The hospital smelled of antiseptic and iron.
It was the kind of smell that clung to the back of the throat, impossible to ignore, impossible to forget. The lights overhead were harsh and unforgiving, illuminating pale walls and exhausted faces. Groans echoed faintly from distant rooms, mixing with the hurried footsteps of nurses and the low murmurs of worried voices.
Everyone who had been injured was brought here.
Iron Circle men.
Villagers.
Even a few who refused to admit how badly they were hurt.
Akil lay on a narrow hospital bed, his body wrapped in bandages, his chest rising unevenly with every breath. His face was bruised, swollen, his right eye barely open. Every inhale sent pain through his ribs, but he didn't care.
Pain was loud.
His thoughts were louder.
Kashifuddin.
The name kept circling in his mind like a wound that refused to close.
Why didn't he stop him?
Akil clenched his jaw, staring at the ceiling.
He could have stopped Zarqael.
There was no doubt about that. Not even for a second.
Akil had known Kashifuddin since childhood. He had seen him fight when there were no witnesses, no crowds, no reputation to protect. He had watched men twice his size fall like broken statues. He had seen fear crawl into the eyes of people who thought they were untouchable.
Kashifuddin was the strongest man in the village.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
But undeniable.
If he wanted, Akil thought bitterly, we would have won.
He swallowed hard.
Kashifuddin had called Akil's sister his own sister. Had eaten at their home. Had promised—quietly, without drama—that nothing would ever touch her.
So why?
Why had he stood there, calm and silent, while Zarqael walked away?
Why didn't you stop him?
The question gnawed at Akil's chest harder than any broken bone.
You were there.
You saw me bleed.
Akil turned his head slightly, wincing as pain flared.
You were always the strongest, he thought. I have never seen anyone stronger than you. Not once.
Skinny.
Quiet.
Unassuming.
And still… unstoppable.
So why had Kashifuddin chosen not to act?
Akil's breath hitched.
Was it not important enough?
Was my sister not worth crossing that line?
The thought made something dark twist inside him.
"I know."
Masleuddin's voice cut through the noise in Akil's head.
Akil turned slightly. Masleuddin lay on the bed beside him, an arm in a sling, a deep cut stitched along his temple. His face looked tired—not injured tired, but weighed down by understanding.
"I know what you're thinking," Masleuddin continued quietly.
Akil said nothing.
Masleuddin stared at the ceiling.
"You're wondering why Kashif didn't stop him," he said. "Why he didn't step in."
Akil's fists clenched beneath the blanket.
"If he wanted," Masleuddin said slowly, "Zarqael wouldn't have walked away."
Akil's jaw tightened.
"Then why?" Akil whispered hoarsely.
Masleuddin exhaled.
"Because Kashif was waiting," he said.
Akil frowned, confusion cutting through his anger. "Waiting for what?"
"For you," Masleuddin replied.
Akil turned his head sharply, pain forgotten.
Masleuddin looked at him then—really looked at him.
"You said you wanted to kill your sister's murderer with your own hands," Masleuddin said. "You said it out loud. In front of everyone."
Akil's breath shook.
"Kashif heard that," Masleuddin continued. "He wanted to see if you could land even one strike."
Akil stared at him.
"If you had hit him," Masleuddin said quietly, "even once… Kashif would have entered that fight without hesitation."
Akil's throat went dry.
"I know it sounds wrong," Masleuddin added. "Cruel, even. But that's how Kashif thinks."
Akil swallowed.
"And now?" he asked.
Masleuddin's voice lowered.
"Now Kashif's mind is in the worst place it can be," he said. "Because he saw you get beaten in front of him. He saw me struggle. He saw Iron Circle humiliated."
Masleuddin closed his eyes briefly.
"And Kashif doesn't forget things like that."
Akil's hands trembled.
"So this is my fault?" he whispered.
"No," Masleuddin said immediately. "This is Zarqael's fault."
But the hesitation in his voice betrayed him.
Another Room
Ayaan lay on a separate bed, staring at the white ceiling above him.
His nose was bandaged. His ribs burned. Every muscle in his body ached in quiet protest.
But his mind refused to rest.
Was this the incident… or just the beginning?
He remembered his father's voice again older, distant.
"There were many fights."
"Many enemies."
"But ten moments changed everything."
Ayaan swallowed.
How many strong opponents did you face?
How many men like Zarqael existed back then?
When his father had told him stories about fighting powerful men, Ayaan had listened politely but skeptically. He had trained his whole life, pushed his body beyond limits. Strength had always felt measurable.
Now he understood.
There were levels.
And he had barely stepped onto the real field.
"I believe you now," Ayaan whispered.
Zarqael's movements replayed in his mind how effortlessly he dodged, how casually he struck, how bored he looked while hurting people.
These men weren't strong, Ayaan realized. They were experienced.
And experience didn't care about effort.
Ayaan clenched his fists.
"What do I do now?" he whispered.
He had come to the past thinking he could change everything.
Now he wasn't even strong enough to stop a single punch.
How do I stop the ten incidents?
His chest tightened.
"I didn't even use my skills," he muttered bitterly. "Every time something happens, I'm caught off guard. Attacked before I can think."
He stared at his hands.
"I'm not strong enough to stop anyone," he said quietly.
Then another thought crept in.
Wait.
His brow furrowed.
I haven't actually fought yet.
Every clash had been sudden. No preparation. No awareness. No control.
"Am I really weak," he whispered, "or am I just not ready?"
The thought lingered.
Ayaan turned his head slightly, ignoring the pain.
"I have to stop all ten incidents," he said under his breath. "No matter what."
The weight of that vow pressed down on him.
He didn't know how he had come to the past.
He didn't know how he would return to the future.
But one thing was clear now
Being here was not an accident.
And if he did nothing, history would crush everyone in its path.
Ayaan closed his eyes, forcing his racing thoughts to slow.
"Think," he whispered. "Think, Ayaan."
Outside the room, the hospital hummed with quiet suffering.
Inside it, a boy who knew too much and could do too little prepared himself for a future that no longer felt fixed.
This was not the incident.
But it was close enough to touch.
And Ayaan knew
If he failed something wrong will happen for sure