Smoke clung to the air like a curse, thick and suffocating. The battlefield was soaked in blood and churned earth, where the screams of the fallen had given way to the eerie stillness of survival.
Veerath moved like a storm at its last breath—every swing of his blade a cry of defiance. His armor was torn, his side bleeding freely, but still he stood. Still he fought. Until he couldn't.
A blade slipped past his guard, cutting deep. He staggered, crumpling to his knees. His fingers dug into the mud, eyes still searching for the enemy, even as the darkness began to close in.
Parashu saw it all.
And something inside him snapped.
The markings across his chest blazed like fire, pulsing with an ancient energy that didn't belong to this world. His body convulsed, reshaping itself. Shadows curled around his limbs, and sparks danced along his skin. He was no longer the same man. Whatever he had become—it frightened even those who stood by his side.
The Kara soldiers faltered. Their lines broke as Parashu cut through them like thunder cleaving stone. Men scattered. Some fell screaming, others dropped their weapons, choosing flight over death.
But as the last enemy staggered back, the cost of that moment became clear.
Too many had died. Too many faces were missing. Brothers. Sisters. Friends.
And then, through the heavy stillness, a voice like thunder cracked the air.
"Where is your overseer?"
The question came from the Kara general, who stood amidst the carnage like a specter untouched by war. His eyes scanned the broken defenses with quiet amusement.
Master Vishma stepped forward, blood spattered across his robes. "What did you say?"
"Every village I've reduced to ashes had someone they called the Overseer," the general said. "The soul of the people. The spine of their hope. Tell me—where is yours?"
Vishma's lips thinned, his eyes cold. It wasn't just a title the general sought. It was a symbol. A leader. And deep down, they all felt the weight of that absence.
The Kara army—bloodied and humiliated—did not die with honor that day. Instead, they vanished. One by one, slipping into the fog like ghosts. Their retreat was silent. Not from mercy—but from strategy. They would return.
In the quiet that followed, the villagers turned to the wounded. Cries of pain echoed softly beneath the rising sun. Makeshift bandages were tied, broken bones set, dying words whispered.
Parashu moved through it all, blood still steaming off his transformed skin. But his eyes weren't on the horizon. They were on the man who had fallen for their cause.
He dropped to his knees beside Veerath.
The warrior's chest rose and fell, each breath a battle of its own. His eyes flickered open and fixed on Parashu with a crooked grin.
"You gave them hell," Veerath rasped.
Parashu placed a hand on his shoulder, voice low. "You didn't do so bad yourself."
Veerath's fingers curled around Parashu's for a brief moment. Then he closed his eyes. Not gone—but fading into silence.
Master Vishma joined them, kneeling in the blood-soaked earth. His expression was calm, but his voice carried weight.
"This war is far from over," he said. "The Kara army lost today. But their hunger hasn't."
Parashu looked at him, the blood-mark still glowing faintly on his chest. "Let them come."
Around them, survivors gathered. Some wept. Others simply stared into the smoldering fields. They had no Overseer. No grand leader. But they had something more dangerous.
They had nothing left to lose.
And that made them ready.
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