A miraculous silence descended upon the battlefield. This was not merely the absence of sound—it was a return to that primal moment of creation, when the universe stood on the brink of speaking its first word. It felt as though the heartbeats of thousands of warriors had ceased, as if the wheel of time itself had come to rest at the edge of eternity.
Birds hung motionless in the mid-sky, the flow of air was stilled, not even a leaf stirred on the branches at the horizon. It was as though nature itself was holding its breath in anticipation of a great event.
"The silence is so deep that even the wind is listening to what is about to happen..."
Suddenly,
the sky seemed to split into two.
But this division did not arrive with a burst of blinding light—instead, a veil of enchanted grey mist descended. This mist was not ordinary vapour of water; it was woven from the finest threads—softer than silk, smoother than velvet.
These grey clouds rolled down toward the land like waves, each particle of mist hiding countless mysteries.
The moment the warriors felt the touch of the mist, an unusual calm rose within them—as if a lost child had returned to a mother's embrace.
Through the mist, flashes of otherworldly light could sometimes be seen—but the light was so gentle that it did not hurt the eyes; instead, it entered the heart and lit a lamp of hope within.
"What artist has painted this masterpiece upon the sky?"
From within the veil of mist, a wondrous female figure slowly emerged.
She floated high in the sky, as if the laws of gravity had bowed before her. Her entire being was a living poem, every movement a measured line of verse.
Her attire, her very form, was wrapped in a fabric that seemed woven from molten gold.
Upon her head was a veil that appeared to be made from moonlight and clouded mist combined. This veil drifted in the air, stirred by unseen currents, each fold concealing countless secrets.
With every passing moment, the veil changed colour—sometimes deep gold, sometimes yellow-orange, sometimes a mysterious white. It was as if the beauty of a thousand sunsets had merged into this single covering.
Along the edges of the veil were delicate, intricate patterns—as though an artist had painted the most beautiful story of life using powdered pearls. Each design seemed to come alive, telling tales of love, compassion, and forgiveness.
Her face was such that, at a single glance, it felt as though the moon itself had descended to the earth.
In her eyes lay an ocean of deep mercy; upon her lips rested a faint smile that promised the erasure of all sorrow.
From her entire body radiated an exquisite glow—as though moonlight and morning mist had fused to create a single aura.
She did not utter a word. Her lips did not move, not a single syllable left her voice. Yet with every breath she took, the thousands of voices on the battlefield fell silent.
She was the consort of that supreme power whose very name makes all things tremble.
Barzak.
Yet Bahar's power was revealed in an entirely different form. Where her husband Barzak was the stern face of justice, Bahar was the gentle touch of mercy.
These two forces of the universe—justice and compassion—together formed a perfect and wondrous balance.
Bahar's presence carried a message: that after war comes peace, and after destruction comes renewal.
Behind her, upon the line of the horizon, an unprecedented sight appeared.
A massive circular object floated in the sky—its size equal to that of a city. This was no ordinary ring or disc.
This great circle was forged from a kind of ice that never melts—the primordial ice that had formed in the deep abyss of space at the dawn of creation. Its whiteness was so pure that merely gazing upon it felt as though one's own soul was being cleansed.
The thickness of the circle was equal to that of a mountain. Within it lay countless mysteries—ancient languages, power, and innumerable blessings. Its surface was carved with ancient engravings.
Kalab.
This was that ancient weapon.
From Kalab drifted a white smoke. This smoke was not the result of burning—it was the radiance of purity itself. It was as though the fragrance of thousands of lotus flowers had merged into a single invisible scent.
This white smoke spread across the entire battlefield. Wherever it touched, the wounded land turned green once more. Broken weapons transformed into beautiful flowers. Stains of blood vanished, and in their place, colourful butterflies appeared.
The arrival of Bahar and the presence of Kalab together created an atmosphere unlike any other.
Under the influence of Kalab's pure white smoke, a miraculous change unfolded within every heart on the battlefield. Hatred turned into love, anger transformed into compassion, envy shifted into forgiveness.
Commanders fell to their knees one by one. Their eyes filled with tears of regret. They understood the futility of war, the emptiness of violence.
A new awareness awakened in every warrior's mind. They saw that there were no true enemies—everyone was the same.
They lifted flowers instead of weapons, and in place of songs of war, they began to sing songs of peace.
Kalab floats upon the horizon, moving with a mysterious rhythm. It turns—very slowly.
The smoke was white—whiter than snow, softer than clouds. The smoke carried memories. The warmth of a mother's embrace, safe childhood evenings, the touch of a lover's hand, a child's first cry, winter nights spent with family beside the hearth.
This smoke was not poison—it was medicine for the soul. Every particle of the smoke was a question:
"Why are you fighting?"
"Who is your enemy?"
"Do you want to show this field of blood to your child?"
The smoke spread very slowly, very gently. It forced nothing, demanded nothing. It only invited—an invitation to peace, an invitation to rest, an invitation to return to oneself.
First, the smoke reached Dara Balan's ten thousand Kavanruth soldiers. These warriors—whose hearts burned like fire, whose blood carried the heat of lava—laughed at first.
"What is this?" Dara Balan roared. "Some weak magic before us?"
But when the smoke touched them, the unbelievable happened.
One Kavanruth warrior—named Agnihar—lowered his sword. In his eyes appeared the image of his village.
"Why… why am I here?"
he whispered.
Beside him, a warrior named Joloni dropped his shield.
One by one, all the Kavanruth warriors began to lower their weapons. There was no rage left in their eyes—only deep exhaustion and a longing to go home.
Gamar Balan's iron warriors.
The smoke reached fifteen thousand Thanlas warriors. They were merciless, heartless—their emotions cold as iron.
But the smoke reminded them of their humanity.
A Thanlas named Bajrahat placed his hammer on the ground and sat down. He remembered the day he had first seen a flower—how beautiful it had seemed, how gentle.
"Was I born only for destruction?"
he asked himself.
Medan Balan's poisonous soldiers.
When the smoke reached six thousand Malth soldiers, they first tried to resist it by releasing poison.
But this smoke was no poison—it was medicine made of love. It awakened the compassion hidden deep within their hearts.
A Malth named Fah stopped his poisonous breath. He remembered how he had once healed an injured bird. The joy he felt when the bird flew away—that had been the happiest moment of his life.
Surrender.
One by one, all the soldiers of the Twelve Kingdoms laid down their weapons. No one forced them, no one commanded them—they remembered their principles on their own.
A sacred silence descended upon the battlefield. The only sounds were: the deep breathing of soldiers, the clatter of weapons falling to the ground, the distant gentle call of a bird, and the soft rustling of leaves in the wind.
The soldiers had reached a strange state. They were awake, yet dreaming. Their eyes were open, yet they were seeing their true homes, their true lives.
Ragnor lay down on the grass and closed his eyes. He felt the touch of his wife's hand upon his forehead.