Chapter 38: The Price of a Third Chance
The chill night air of the industrial complex vibrated with a tension thicker than the chemical smog. Aarav stood framed by the flickering shadows, his blood-soaked shirt a testament to the mortal man he once was, while the energy coursing through him was the fierce, cold proof of his new, impossible existence.
Before him, twenty professional fighters formed an impenetrable wall, their stances disciplined, their eyes emotionless and fixed on their target. In the dark periphery, fifty more of Rajat's private army waited, silent and ready to close the vice. Seventy men, armed, trained, and paid handsomely to ensure the final, absolute failure of the farmer's son.
Aarav looked at the ring of steel and muscle, and the red haze of his anger peaked. This wasn't just a fight for Ayushi; it was the ultimate, physical manifestation of the destiny he was battling. They were the sentinels of the timeline, the physical obstacle placed in his path by the very universe that demanded tragedy.
He didn't waste breath on a challenge. He didn't need a strategy. This wasn't a game of Minimum Drag; this was a glorious, primal explosion of raw, untamed power.
The Imperial Battle
Aarav moved.
He didn't run; he launched. The sudden, terrifying burst of speed was beyond human comprehension, an instantaneous shift from stillness to a blurring, focused projectile. He struck the center of the crescent formation with the force of a battering ram, targeting the two largest men in the front row.
The first fighter, a man whose body mass suggested unmovable resilience, barely had time to raise his forearm. Aarav's fist, propelled by the unseen energy now flowing through him, connected with the man's temple. The sound was a sharp, sickening crack, and the fighter—seventy feet of trained muscle—was not only driven backward but was flung clean off his feet, colliding violently with his two comrades behind him before collapsing, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The attack shattered the disciplined formation, replacing their cold professionalism with sheer, stunned panic. These men were used to dominating street brawls and subduing unarmed rivals. They were not equipped to fight a ghost of kinetic energy.
Aarav pivoted instantly, weaving through the chaos. Two fighters tried to corner him, one swinging a heavy-duty wrench, the other attempting a low sweep. Aarav ducked under the wrench, the rush of air over his head serving as a distraction. He didn't block the leg sweep; instead, he allowed the heel to connect, absorbing the force with a surprising lack of effect. Then, reacting with a speed that defied muscle memory, he slammed his elbow straight into the side of the sweeper's knee. The joint collapsed with an audible crunch. As the man screamed and fell, Aarav used his body as a fulcrum, launching himself into the air to deliver a powerful, twin-footed kick to the chest of the wrench-wielder, sending him flying.
The entire initial wave was neutralized in less than fifteen seconds. Five men were down, broken and still. The remaining fifteen recoiled, fear flashing across their faces as they finally drew their weapons.
"Shoot him! Shoot the freak!" an officer barked, his discipline cracking.
Gunshots erupted, shattering the stillness of the night. A terrifying barrage of bullets tore through the space Aarav had just occupied. But Aarav was no longer where they aimed. His speed allowed him to see the muzzle flash, calculate the trajectory, and move before the bullet arrived.
He became a blur of motion, traversing the twenty-meter distance to the perimeter fence in three impossibly long strides. He grabbed the fence post, vaulted over the ten-foot chain-link barrier, and landed silently outside the kill zone.
The surrounding fifty fighters, witnessing the massacre of their comrades and the failure of their armed backup, were thrown into complete disarray. Rajat's perimeter was not designed to fight an entity; it was designed to overwhelm a man.
Aarav reappeared among the outer guard, turning the majestic, planned defense into a brutal, one-sided slaughter. He fought with the desperate, cold efficiency of a man who knew he couldn't afford to be delayed for another second. He used the environment, smashing heads against corrugated iron and slamming bodies into concrete pillars. His movements were not wild or wasteful; they were precise, surgical strikes aimed at pressure points, joints, and temporal bones. He was a force of controlled fury, the very manifestation of the Principle of Minimum Drag applied to combat—maximum neutralization with minimum effort.
The fight spread out over the sprawling complex, becoming a blur of thuds, grunts, and the splintering of wood. The air was filled with the metallic tang of blood and the desperate cries of men who realized their money could not save them. Aarav was a whirlwind of retribution, his heart roaring the mantra: Ayushi. Ayushi. Ayushi.
He ignored the exhaustion that should have crippled him. He ignored the fire in his chest wounds. The new energy simply replenished his reservoirs, allowing him to fight for an impossible duration with impossible strength. Within four relentless minutes, the entire perimeter was breached. Seventy men were scattered across the complex—moaning, broken, or utterly unconscious. Aarav stood in the center of the carnage, his body vibrating with the aftershock of his power, his breath coming in ragged, bloody gasps.
He had won. But the fight was not over.
The Final Door
The sight of the defeated army did not bring satisfaction; it only sharpened his focus. He could still hear the faint sound of his own heavy breathing, which served as a clock ticking down the seconds of Ayushi's danger. He returned to the main warehouse and found the heavy-set door Rajat had disappeared through.
Aarav didn't bother with the handle. With a guttural roar, he rammed his shoulder against the door. The old, reinforced steel buckled, the frame splintered, and the entire structure exploded inward with a deafening crash.
He found himself in a small, hastily renovated suite—a bizarre, luxurious island carved out of the industrial ruin. The room was dominated by a large, pristine white bed.
Rajat was there. He was standing over the bed, his back to the door, his hands reaching for the beautiful, paralyzed figure of Ayushi, who lay utterly helpless beneath him.
Ayushi, unable to move, could only turn her wide, tear-filled eyes toward the sudden noise. The sight of Aarav, bloody and furious, standing framed in the shattered doorway, was the last image her frantic mind clung to before the scene exploded in violence.
Rajat spun around, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. He saw the carnage in the doorway—the broken wood, the twisted metal—and then he saw Aarav, a spectral figure soaked in blood and pulsing with unholy rage.
"You!" Rajat screamed, his voice cracking with utter disbelief.
Aarav didn't speak. The name "Rajat" didn't need to be uttered. The identity of the monster, the knowledge that the spoiled boy was the mastermind behind the guns and the fear and the violation, hit Aarav with the sickening, cold clarity of a hammer blow. It was the final, devastating piece of the puzzle. The realization that Rajat had sunk to this depth—beyond arrogance, beyond jealousy, into pure, unadulterated evil—sent Aarav's remaining self-control spiraling into oblivion.
He closed the distance between them in a flash of superhuman speed that Rajat's spoiled eyes couldn't track. Rajat, still grappling for a defense, managed only a weak, involuntary gasp.
Aarav grabbed Rajat by the front of his expensive shirt, the fabric tearing immediately in his unnaturally strong grip. He lifted Rajat off his feet as if he weighed nothing, slamming him against the nearest wall with a terrible impact that knocked the air from the villain's lungs.
"You... you bastard!" Aarav growled, his voice a low, terrifying sound of raw, desperate hatred. His control was gone; only the desire for absolute retribution remained. "You took her from me once! You won't do it again!"
He didn't hit him. He didn't need to. He simply held him suspended, his eyes blazing, allowing the man to choke on his own fear.
"I won the B-Plan! I won the fight! Why? Why her?" Aarav demanded, his voice cracking with anguish.
Rajat, sputtering for air, managed to force out a defiant, hate-filled sneer. "Because she's mine! She was supposed to be mine! You think you can challenge me? I own the world! I planned every move! The police, the rumours, the guns! I was always ahead of you!"
The confession was the final catalyst. Aarav's fury doubled. He didn't smash Rajat against the wall again. Instead, he threw him—not with a wild, desperate heave, but with a cold, controlled disdain—sending the villain tumbling across the room to land in a heap near a heavy wooden dresser.
Rajat scrambled up, his face a mess of terror and pain, but the entitlement that was his birthright kicked in. He snatched a heavy, ornate lamp off the dresser, his eyes wild.
"Stay away from me, you low-life! I'll kill you! I'll finish what my men started!" Rajat shrieked, swinging the heavy lamp in a clumsy, desperate arc.
Aarav simply moved inside the arc, his speed making the swing appear to happen in slow motion. He allowed the lamp to graze his arm, a meaningless impact, then closed his fist around Rajat's wrist, crushing the bones with a sickening finality. Rajat screamed, dropping the weapon.
Aarav stared into his eyes—eyes that held pure, venomous fear—and delivered a single, calculated, merciless blow to the side of Rajat's jaw. It was not a random punch; it was a perfect, concussive strike delivered with the full, terrifying might of the power surging through him.
Rajat's head snapped back, his eyes rolling up. He crumpled to the floor, knocked instantly unconscious, a heap of expensive fabric and broken pride.
Aarav stood over him, breathing heavily, the storm finally receding. He was still soaked in blood, still fighting the impossible battle, but the one man who had stood between him and Ayushi was now defeated.
He turned instantly to the bed, the sight of Ayushi's helpless, paralyzed body tearing at his soul. He rushed to her side, his knees collapsing onto the plush rug beside the bed.
"Ayushi," he whispered, his voice ragged with relief, guilt, and a desperate, boundless love. "I'm here. I'm so sorry. I'm here." 1 of 2 In list 2 items