtain of life fell for one.
The other captain, broken yet defiant, sneered even as his blood pooled. "Fool. Even if you strike us down, the Rakha's kin are already doomed. They're as good as dead."
Shreesh's glare sharpened. His voice rose, steady and confident, cutting through their words. "I will see to it. I will protect that family. They will be under my care. I will not forsake them as you did. No one touches them, not now, not ever."
Arzu, lying on the ground, stared up at Shreesh. His breath came shallow, his chest burning, but his heart staggered with shock.
Could you have acted the same, Almi? A vision of his son's smile glimmered at him from the far heavens. With mixed feelings he began to drift, uncertainty for the livelihood and shelter of his family, but a fragile promise that someone strong would protect them, even when he was no longer there.
The road to Kupawara stretched like a scar across the valley, the caravan winding along its dusted path.
A silhouette, unhurried and elegant as a witch, approached what seemed an abandoned caravan. It was Saanvi.
She moved with measured grace, her Tatva humming through the earth beneath her feet, roots whispering to her call. Sensing imminent danger on instinct, she lunged backward in a swift backflip, pulling herself clear, and she was right on the mark.
The first clash was brutal. Blades and bolts rained on her from every angle, fifteen against one. For a moment, even her defenses strained. They pressed her back, pinned her down with coordinated force, their laughter filling the air as though victory had already been sealed.
"Let her live," one jeered. "Kupawara pays double for pretty ones."
Another barked a laugh. "Why sell her? We could have our fun first."
Their arrogance made them careless.
One of the officers, grinning, gestured toward the largest wagon. "Before we decide, let's show her what we already carry. Let her see what's waiting for her."
The doors creaked open.
Inside, a mother and child lay huddled together. Their bodies were marked with bruises, their clothes torn and sullied. The child whimpered weakly, no louder than a breath, while the mother's eyes stared blankly, caught between life and death.
The sight seared itself into Saanvi's mind. Her heart surged with rage, her stomach twisted with grief. No one should ever witness their sister, mother, or child reduced to such a state of torment.
The soldiers jeered, pointing toward the older woman. "See? That's what happens when you resist. She's broken now, worthless except for one last trade. You'll end the same."
One officer licked his lips. "No, she'll end up better. We'll enjoy her before the trade."
The words were the last mistake they ever made.
Her anger left no space for hesitation. She spared them neither words nor thought. As they moved to advance on her—
The earth groaned beneath them.
Roots burst upward from the soil, coiling like serpents with impossible speed. One lashed across the formation, slicing through three necks in a single stroke. Heads fell, rolling in the dirt, eyes still wide in surprise. Blood sprayed across the wagons, staining wood and earth alike.
Panic erupted. Swords clashed against roots, arrows flew, but the forest itself had awakened to Saanvi's fury. The ground split, vines shot out, branches twisted into whips of thorn and bark. Each officer was seized in turn, their screams silenced as roots constricted throats, shattered spines, and tore flesh apart.
One by one, fourteen fell, slain where they stood, their bodies left broken in grotesque forms.
Only one remained.
He had not fought. He had been too busy unbuckling his belt, eager to indulge his lust before his comrades had even finished speaking. Now, as he turned and saw the carnage, the headless corpses of his brothers-in-arms, the blood-soaked soil, terror gripped him.
He stumbled, half-naked, scrambling to run. His breath tore from his lungs, his eyes darted frantically for escape. At last, he looked back at Saanvi, his face white with fear, and could utter only one word:
"Ban Durga…"
And the earth has no mercy.
A root speared upward, piercing him clean through the stomach. His scream choked into silence as blood bubbled from his lips. He writhed once, twice, then went limp, his body pinned like a moth to the earth.
Silence followed.
The wagons creaked softly, the sivaks stamped nervously, and the air grew thick with the smell of death.
Saanvi stood at the center, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing with fury. The image of the mother and child was carved deep into her heart—an image she would never forget.
The battlefield was quiet now. The mist of Dhaurahal had swallowed the cries, leaving only the smell of iron and the rustle of leaves trembling in the aftermath of violence. Arzu's body lay still against the stone, his pale iris dimmed, the wound across his chest already darkened with dried blood.
He had breathed his last before help could come.
From the treeline a silhouette emerged, Saanvi, her steps slow but unyielding. In her arms she carried a small figure, Arzu's daughter, unconscious but alive. Across her shoulder she bore his wife, limp with exhaustion and grief.
When her eyes fell upon Arzu's body, something in her broke. She could not even weep. Her face withered into silent agony, her lips trembling without sound. It was as though sorrow had carved her hollow, leaving no tears to fall.
The child stirred faintly, whimpering once before falling still again.
Shreesh stepped forward, his katar still stained crimson, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body of Arzu, who had stood against him only moments before. For a long breath he said nothing, and the silence stretched heavy, binding the living and the dead.
At last, his voice cut through the air, steady, low, and certain.
"He fought for his family, and he held his ground until the end." Shreesh turned his eyes to Arzu's wife. "He wanted to secure comfort for you. Let me tend to your needs until I am alive. Live without fear. This is my promise."
Saanvi lowered the woman gently onto the ground beside her husband's body. She too bowed her head, the fury that had slaughtered fifteen men moments ago now replaced by quiet grief.
The wife leaned close to Arzu's still face. Her eyes were wide, empty of tears, her mouth unable to form words. Her hand hovered above his chest, trembling, before finally resting against the wound that had stolen him.
Shreesh closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment he saw his own failures reflected in Arzu's death, the family he had once lost, the ones he had failed to keep safe. He clenched his fist. This time, he would not falter.
"Rest, Arzu, for now. May your next birth be free from the agony and the pain you endured in this life," he whispered to the fallen man. "You gave them everything you could."
The wind stirred, lifting the mist. For an instant it seemed to bear Arzu's spirit upward, into the cycle of birth and death once more.
And so, on the cliffs of Dhaurahal, the chapter closed, with a promise forged in blood, grief, and Dharma.