The moment Raj retreated, the world did not return to normal.
It froze.
An unnatural silence spread across the area, thick and suffocating, as if the land itself was holding its breath. The battle was over—but it had not ended. Its aftermath lingered everywhere, carved into the environment like scars that would never heal.
The ground was scorched black, cracked open by intense heat. Melted stone had cooled into jagged shapes, frozen mid-flow. Buildings stood partially collapsed, their walls torn open, windows shattered, metal frames twisted beyond recognition. Smoke still rose in thin trails, carrying the bitter smell of burnt stone and blood.
The air felt heavy.
Not just with heat—but with fear.
Team A lay scattered across the ruined ground.
Mira and Ishan were unconscious, their bodies unmoving, breath shallow but steady. Kunal was on one knee, gripping his side, struggling to stay upright. Blood ran from his forehead, dripping onto the cracked ground beneath him.
Harun stood among them.
Physically, he was fine.
Mentally, he was breaking.
His fists trembled slightly as he looked around. His eyes moved from Mira to Ishan, then to Kunal, taking in every injury, every wound, every consequence of the fight.
They had not won.
They had survived.
And the difference hit him harder than any blow Raj had landed.
"I… didn't beat him."
The words escaped Harun's mouth quietly, almost like a confession. No one had asked. No one needed to. Saying it out loud made it real.
"I didn't beat Raj."
It was the first time Harun truly acknowledged defeat—not as a temporary setback, but as reality.
Power wasn't enough.
No matter how hard he fought, no matter how far he pushed himself, there were enemies who existed beyond his reach. Raj hadn't even gone all out. He had toyed with them, crushed them, and walked away when called back—as if their lives were insignificant.
Harun clenched his teeth.
Guilt crept in, heavy and relentless.
His gaze lingered on Ishan.
Ishan had tried to break past his limits. Harun knew that. He had seen it in his eyes—the determination, the desperation. And now Ishan lay unconscious, broken, because Harun had pushed forward without understanding what kind of monster they were facing.
Omair stepped in before the silence could grow any heavier.
"Move," he said calmly, authority in his voice. "Standing there won't fix anything."
He assessed the situation with quick, efficient movements, checking pulses, injuries, breathing. Despite the chaos, Omair was composed. He always was.
"We need to get them treated immediately," he said. "Internal injuries. Broken bones. Shock."
Harun nodded stiffly. "It's my fault."
Omair paused for a moment, then looked directly at him.
"Bhouldera doesn't care whose fault it is," he said. "Out here, surviving doesn't mean winning. It just means you're alive tomorrow."
The words weren't comforting.
They were honest.
Aqsa stood a few steps away, unharmed but silent. Dust clung to her clothes. Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides.
Harun noticed her immediately.
He walked over without thinking.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
Aqsa looked up at him. She nodded slowly.
"I'm fine," she said.
But her voice lacked emotion.
There was no fear, no relief, no gratitude—just emptiness. As if moments like this were routine.
And that realization unsettled Harun deeply.
This wasn't bravery.
This was adaptation.
People here had grown used to tragedy.
Once the injured were stabilized, Aqsa led them away from the destroyed area, guiding them through narrow streets and broken pathways toward a relatively safer part of Bhouldera. The city felt different now—quieter, darker.
As they walked, Harun observed everything.
No one asked what had happened.
No one offered help.
No one even looked surprised.
People kept their heads down. Doors closed quietly as they passed. Windows shut. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.
Everyone here had learned the same rule:
Don't interfere. Don't be seen. Don't get involved.
Bhouldera wasn't evil.
It was exhausted.
And suddenly, Harun understood.
This place wasn't cursed by nature. It had been shaped—slowly, deliberately—by a system that thrived on fear and control.
Dragon Seal.
They reached Aqsa's home—a small, fragile structure tucked away from the main roads. It looked barely stable, as if one strong wind could tear it apart.
Inside, it was modest. Almost empty.
Harun sat down heavily and finally let himself breathe.
"I'm hungry," he said quietly, almost embarrassed.
Aqsa hesitated for a moment, then disappeared into the back of the house. She returned with a simple plate.
Two rotis.
One onion.
"That's all we have," she said softly.
Harun looked at the food.
Then at her.
And said nothing.
He took the plate and ate.
No complaints. No questions.
That moment said more about him than any battle ever could.
After the meal, Harun and Omair stepped outside. The night air was cooler, but it carried a strange tension.
Raj wasn't the problem.
Raj was a pawn.
And Bhouldera was caught in the middle of something far larger.
Harun leaned against the wall, staring into the darkness.
The system had to be broken.
Not the monsters.
The system.
A faint sound cut through the silence.
Phiss… phiss…
Harun stiffened.
It wasn't wind.
It was closer.
Slithering.
Omair, sitting a few steps away, exhaled smoke from his cigarette and narrowed his eyes.
Something massive moved at the edge of the village.
Seven feet tall.
Its body stretched unnaturally long, disappearing into the darkness—easily a hundred meters. Scales scraped softly against the ground, producing that same disturbing sound.
Phiss… phiss…
Omair stood up.
He walked toward it calmly.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
The creature did not respond.
Only the sound.
Then—without warning—it lunged.
Omair reacted instantly, spinning into a powerful hook kick. The impact landed cleanly against the creature's eye, producing a sharp metallic crack-like sound.
The creature recoiled—but it didn't fall.
Omair frowned.
Its endurance is higher than mine.
I can't use my power yet.
"But martial arts…" he muttered. "That I can use."
"What's your name?" Omair asked calmly.
The creature's jaw parted slightly.
"Python," it hissed.
The fight exploded into motion.
Python attacked with toxic jabs, venom dripping from its fangs, the poison sizzling as it hit the ground. Omair dodged narrowly, his speed just enough to keep him alive.
He countered with elbow strikes, knee blows, precise movements—but Python adapted quickly.
A poison fang strike nearly caught him.
Barely escaped.
Omair switched stance.
Karli Arnis.
Ancient. Deadly.
His movements changed—fluid, sharp, rhythmic. He moved like a blade, each step calculated.
Sword-dancing techniques followed, invisible arcs slicing through the air.
Python screamed as deep cuts tore across its body.
Enraged, Python activated its ancient stone.
Massive chunks of rock tore themselves from the ground, launching from all directions. Omair weaved through them—but one struck him square in the side, slamming him into the ground.
Pain flared.
Blood spilled.
But adrenaline surged.
Omair pushed himself up, ignoring the pain, chaining Karli Arnis techniques into rapid combinations. His strikes blurred, landing with surgical precision.
Python's tail was severed.
The creature roared.
Omair stood firm.
"Who sent you?" he demanded. "As long as I'm here, no one touches these people."
A voice answered from the darkness.
A female voice.
Cold.
Horrifying.
"Let's see how long you can protect them."