Raktapasu's men erupted with thunderous roars, their spirits reignited by the sight of their commander standing tall over the corpse of the Kaalrath. The once impenetrable warrior now lay lifeless in the dust, blood still dripping from the sockets where his eyes had been. Raktapasu twirled his mudgar slowly, deliberately, like a master performer savoring his audience's adoration. His men banged their weapons against their shields, chanting his name in unison.
Arya's gaze hardened. He saw his own soldiers hesitate, their advance faltering. A shadow of doubt crept over their faces. They had believed the Kaalraths were unstoppable. Now, one lay butchered, humiliated. Arya couldn't let that moment last any longer.
He roared, charging into the enemy lines with a fury that made steel tremble. He moved like wind given form—graceful, swift, and cutting. His sword sliced through armor and bone, his presence pushing back the tide of despair.
"Clear the path! Clear the path!" he bellowed.
His men obeyed, parting the ranks ahead of him, though their steps still faltered. Dhanudanda noticed the hesitation too. He tightened his grip on the heavy gada, his muscles flexing like drawn ropes.
"I'm behind you, Arya! Don't slow down!"
They tore through man after man, but Raktapasu's warriors were resolute, forming a barrier of flesh and iron to protect their commander. Still, Arya and Dhanudanda pressed forward. And then—an opening.
Raktapasu stood, casually toying with his mudgar near the fallen Kaalrath. He looked up, eyes meeting Dhanudanda's. His lips curled into a smirk.
"Haven't you had enough? Come to die, have you?" he taunted. He kicked the Kaalrath's body aside like a sack of waste. "So this is what you call a mighty warrior? Hmph. Turns out even your legends bleed."
Dhanudanda stepped forward, swinging the massive gada once in the air. The sound of it alone made nearby soldiers recoil.
"Enough talk. Today, only one of us walks out."
Raktapasu accepted the challenge. He gripped his mudgar, veins bulging along his arms. Their eyes locked. And then, they lunged.
The earth trembled beneath them as their weapons collided for the first time—metal against metal, strength against strength. The sound echoed across the battlefield like thunder crashing through a valley.
Raktapasu spun his mudgar low, aiming for Dhanudanda's knees, but the latter leapt above the sweep, bringing his gada down with force. Raktapasu raised his weapon in time, the impact forcing both men to stagger.
Dhanudanda didn't stop. He rushed forward, slamming his gada into Raktapasu's side, cracking his armor. Raktapasu grunted but countered with a backhanded strike to Dhanudanda's ribs. The blow sent the latter stumbling, but not falling.
Sweat poured down their faces as they circled one another, exchanging brutal blows. Every strike was meant to kill. Every dodge was by inches.
Raktapasu feinted high, then twisted to the left and rammed the end of his mudgar into Dhanudanda's shoulder. The giant stumbled. Raktapasu pressed forward, swinging in wide arcs. But Dhanudanda, bleeding now, planted his feet and met the assault with a roar.
He swung the gada upward in a rising arc that clipped Raktapasu's jaw, sending blood flying. Raktapasu spat to the side and laughed.
"Good. I was afraid you'd break too soon."
Dhanudanda narrowed his eyes. He stepped forward and the two weapons clashed again.
Exhausted and bloodied, both men separated for a moment, panting. And then, as if sensing the climax, they tossed their weapons aside.
They ran at each other and collided, grabbing each other in a bone-crunching embrace—two titans wrestling in the mud.
Raktapasu went low, wrapping his arms around Dhanudanda's waist, trying to lift him. But Dhanudanda dropped his weight and countered, locking his arm around Raktapasu's neck. They struggled, feet digging into the bloodied soil.
Raktapasu twisted, flipping Dhanudanda onto his back. He mounted him and rained down fists like hammers. Dhanudanda shielded his face, his forearms bruised. Then, with a surge of strength, he rolled them both over.
Dhanudanda got behind Raktapasu, wrapping his arms around his throat in a chokehold. Raktapasu clawed at the ground, tried to reach his mudgar, just out of reach.
"You're done," Dhanudanda growled.
Raktapasu thrashed violently. For a moment, it seemed he might break free. But Dhanudanda adjusted his grip, locking it in tighter. Raktapasu gasped, then choked, then went limp.
Dust settled. The chants stopped.
Dhanudanda slowly rose, mud-caked, panting heavily. He looked around. The enemy's formation was breaking.
The wall—Raktapasu's infamous defence—collapsed.
Parashar's army surged forward with renewed hope.
The tide had turned.
The battlefield roared with new energy. Word spread fast: Raktapasu was dead. The one who had felled a Kaalrath now lay slain in the mud.
Dhanudanda stood tall, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Arya reached his side.
"You did it."
Dhanudanda didn't smile. He simply nodded. "He fought like a beast."
Arya turned to face the crumbling lines. The battle wasn't over, but they had reclaimed the heart of it.
A storm had passed.
And the ground was theirs.