Old Resort, Lahang Rubber Estate – 6:42 PM
The dying sun spilled a golden wash across broken windowpanes, cutting jagged shadows through the dust-choked air. The resort once a weekend escape for wealthy plantation owners now stood forgotten, repurposed as neutral ground for high-stakes business, or so it claimed.
Inside a faded conference room, ceiling fans spun noisily above Kathirvan, seated with aristocratic ease at the head of the long table. His crisp beige suit clung to broad shoulders that carried decades of power. At fifty-plus, he held the presence of a man half his age with twice the certainty.
Across from him, Kasim, sharp in his navy blazer, leaned forward anxiously.
To either side sat two foreign men in tailored suits, hands folded, posture locked. Their faces bore nothing no warmth, no hostility. But their eyes? Ruthless. Old mercenaries in civilian clothing.
"Mr. Kathirvan," Kasim ventured again, his voice like a salesman forced to play diplomat.
"I really don't understand the resistance. This land is prime. We're backed by a major international group. Expanding rubber estates? You're swimming against the tide."
Kathirvan leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg leisurely over the other.
"I've already informed you.
We're expandingourselves.
I've met every landholder along this eastern corridor.
This sector belongs to my company.
North and south? You're welcome to try.
But here…"
He smiled faintly.
"You'll drown before you make waves."
His voice was still. But his words pressed weight into the room, making Kasim's confidence shrink slightly.
The two foreigners glanced sideways at each other—briefly. Just enough to confirm that their first read was accurate: this man was more than just a regional landowner.
Then Kathirvan's phone buzzed.
He glanced down, read the message.
Smiled.
A short reply, sent swiftly.
Then he set the phone face-down and looked up. And everything shifted.
The businessman dissolved.
What remained was something older. Sharper. Dangerous.
His posture straightened. His tone thinned into iron.
"Kasim," he said slowly,
"You're a really don't know seems. Ignorant full.
And you've walked straight into a death without even knowing it."
Kasim blinked.
The temperature in the room had changed.
Kathirvan now stared at the two suits.
"Your men are circling the property.
No sniper fire so not an execution.
That means it's a kidnapping attempt.
Am I wrong?"
The foreigner on the left tilted his head slightly.
His expression twisted into amusement tinged with wariness.
"You've figured it out.
And you're not panicking."
He smiled.
"I smell bloodlust…
Who are you, old man?"
Kathirvan's eyes narrowed. The smile faded into steel.
"Who I am isn't important."
He paused, then glanced at their shoes, posture, accents.
"Judging by the staggered formation, your fallback radius, and your Romanian bracelets…
You belong to the Moon Rangers, don't you?"
The foreigners twitched.
Kasim looked between them, confused and now visibly nervous.
"Wait, what is this? What are you talking about?"
Kathirvan didn't respond to Kasim.
His tone was colder now.
"How's your old Commander Suk? Still limping from Panama?"
"I spared him once.
He was a good man.
But you…"
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.
"Who hired you?
Naraka?"
No answer.
Silence.
Then
Footsteps.
Eight men.
Black tactical gear.
Knives strapped to thighs. Sidearms visible. Eyes hidden behind black wrap-around shades.
They moved like shadows.
Fast, fluid, and lethal.
They surrounded the room without a word closing the perimeter around one man.
Kasim stood up in panic.
Kathirvan didn't break eye contact with the mercenaries.
"Get the staff. Leave. Now."
Kasim rushed out, practically dragging the stunned receptionist with him.
The door slammed shut.
Ten armed men now faced a single middle-aged man in a beige suit.
He sat still.
Then cracked his neck.
Stretched his fingers like a pianist before a concerto.
And stood.
"It's been years since I danced."
His voice carried that rare mix of nostalgia and intent.
He walked slowly toward the center of the room.
"Boys… shall we begin?"
He rotated his wrist. Loosened his shoulders.
"Let me remind you—before this ends—
You were not sent to fight a businessman.
You were sent to face the Hand of Death.
And now…"
He smiled.
"I will send you to meet your maker.
One by one."
The first mercenary lunged from behind, blade raised high
Kathirvan spun out of his chair, catching the man's wrist midair, twisting until it snapped with a sickening crack. The knife dropped. Kathirvan drove an elbow into the man's jaw he fell instantly.
One down.
Two more attacked from the flanks.
Kathirvan ducked low, sweeping one man's legs with a brutal heel pivot, then lifted the fallen body and slammed it into the other.
Three down.
The fourth tried to shoot
Bang!
But Kathirvan was already airborne vaulting off the table, twisting in the air, kicking the gun clean from the attacker's hand before landing behind him with a double palm strike to the spine.
Four.
The two suits backed away, drawing tactical knives, but Kathirvan was already moving. He used a broken chair leg like a baton, flipping forward and cracking it against one of their knees. The other swung wide
Kathirvan blocked with his forearm, turned the knife inward, twisted the man's wrist, and drove the blade into the attacker's own thigh.
Six.
Gunfire echoed one man from the corner tried a clean shot.
Kathirvan dodged, rolled across the floor, grabbing a fallen pistol mid-slide.
Two shots.
Neck. Chest.
Seven and Eight.
The last two tried coordinated movement charging from opposite ends.
Kathirvan waited until the last second.
Then he dashed toward one, jumped, kicked off his chest mid-run, flipped over the other, and drove him down with a hammer fist from above.
The final man barely standing tried to beg.
But Kathirvan had already turned his back.
"You entered my land.
Pretending peace.
Wearing masks.
This is what you came for…
And now you'll leave in pieces."
Ten down.
The room fell silent.
Broken furniture. Blood-smeared tiles. Groaning bodies.
Kathirvan adjusted his cuffs.
Walked slowly toward his phone on the floor and pick up.
Kathirvan dialed.
The phone call connected in one ring.
"It's done," he said calmly, voice laced with steel.
"Confirmed Moon Rangers.
Naraka should have hire them without knowing my identity. My guess may be to play a card with my son!
Send in cleanup and deliver everybody to their doorstep.
Let them see who they tried to cross."
He ended the call without waiting for a reply.
The room was littered with broken glass, overturned chairs, and sprawled mercenaries in blood-streaked silence.
Kathirvan knelt.
Picked up a combat knife lying near the first body.
Then, one by one—methodically, without rush—he carved the letters H.O.D into each forehead.
Hand.
Of.
Death.
Not as a message.
As a signature.
When the last mark was etched, he stood slowly and walked to the shattered window, gazing out beyond the tree line. The rubber estate stretched far into the darkness, its silhouette dipping into mist.
The sun had long vanished.
But something else had returned.
A whisper.
A legacy.
A shadow that once ruled the war-torn underworld.
And tonight, that legend had stepped out of retirement—
To remind the world…
Death still remembers.