The air in Bhuva Mandala was thick with the scent of damp stone, sizzling meat, and the acrid tang of smelting iron. Unlike the structured power struggles of Prithvi Mandala, Bhuva was a chaos of ambition, where warlords carved out their territories with blades, bribes, and blood. Merchants bartered in open markets, their wares ranging from rare silks to stolen relics, while cutthroats stalked the alleyways, waiting for a careless mark. Here, power shifted with the rise and fall of fortunes, and the three fugitives knew that if they played their cards right, they could disappear into this labyrinth of crime and commerce.
But first, they had to turn their fortune into survival.
For months, Arya, Raghav, and Rudra had kept their heads low, moving between the slums and the forgotten corners of the city, careful not to draw too much attention. But even in the shadows, rumors found their way into the wrong ears. Six Ratnas. A sum so large it could buy loyalty, power, or death.
The twins worked the underbelly, speaking to smugglers and traders, trying to find a buyer who could convert the Ratnas into Mudras—but how could three young, penniless boys possibly possess such wealth without raising suspicion? Every deal seemed to come with a knife in the dark.
One name kept surfacing—Upendra, a warlord who controlled large portions of Bhuva Mandala's black market. His network ran deep, and his word carried weight. If anyone could turn the Ratnas into something spendable, it was him. But Upendra wasn't known for fairness.
When Upendra's men finally approached, they didn't come with open hands.
They met in a quiet courtyard, an abandoned part of the city where the walls were cracked, and old banners from forgotten houses still hung in tatters. The meeting was simple—one Ratna for ten thousand Mudras. A deal well below its worth, but enough to keep them afloat.
As soon as Rudra handed over the first Ratna, Upendra's men exchanged knowing glances.
"You're lying," one of them said, his voice laced with amusement. "You have more."
Raghav tensed. "One was all we could keep," he replied, his fingers itching toward the blade hidden in his sleeve.
Upendra's man smirked. "Then you won't mind us searching you."
Before they could react, more men stepped from the shadows. Thirty at least. Some wielding swords, others cudgels, and behind them, even more figures loomed—city guards, rival thieves, bounty hunters. The news had spread. The Ratnas weren't just valuable anymore—they were a cause for war.
"Kill them," Upendra's man ordered, drawing his curved blade.
The twins moved first.
Raghav ducked beneath a swinging sword, slipping through the chaos with practiced ease. His knife found its mark—a man's wrist—forcing him to drop his weapon. Rudra spun, dodging a spear thrust, his smaller blades flashing in the dim light. They moved like shadows, weaving through their enemies, slicing at exposed flesh before vanishing into the fray.
But Arya did not move like a shadow.
He moved like a storm.
He grabbed a heavy wooden staff, its weight familiar in his grip, and stepped forward as a man charged him. With a single movement, he swung the staff in a brutal arc, cracking ribs and sending the attacker sprawling. Another came, dagger raised—Arya turned, slamming the end of his staff into the man's knee, shattering it.
The enemies hesitated. They had expected three street rats. They had not expected this.
More came at him, a swarm of blades and fists. Arya sidestepped a spear, using its momentum to twist it free from its wielder's grasp. With a savage thrust, he drove the blunt end into another attacker's throat, sending him gagging to the ground. He fought with an efficiency and brutality that stunned even the twins.
Raghav had seen Arya fight before. He had seen him hold his own against guards, fend off attackers in alleyways.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
Rudra barely dodged a sword strike, twisting away just in time to see Arya lift a man off his feet with a single, crushing blow to the chest. Bodies hit the ground with sickening thuds as he carved his way through the battlefield, his eyes cold, his strikes merciless.
The twins weren't just fighting alongside him.
They were witnessing something terrifying.
Blood stained the stone beneath them, the courtyard now a battlefield littered with broken bodies. Twenty down. Maybe more. The remaining attackers hesitated, realizing that even with their numbers, they were losing.
Then it happened.
A silent figure stepped from the darkness, moving through the bodies like a phantom. Arya was mid-swing when a swift blow struck the back of his head.
His strength faltered. The staff slipped from his fingers as his vision blurred. He turned, swinging blindly, but his limbs were slow, sluggish.
"ARYA!" Raghav shouted, but it was too late.
A second strike—brutal, precise. The world tilted, pain flaring before fading into darkness.
The last thing he saw was Raghav and Rudra still fighting, their movements desperate, their faces twisted in panic.
Then the world was gone.
When Arya woke, his head throbbed, and his hands were bound. The dim flicker of torchlight illuminated the space around him—a stone chamber, damp and unforgiving. Chains rattled nearby, and when he turned, he saw them—Raghav and Rudra, captured, bloodied, but alive.
Footsteps echoed in the chamber. A door creaked open.
And then a voice—low, amused, dangerous.
"Well," the voice said. "Looks like we finally caught the ones causing all this trouble."
Arya's fingers curled into fists.
This wasn't over.