Night refused to let Ayaan sleep.
He sat on the edge of the cot, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his fingers ached. The village outside was quiet, but his mind was not.
Masleuddin was alive.
That single fact should have comforted him. Instead, it made everything heavier.
In the future, his father had spoken of Masleuddin like someone already buried. Not with tears. Not with rage. With distance. As if remembering him hurt more than losing him.
Ten incidents, Ayaan thought.
His father had once said it so casually, as if numbers made things easier.
"There were many things," his father had said.
"But ten incidents… those changed me."
Ten moments where something broke and never fully healed.
Ayaan pressed his palms against his face.
Is Red Hollow one of them?
Is this war… one of those moments?
If it was—then everything happening now mattered more than anyone here realized.
"What if I stop this?" Ayaan whispered to the empty room.
"What if I change it?"
The thought scared him.
If he interfered and the future shifted—
Would he still exist?
He remembered his own words from long ago, spoken carelessly, confidently.
If I were there during my father's past… I wouldn't let him become evil.
The arrogance of it burned now.
"I'm here," Ayaan muttered. "And I don't know what to do."
Another question surfaced, darker than the rest.
How did I even come here?
There had been no warning. No ritual. No explanation. One moment he was holding the belt. The next, he was bleeding in the dirt.
And worse—
He had no idea how to go back.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"At least I didn't end up on the wrong side," he said quietly.
"What if I had joined Red Hollow instead?"
The thought made his stomach twist.
"Focus," he told himself. "Think."
Masleuddin.
If anyone's death mattered most… it was his.
How do you save a man who doesn't know he's supposed to die?
Ayaan's thoughts spiraled.
Is there a traitor inside Iron Circle?
Is Akil's thirst for revenge the trigger?
Or is it something smaller… something stupid… that snowballs?
His chest tightened.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know."
Morning
The sun rose without mercy.
Ayaan walked toward the fields with heavy steps, his body still sore, his mind exhausted. In the distance, beneath a wide tree, he saw them.
Kashifuddin sat on the ground, back against the trunk, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, lazy and indifferent.
Akil sat close by, arms resting on his knees, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched. Masleuddin stood to Kashifuddin's right, arms folded, eyes scanning the open land.
They were thinking about timing.
About blood.
About when to strike.
Ayaan swallowed and stepped forward.
"Kashif," he said.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him.
"Please," Ayaan continued, his voice unsteady but firm, "don't fight Red Hollow. Don't start this war."
Akil's head snapped toward him.
"What did you say?" Akil asked sharply.
Ayaan ignored him and looked only at Kashifuddin.
"I can't explain everything," Ayaan said. "But trust me—if you fight them, we lose more than we gain. This battle will destroy things you don't see yet."
Akil stood up so fast his shadow fell over Ayaan.
Before Ayaan could react, a fist crashed into his face.
Pain exploded.
Ayaan felt his nose break before he felt the blood. His body was thrown sideways, hitting the ground hard. The taste of iron filled his mouth.
"Stay out of our matters," Akil shouted. "You don't belong here!"
Ayaan struggled to push himself up.
"Kashif—" he gasped. "Please—listen—"
Akil didn't.
Punch after punch came down.
Ayaan curled instinctively, trying to protect his head as blows rained down—jabs, crosses, wild strikes fueled by grief and rage.
Blood soaked into the dirt.
"Enough!"
Kashifuddin's voice cut through the chaos.
Akil froze.
Breathing hard, fists shaking, he stepped back.
Kashifuddin looked at Ayaan.
"I'm sorry," he said calmly. "But I've decided. This war will happen."
Akil backed away at those words.
Ayaan lay on the ground, chest heaving, vision blurred.
Masleuddin stepped forward.
He looked down at Ayaan, then turned to Kashifuddin.
"Let's think once more," Masleuddin said. "Let's at least understand who this new leader is. We follow Ayaan's suggestion. Once."
Kashifuddin's eyes narrowed.
"You're forgetting our rules," he said.
Masleuddin frowned. "What rules?"
"This is about rules," Kashifuddin replied. "Always has been."
Before Masleuddin could answer—
A slow clap echoed across the field.
"So," a voice said, amused, cold, confident,
"It seems someone is very eager to fight us."
Men stepped out from the trees.
Dozens.
Then more.
Over fifty figures surrounded them, spreading out with practiced ease.
At the center walked a man.
Tall. Lean. Sharp-featured.
His hair was slicked back, his expression bored, almost disappointed. A faint scar traced his jawline. His eyes were pale and lifeless, like nothing inside him reacted anymore.
This was Zarqael.
He smiled faintly.
Ayaan stared at him.
Something about Zarqael felt wrong—too calm, too precise. Like violence was not an emotion to him, but a habit.
Zarqael's gaze snapped to Ayaan.
In a blur of motion, he spun.
A back kick slammed into Ayaan's chest before he could even flinch.
Ayaan was thrown backward, crashing into the ground several meters away. Air left his lungs in a violent rush. Blood spilled from his mouth.
Zarqael tilted his head.
"What are you staring at?" he asked casually.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled.
"So," Zarqael continued, exhaling smoke, "the legend Kashifuddin plans to take revenge on me?"
Akil didn't think.
He charged.
A rapid combination—cross, jab, jab, cross—every strike thrown with raw power and fury.
Zarqael dodged all of it.
Effortlessly.
Red Hollow's men laughed.
Ayaan watched from the ground, his body screaming, his mind screaming louder.
I trained my whole life.
I was an athlete.
Then why… why do I feel so weak here?
Zarqael moved.
And the difference became terrifyingly clear.
Zarqael moved like he was bored.
Akil's fists came fast—trained, brutal, desperate. Years of street fights, rage compressed into muscle memory. Cross, jab, jab, cross. Each punch carried grief behind it.
Zarqael slipped past them as if he had already seen this fight happen.
A slight turn of the shoulder.
A step half an inch back.
A lazy sway of the head.
Akil's last punch cut through empty air.
Zarqael sighed.
Then he struck.
A short elbow crashed into Akil's ribs. Not hard enough to break bone—but placed perfectly. Akil's breath left him in a sharp gasp. Before his body could react, Zarqael's knee slammed upward into his stomach.
Akil folded.
Zarqael grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.
"This?" Zarqael said calmly. "This is revenge?"
He drove his forehead into Akil's face.
Once.
Twice.
Akil collapsed to his knees, blood pouring from his nose, vision swimming. His hands trembled as he tried to stand again.
Red Hollow's men laughed louder now.
"Akil!" Masleuddin shouted, stepping forward.
Zarqael's eyes flicked toward Masleuddin for half a second.
That was enough.
He kicked Akil square in the chest.
Akil flew backward and slammed into the dirt, unmoving.
Silence ripped through the field.
Ayaan pushed himself up onto his elbows, coughing blood. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to stay down. But his eyes refused to leave Zarqael.
This isn't strength, Ayaan realized.
This is experience.
Zarqael turned slowly toward Kashifuddin.
"So this is Iron Circle," he said, spreading his arms slightly. "A grieving man. A thinker. And a boy who talks too much."
His eyes settled on Ayaan again.
"You don't belong here," Zarqael said. "Your body knows it. Your face knows it."
Kashifuddin finally stood.
The air shifted.
He did not rush. He did not shout. He walked forward with the same calm he had shown while riding the bicycle, cigarette smoke still clinging faintly to his clothes.
"Enough," Kashifuddin said.
Zarqael smiled wider.
"The famous voice," he replied. "I wondered when you'd use it."
Masleuddin moved to Kashifuddin's side, lowering his voice. "Not now. Too many eyes."
Kashifuddin nodded slightly.
Zarqael noticed that too.
"Oh?" he said mockingly. "You still take advice?"
He gestured behind him. "I didn't come to fight today. I came to look."
His gaze swept across Iron Circle's men.
"And now I've seen enough."
One of Red Hollow's men stepped forward, dragging something behind him.
A body.
Barely conscious. Tied. Bleeding.
Ayaan's stomach dropped.
A village boy. Not older than sixteen.
"Message delivery," Zarqael said casually. "You should teach your people not to wander near our paths."
Masleuddin's fists clenched.
"This isn't how wars start," he said coldly.
Zarqael shrugged. "Wars don't start. They continue."
He turned his back.
"Next time," Zarqael added, lighting another cigarette, "I won't stop at sisters."
That did it.
Something inside Kashifuddin snapped—not loudly, not violently—but permanently.
"Leave," Kashifuddin said.
Zarqael paused.
For the first time, his smile faded just a little.
"Soon," he replied. "Very soon."
Red Hollow moved as one. Fifty shadows slipping back into the trees, taking their laughter with them.
When they were gone, the field felt empty.
Broken.
Masleuddin rushed to Akil, kneeling beside him.
Akil coughed, blood bubbling at his lips. "I couldn't… touch him," he whispered.
Masleuddin gripped his shoulder. "You lived. That matters."
Ayaan lay back against the dirt, staring at the sky.
This is one of the incidents, he realized.
This is exactly how it starts.
He had tried to stop it.
He had failed.
But something else had changed.
Zarqael had seen them.
Measured them.
Dismissed them.
And Kashifuddin had decided something far more dangerous than revenge.
Ayaan closed his eyes, fear crawling through his bones.
Masleuddin survives, he reminded himself.
I will not let this end the same way.
But deep down, a darker truth whispered back.
Stopping a future didn't mean escaping the cost.
It only meant choosing who pays it.