The Blood-Iron clan did not arrive. They made an entrance.
A procession of ten warriors marched into the Jwala's central plaza, their heavy, metal-soled boots stamping on the sandstone in a synchronized, intimidating rhythm that echoed off the canyon walls. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. It was the sound of conquest, not of a friendly visit.
They were a stark contrast to the Jwala. While the Jwala were lithe and robed in the colors of the desert, these warriors were a brutalist fusion of flesh and rusted metal. Their armor was not forged, but scavenged and brutally repurposed from ancient machinery. Pistons and gears formed their pauldrons, sheets of pitted durasteel served as chest plates. They carried not spears, but massive, two-handed weapons: warhammers made from engine blocks, greatswords cut from the chassis of fallen mechs. They smelled of hot metal, oil, and blood.
Their leader was a mountain of a man, even taller than Kaelen, his face a roadmap of scars, his beard braided with metal rings. A crude but functional cybernetic eye, glowing a malevolent red, was bolted onto his face. He carried a monstrous axe, its head a sharpened engine turbine, still slick with something dark.
He strode to the center of the plaza, slammed the butt of his axe onto the ground with a resounding CLANG, and bellowed, his voice a gravelly roar. "Rudra of the Blood-Iron clan is here! Where is this so-called 'Avatar' the wind-talkers have been whispering about?"
Chhaya, flanked by Kaelen, met him at the fire pit. Her serene presence was an ocean against his volcanic rage. "Chief Rudra," she said, her voice calm and clear. "You are welcome in our home, but your weapons are not."
Rudra let out a harsh, grating laugh. "My axe is my word, old mother. I do not sheath it for anyone. I have come because I heard a fool's tale. A ghost from the cage-cities, come to lead us to a glorious death. I have come to see if this ghost has any fire, or if he is just a wisp of smoke."
At that moment, Kalpit and Anasuya descended the stone stairs into the plaza. All eyes, Jwala and Blood-Iron alike, turned to them. Rudra's one good eye and one cybernetic optic raked over Kalpit, his lips curling into a sneer of utter contempt.
"This is him?" he roared, pointing his axe at Kalpit. "This half-starved whelp? This is the fire that will burn down Kali's empire? He looks as if a strong wind would snap him in two! He stinks of the city's recycled air."
The ten Blood-Iron warriors behind him laughed, a chorus of guttural, metallic chuckles. Kaelen and the Jwala warriors tensed, their hands gripping their own weapons, the ancient tension between the two tribes flaring to life.
"He is depleted from a great battle," Chhaya stated, her voice sharp as glass. "He has done more to harm Kali in the last few days than your clan has in a generation of raiding convoys."
"Words!" Rudra spat. "The Jwala have always been good with words and whispers. The Blood-Iron clan believes in deeds. In the language of steel and blood! If this boy is the Avatar, then he should possess the power of one. Let him prove it. Here. Now."
The challenge was laid. A trial by combat, in front of the two most powerful tribes. Kalpit's future as a leader rested on this single moment. He felt the weight of hundreds of eyes, the expectant hope of the Jwala and the dismissive scorn of the Blood-Iron.
Kalpit, his chakras now humming with a quiet, steady warmth from his meditation, stepped forward. He met the massive chieftain's gaze without flinching.
"I have no quarrel with you, Chief Rudra," he said, his voice calm, carrying across the plaza.
"And a lamb has no quarrel with a wolf!" Rudra bellowed. "But the wolf is still hungry! Fight my champion. If you win, the Blood-Iron clan will listen to your words at the council. If you lose, we will take your head back to our forge as a trophy, and your rebellion will die here, a stillborn dream in the dust."
He gestured with his axe. One of his warriors, a hulking brute whose entire right arm had been replaced by a massive, hydraulic piston-hammer, stomped forward and slammed his metal fist into the ground, cracking the sandstone.
Kaelen stepped beside Kalpit. "This is not our way," he murmured, his voice low and angry. "This is savagery, not a test. I will fight in your stead."
"No," Kalpit said, placing a hand on Kaelen's arm. "This is my challenge." He looked at the champion, a machine of pure, brute force. Parashurama's voice echoed in his mind. Your greatest weapon is your own unique nature. He couldn't win this with strength. Trying to match this monster blow for blow would be suicide.
"I accept the challenge," Kalpit announced. "But on one condition."
Rudra laughed. "The lamb seeks to set terms for its own slaughter? Speak, boy. Amuse me."
"No weapons," Kalpit said, looking from Rudra's massive axe to his champion's piston-fist. "Bare hands. Flesh against flesh. A test of true power, not of scrap metal."
The Blood-Iron warriors roared with laughter. Rudra himself looked stunned, then grinned a ferocious, wolfish grin. "Bare hands? Against Grak? My champion, whose arm can punch through the hull of a cargo hauler?" He slapped his armored thigh. "Done! A quick death is more than you deserve!"
The champion, Grak, sneered, deactivating the hydraulic piston. It still ended in a massive, steel-cased fist, but the terrifying concussive force was disengaged. He cracked the knuckles of his human hand, his expression one of bored cruelty.
The plaza cleared, forming a wide circle around them. Kaelen and Chhaya looked on, their faces masks of deep concern. Anasuya simply watched, her analytical gaze betraying no emotion, but her hand rested on the hilt of her knife.
Kalpit took a deep breath. He centered himself, adopting the simple, solid stance Parashurama had taught him. He anchored his Muladhara to the ground beneath the plaza. He let his Svadhisthana find a calm, steady flow. He ignited the warm, steady sun of his Manipura. He was no longer a half-drowned rat. He was a weapon, tempered in the forge of a god.
Grak, seeing Kalpit's passive stance, bellowed and charged. He was a runaway freighter, his every step shaking the ground, his one metal fist raised, aiming to pulp Kalpit's head with a single, brutal blow.
Kalpit did not move. He waited. He watched the charge. It was all power, no finesse. Pure, linear force. And he knew how to argue with that.
At the last possible second, as the steel fist was about to connect, Kalpit shifted. It was not a dodge. It was a flow. He used Grak's own immense momentum against him, pivoting on his back foot, his hand coming up not to block, but to guide. He placed his palm gently on the inside of the piston-arm's elbow joint.
He did not push. He did not strike.
He sent a single, sharp, focused pulse of his Manipura's energy into the joint. A persuasive argument. He didn't try to break the metal. He simply targeted the single, most vulnerable component: the complex hydraulic locking mechanism inside the joint.
Tap.
Grak roared past him, his blow striking empty air. He stumbled, trying to correct his momentum, then tried to raise his piston-arm for another strike.
It wouldn't respond. It was locked, frozen at a strange, bent angle. Kalpit's focused burst of Prana had short-circuited the delicate internal machinery, frying the controls. The champion's greatest weapon was now a useless, heavy anchor.
Grak stared at his frozen arm in disbelief. The laughter of the Blood-Iron clan died in their throats.
With a roar of pure fury, Grak spun, swinging his other, human fist—a club of flesh and bone easily twice the size of Kalpit's head.
This time, Kalpit did not redirect. He met the attack head-on.
He punched.
It was not a wild swing. It was the one-inch punch. The perfectly focused technique of a warrior-sage, powered by the core of an Avatar. Earth. Water. Heart. Will. All combined into a single, perfect point of impact.
His small, unassuming fist met Grak's massive, charging one.
There was no thunderous crack of bone on bone. There was only a dull, soft thud.
But for a split second, a brilliant, golden light flared at the point of impact.
Grak's eyes widened, a look of pure, animal shock on his face. His momentum did not stop, but his punch, his force, his will, simply… dissolved. The energy of his blow was unraveled, persuaded to become nothing.
His arm, from the knuckles to the shoulder, dropped, limp and useless. Kalpit hadn't broken the bone; he had severed the connection between Grak's intent and his physical form, a perfect, temporary paralysis.
The giant champion, his momentum spent, his weapons neutralized, stood dumbly before the slender boy, defenseless.
Kalpit was not done. He took a single step forward, flowing into Grak's guard. He placed the palm of his hand flat against the center of the warrior's massive, metal-plated chest.
There was a final, blinding flash of golden Manipura light.
FWOOMP.
The force of the blow was not concussive. It was propulsive. A perfect, clean transfer of energy. Grak's feet lifted off the ground. The hulking brute was thrown backwards as if shot from a cannon, flying through the air, across the entire plaza.
He slammed into the rock wall twenty meters away with a sickening CRUNCH and collapsed into a heap, unmoving.
The silence that fell over the plaza was absolute.
The Jwala stared, their hope turning to stunned, wide-eyed belief.
The Blood-Iron clan, their jaws slack, stared at their fallen champion, then at the slender boy who had not taken a single step back.
Rudra's cybernetic eye whirred, unable to process what it had just seen.
Kalpit stood in the center of the circle, breathing calmly, a faint, golden wisp of energy dissipating from his hand. He lowered his fist and looked directly at the Blood-Iron chieftain.
"Does that deed," he asked, his voice calm but ringing with the undeniable power he now commanded, "speak a language you can understand?"