The road from Delhi never truly slept.
Even at dusk, when the sun slid low and painted the land in copper and ash, the road breathed—carts creaked, oxen snorted, sandals scraped dust, and distant calls drifted like smoke. Trade did not stop just because empires trembled. People still needed grain, cloth, oil, and salt. Hunger ignored politics.
The villagers from Rohtak had timed their departure carefully. Too early, and the city guards would delay them. Too late, and the road would belong to bandits and worse. They left when the shadows grew long but not yet dangerous, their carts heavy with goods, their pockets light with coin, and their minds already turning homeward.
Rohtak lay westward, beyond fields and scrubland, close enough to Delhi to feel the empire's breath, far enough to survive on its margins. The villagers had made this journey many times. They knew where the ground dipped, where thorns tore at ankles, where men sometimes disappeared.
They were tired, but alert.
It was the youngest among them who noticed first.
"There," he said, pulling at the reins. "Someone's lying there."
The carts slowed. Oxen stamped, confused by the sudden halt. Dust settled.
Near the edge of the road, half in a shallow ditch, lay a man.
At first glance, he looked dead. His clothes were torn and darkened with blood. One sleeve hung loose, the fabric stiff where it had dried. His face was turned partly away, pressed into the dirt as though the earth itself had claimed him.
No one moved.
Years of travel had taught them caution. Bodies on the road were not always accidents. Sometimes they were bait.
The village chief—older than most, lean, his beard streaked with white—stepped down from the lead cart. He did not hurry. He watched the bushes, the line of trees, and the curve of the road behind them.
"Stay where you are," he said quietly. "No shouting."
One of the traders followed him, a man with strong arms and a habit of thinking after acting. He circled wide, keeping his eyes on the scrub.
The man in the ditch stirred.
It was a small movement—a hand flexing, fingers scraping weakly against dirt—but it changed everything.
"He's alive," someone whispered.
The chief crouched a few steps away, close enough to see the dried blood at the man's temple, the swelling along his forearm, the shallow, ragged rise and fall of his chest.
Before he could speak, the wind carried another sound.
Hooves.
Not carts. Not cattle.
Fast.
"Bandits," the trader hissed.
They came from the trees like shadows breaking loose—three men, faces wrapped in cloth, blades already drawn. They had been watching, waiting for exactly this moment: travelers stopped, distracted, vulnerable.
"Don't run," the chief barked, too late.
The wounded man moved.
No one saw him rise fully. One moment he was on the ground, the next he was upright, swaying slightly, dust clinging to his knees. His face was white and drawn; every breath seemed to cost him. He did not shout. He did not draw a weapon.
Pain worked under his skin like a hot iron, and yet something sharper ran the length of him—adrenaline and a habit of choosing the right motion. He looked at the bandits—and then at the carts—and stepped forward.
"Behind me," he said.
His voice was low, rough, but steady.
The command surprised everyone, including the bandits.
One of them laughed. "You?" he sneered, advancing. "Lie down before you die properly."
The wounded man did not argue.
He kicked a loose sack toward the nearest horse. The animal startled, reared, throwing its rider off balance. In the same motion, the man grabbed a fallen plank from a cart and shoved it sideways, slamming it into another bandit's knee.
The third attacker lunged, blade flashing.
The man twisted—not fast, but precise—and let the strike glance past his ribs. Pain flared like fire; he took it and turned it into a steadying breath. He struck back with the heel of his hand, not at the man's face, but at his throat. The bandit choked, staggered.
"Now," the man said calmly.
The villagers reacted.
Axes swung. A rope snapped tight around a wrist. A cart wheel was overturned, spilling grain and chaos. Fear turned into motion, and motion into resistance.
The wounded man fought differently.
He did not trade blows. He redirected them. He used weight, angles, and the environment. He pushed one attacker into a cart post, slammed another's head against wood, and stepped into the third's space to unbalance him, the way a man who has practiced balance does. Every movement was economy; every hit was meant to make an opening, not to glorify strength.
Blood seeped from his side. His left arm trembled, each motion stealing strength like a debtor. He did not slow until the last bandit staggered and fled.
Then the adrenaline left him like the tide, and his knees folded under him.
The bandits melted into the scrub. The road was quiet again.
Villagers rushed to him now. Someone checked for weapons—there were none. Someone pressed cloth against his wounds. Someone else swore softly at the amount of blood.
The chief knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse.
Strong. Uneven, but present.
"He saved us," a woman said, disbelief and gratitude tangled in her voice.
The chief did not answer immediately.
He had seen men save others before. That did not make them safe.
"We don't know who he is," said a younger villager. "Or how he got these injuries."
"And we don't know who's looking for him," another added.
The chief stood.
"We take him with us."
There was a murmur of agreement—and then a sharp voice.
"No," said a trader with worry etched deep into his brow. "We don't know his story. What if Mughal soldiers are after him? What if he's trouble?"
The word trouble hung heavy.
The chief looked at the man on the ground again. Then at the road toward Delhi.
"Listen carefully," he said. "We will take him with us. If Mughal soldiers appear and ask questions, we will say we are transporting a body to hand over. Nothing more."
A pause.
"If they do not appear," he continued, "we will keep one man with him. Someone who knows basic healing. If he lives, we help him. If he dies… we have done what we can."
No one argued further.
They lifted the wounded man onto a cart. He stirred once, eyes fluttering open.
"My name is—" he began.
The word never finished. Darkness claimed him again.
"What did he say?" someone asked.
The woman who had heard it shook her head. "Something like… Raghu…beer?"
"Raghubeer," another repeated, the village sound shaping the name naturally.
The chief nodded once. "Raghubeer, then."
The carts moved again.
Behind them, dust swallowed footprints, blood, and the memory of sudden violence. Ahead, Rohtak waited—unaware that a man carried into its boundaries would quietly alter its future.
Night deepened.
A young man was left behind with the wounded stranger, just as ordered. He cleaned the wounds as best he could, applied herbs, kept watch on the road.
No Mughal soldiers came that night.