The battlefield simmered with smoke and silence. The corpses of the corrupted monsters twitched no more, cut down by Haider Ali's unrelenting blade.
He stood alone amidst the carnage — shoulders broad, blood streaming from his wounds, sword dripping with black filth. His armor was cracked and torn in places, revealing bruised skin and seared flesh.
But his eyes…
They still burned with the fire of a warrior who refused to yield.
From the smoke, Zorwath emerged — unhurried, unbothered, as if he were walking through a graveyard of his own making.
"That sword of yours…" Zorwath said, his voice calm and cruel, "quite the legacy. But even legacies fall. And yours ends tonight."
Haider's eyes didn't flinch. But deep inside, the memories of fallen comrades passed through him like ghosts — brothers-in-arms lost to time, warriors who stood with him when Aryavrata was nothing but scattered clans.
