Sharvas was fierce.
Even as his men faltered, their spirits battered by exhaustion and the crushing pressure of war, they looked to him and found strength. He was their anchor in a storm of blades and blood. Massive in build yet terrifyingly swift, Sharvas moved like a phantom of death across the battlefield. He deflected sword strikes with the fluid ease of a seasoned predator, met spears with brute force, and allowed them to crash against his shield—until he cast the shield aside entirely.
He now fought with two swords, each swing a blur, each slash cutting through flesh and steel alike. As his inner circle collapsed under Arya's relentless assault, Sharvas grew even more ferocious. He was on the offensive, cutting through soldiers as if they were wheat in a field. His rage, sharpened by desperation, made him unstoppable.
On the other end of the formation, Arya stood locked in battle beside Dhanudanda. His eyes were fixed on Sharvas, determined to reach him. But there was no opening. Dhanudanda pushed with every ounce of strength he had left, but Sharvas' men held their line, resisting with an intensity born from following a man they feared and revered.
The struggle was real. Both sides had been fighting since dawn—now, it was past midnight. The moon stood high above the field, casting cold light on the broken weapons, fallen warriors, and trembling hands still clutching blades. Fatigue had seeped into every bone, dulled every muscle. Faces were covered in blood and sweat, arms heavy with weariness.
Desperation was setting in.
Commanders on both sides felt it in the soul. Something had to give. Dhanudanda glanced toward Arya, his expression asking the unspoken question—What now?
Arya stepped back, panting, and raised his arm. A single command passed his lips.
"Stop."
The order rippled through his ranks. Swords lowered. Spears dipped. An eerie silence blanketed the battlefield as Arya gave another command—dissolve the Vartula formation. Instead, he instructed them to form a wide defensive wall.
Confused murmurs rose among his troops. Sharvas and Kritipal, standing on the other side of the thinning battlefield, gripped their weapons tighter, expecting a trick or sudden ambush. Their eyes searched the shadows for signs of another Kaalrath attack—or worse.
But Arya moved calmly. With Dhanudanda and Ashvapati beside him, he stepped forward. The battlefield held its breath.
He stopped a few paces ahead of his line and faced Sharvas.
"Sharvas," Arya called, voice clear and unwavering. "We have been fighting for two days. The third is about to begin. There's no sense in spilling more innocent blood. Our men have fought relentlessly, beyond what should have ever been asked of them. They are tired. They can't fight any longer."
He took another step forward. The moonlight shimmered on his dented armor.
An arrow sliced the air and landed near Arya's foot.
Sharvas stepped forward, breathing heavily. "You cannot play any more games, Arya! Even if my numbers are fewer, I do not intend to yield."
"No games," Arya replied calmly. "It's just me. No tricks. Tell your men to stand down. They're exhausted. You know you're outnumbered. This doesn't need to end with their blood. I'm offering you a way out. Let's settle this between us—one on one. You and me."
Sharvas snarled. "You can go to hell. I won't yield. Neither will my men."
Behind him, his soldiers stomped the ground in agreement. Their resolve was fierce, but uncertainty flickered in their eyes.
Arya turned to address them directly. "Men! Hear me. You are free to walk away. No harm will come to those who put down their weapons."
The offer stunned many of Sharvas' warriors. Tired, bleeding, some barely standing—Arya had offered them a path to live.
Kritipal leaned close to Sharvas. "What are you thinking?"
Sharvas growled back. "I'm not giving up my position. I will win this war, even if I have to stand alone. And if you want to walk out on me now, Kritipal—try."
The tension in the air grew thicker. Arya's commanders stirred behind him.
Dhanudanda stepped forward. "Arya, what are you doing? We can end this here. We've surrounded them. We have the numbers. Don't throw this away. What are the odds you win this duel? What if you die? Sharvas won't spare us—he'll butcher our men."
Arya turned to him, calm but resolved. "If I lose, take my place. Finish what we started. Take Ashvapati with you. But I won't let more men die just to satisfy Sharvas' madness."
Dhanudanda stared into Arya's eyes, saw the fire, and stepped back without a word.
Ashvapati moved forward now, his face dark. "You trust him? After everything? After what he did to the rules of war? He's deceived us at every step. You rallied all of us behind you, Arya. And now you want to throw that to fate?"
Arya looked at Ashvapati calmly "I thank you—for standing with me. But you saw the cost these two days. Rudra and Savignya are still fighting for their lives. I lost control when I saw Rudra collapse. But we can't win this war at the cost of our men's lives. They've given everything. They need rest. And Sharvas... he won't stop until he's dead or victorious. So I'll face him. It ends here."
Ashvapati looked to Dhanudanda. They both saw the decision had already been made. They nodded.
Arya turned to his soldiers. His voice rang out across the quiet field.
"If I die tonight—avenge me. Run this place to the ground and leave no man of Sharvas' alive. Paint the battlefield red."
His men roared in reply. They saw a young commander who wasn't hiding behind them. One who was willing to die for them.
"No fear! No fall! No failure!" they shouted in unison.
Arya turned back to Sharvas.
"No more games. Just you and me."
Sharvas looked at Kritipal. All he had ever wanted was victory—and now, here it was. Defeating Arya in a duel would break the enemy's morale. He had no doubt.
He stepped forward, parting his men. "Then let's settle this. You and me."