Chương 61: Unrivalled Under Heaven

The fight begins in an almost palpable silence, thick with tension.

My opponent stands roughly ten metres away, his grenade launcher cradled confidently in his hands, giving him a formidable reach.

But I’m undaunted. Years of rigorous martial training have honed my reflexes and skills.

With calculated steps, I edge to the left, maintaining a ready stance, muscles taut like a coiled spring.

Every part of him is under my scrutiny—any slight shift, any hint of movement. In these moments, patience is the deadliest weapon. One rash move could spell disaster.

He meets my gaze unflinchingly, a self-assured smirk dancing on his lips.

A deep scar carves his face, testament to his history as a seasoned warrior.

His very aura speaks of battles won, of challenges conquered. A pang of irritation courses through me. I want to wipe that smirk off his face for what he did to Rohini.

Out of nowhere, he slams his foot against the ground and hurls a grenade skywards.

Not an explosive—a stun grenade. Its burst floods the arena with a blinding brilliance, accompanied by an ear-splitting bang. My senses are instantly robbed.

Crisis looms large.

Acting on instinct, I leap sideways, only to be buffeted by the gust from a subsequent explosion.

As I roll, vision hazy and ears still echoing with the grenade’s retort, I realize that my instinctual evasion spared me an ignominious defeat.

Safety, however, remains elusive as my opponent already schemes his next move.

Through the fuzziness of my recovering vision, an idea crystallizes. If I can bridge the distance between us, his grenades become a double-edged sword, threatening him too.

With adrenaline fuelling me, I surge forward, slashing wildly at his head.

He parries effortlessly. “I had low expectations of a youngster like you, yet I’m still let down. Such recklessness!” With a swift motion, he deflects my talwar with his gun.

A powerful kick to my abdomen sends me sprawling.

“As weak as you look!” He sneers, watching me struggle for air.

Hope flares as my senses recalibrate. He can’t use a grenade at this proximity, or so I think until one tumbles into my field of vision.

Panic overtakes me. I roll desperately away, arms shielding my head. But no explosion follows.

“Did you really think…” He chuckles, revelling in my disarray. “Modern grenades have safety mechanisms. They won’t detonate if there’s an obstruction within three metres.”

The humiliation stings, but I muster my resolve, determination burning fiercely.

With renewed spirit, I twirl my talwar expertly. “Then there’s nothing to fear, is there?” A defiant grin stretches across my face as I charge once more, the duel reaching its crescendo.

The dance of our blades takes on a rhythm of its own. Each footfall, each breath synchronized to the beat of our hearts.

This time, I rely on the dexterity of my steps, using nimble footwork to keep him guessing.

I feint a slash to his flank, but he remains unflinching, unfooled.

Curiously, he clings to his grenade launcher, its bulk now more a hindrance than a weapon in our close-quarter dance.

I deftly circle him, each step a calculated move, hoping to draw out an impatient response. And it comes–a powerful kick aimed at pushing me away.

Skilfully, I dodge and capitalize on his momentary imbalance, targeting his vulnerable shoulder.

Yet, he surprises me by parrying my talwar with the very gun I thought was his disadvantage, even with his leg still suspended in the air.

Seizing the momentary opening, I retract and swiftly strike his exposed flank. A glimmer of triumph sparks in my eyes as I see his face twitch in pain. But my elation is short-lived as I realize that my blade is trapped, wedged deep. Could he truly be using his raw strength to keep it lodged there?

A forceful stomp from him reverberates through the ground, and the intensity in his gaze sends a shiver down my spine.

In a frenzied move, I leap back, retrieving the grenade that had previously evaded detonation. With a mix of fear and determination, I launch it with a graceful backflip to ensure distance from its impending blast.

“Begone, Asura,” I murmur, my heart heavy with the weight of hope.

But life isn’t always so kind. With an almost inhuman reaction, he hurls his launcher, intercepting the grenade, rendering it harmless as it tumbles to the ground. The discarded weapon now lies a good fifteen metres to the left, out of his immediate reach.

Drawing ragged breaths, he wrenches my talwar from his wound, his eyes glinting with mischief and a hint of respect. “You almost had me, kiddo,” he admits, his voice tinged with exhaustion and amusement. And then, wielding my weapon, he taunts, “Your move.”

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My heart sinks; having lost my blade to this formidable opponent feels like the gravest of errors.

Just as desperation creeps in, a familiar voice pierces the tension. “NALA!” Auntie Nishaa, ever-watchful, tosses her own talwar my way.

With gratitude surging within, I grip it, realizing I’m not alone in this battle.

My opponent’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Thought we were duelling fairly?”

I square my shoulders, replying, “This battleground is rife with weapons. Borrowing one only seems fair.”

He chuckles, adjusting his stance. “I’ve always had an affinity for swords, took up fencing as a hobby. Pity it wasn’t of much use in the army.” He adopts a fencing pose, though the weight of the talwar is ill-suited for such finesse.

Empowered by a surging belief in my own skill, I advance, targeting his vulnerable wrist. Knowing the talwar’s heft compared to a fencing sword, I expect his stance to waver under the strain. But with a mere flick of his wrist, he deflects my strike. I centre myself. Now isn’t the time to let pride cloud my judgment.

Swiftly, I unleash a flurry of strikes, hoping to wear him down. With his injury, surely fatigue will set in soon. Yet, he parries each blow, his defence impenetrable.

The battle evens out on the playing field. His significant strength disadvantage matches my fighting inexperience. I press forward, lunging and slashing with grace and agility. Though he blocks and evades with ease, my energy only seems to rise. Every successful deflection lights up my spirit, and I can see the respect shining in his eyes. We push each other to our limits, our blades clashing and ringing, neither of us willing to give an inch. My heart thunders in my ears, the only sound in the arena besides our weapons. He lands a fierce uppercut, and I feel my teeth rattle in my jaw. Out of sheer instinct, I bring up my arm, blocking most of the impact and giving myself the opportunity to dive away.

Minutes stretch on, our dance one of intense precision and focus. I sense his falter–a fleeting moment of vulnerability. Seizing it, I push aside his blade with a forceful swipe, creating an opening.

My heart races as I aim for his shoulder, but in a swift counter, he uses his free arm to block. I feel the jarring collision with bone. Almost simultaneously, he lunges at my midsection, and I too, instinctively block with my arm. We’re ensnared in a gruesome embrace, our blades buried deep in each other’s flesh, a deadly standoff where retreat means defeat. Blood trickles from our wounds, the warm crimson a stark contrast to the cold steel.

Summoning every ounce of will, I drive my blade deeper. He retaliates, bringing his steel-reinforced boot down on my foot, trying to shatter bone. Pushing past the agony, I kick at his previous wound. Locked in this savage tango, time seems to stretch indefinitely.

But all battles have their turning point. His forearm, strained beyond its limit, snaps gruesomely, dangling by mere threads of skin. Yet, even as my blade cuts into his brow and finds its mark in his shoulder, his resolve doesn’t waver. With a final act of defiance, he headbutts me, severing my own forearm in a swift strike. The momentum sends it airborne, landing metres away.

With the weight of my injury, I collapse, the world blurring as pain and determination clash. His laughter, tinged with blood and respect, echoes in my ears. As he readies for the final blow, his words pierce through my fading consciousness. “Have my apologies. You were not a kiddo, but a worthy warrior, Nala of Jamani. Your wings weren’t made of wax, but of genuine, magnificent feathers. See you in Elysium.”

With what strength remains, I lock eyes with him, a bittersweet smile playing on my lips. The impending pain of death is kept at bay by adrenaline’s merciful numbness. In the very depths of my heart, I cling to the belief that while this battle may be lost, the war will ultimately be ours. There’s also a sliver of happiness within me for having earned the approval of such a formidable man.

But my last prayers are abruptly interrupted by the sharp crack of a rifle. Auntie Nishaa has pulled out her Winchester, aiming precisely and shattering my opponent’s talwar in two with her impeccable shot.

“That’s enough,” she declares with authority. “Nala, you fought valiantly, but I can’t stand by and watch you die. The fair fight ends here. Everyone, aid Nala and finish this man off.”

The dozens of comrades who had been waiting on the training ground, observing our dance of death, now ready their weapons to join the fray.

My opponent, a mosaic of blood and determination, throws back his head and laughs. “Yes, good, good. Come all at once.”

With an almost casual movement, he discards the broken remnants of his talwar, retrieving another grenade from his vest.

“DON’T APPROACH!” I scream a warning to my comrades.

However, he doesn’t wait for my cautionary cry to take effect. With a swift throw, he engulfs the battlefield in a dense, concealing smoke. My vision is limited to a mere meter, but Auntie Nishaa’s voice pierces the thick haze. “Be cautious! Protect Nala at all costs! Circle the perimeter!”

This bloodied soldier, fighting with such tenacity in a seemingly hopeless battle, is awe-inspiring. He leans down, his eyes locked onto mine, a wicked smile adorning his face. “You’re blessed with loyal subordinates and incredible strength. Anyone else in your position would’ve succumbed to fear, but you? You’re different. It would be an affront to your determination if I ended your life now. If every regiment in the army had a soul like you, we’d be invincible.”

Gasping for breath and riddled with pain, I manage to rasp out, “Aren’t you afraid of death?”

He chuckles, the sound ragged but genuine. “Fear of death? That’s been foreign to me for a long time. Dying aimlessly? That’s not my style. Here, I’m making a choice. A meaningful one. When this is over, make sure they tend to your wounds properly.”

“You’re a force to be reckoned with; I will honour your memory,” I vow, tears forming in my eyes.

“You’d better,” he jests with a ragged laugh as the smoke slowly clears.

From the swirling mists of uncertainty, three of my comrades emerge like avenging spirits, their horses galloping with a fervour matched only by the urgency of the moment. Their determined charge draws me out of the chaotic epicentre, to the relative safety of the periphery. But as I’m pulled away, others valiantly step forth to fill the void, their swords gleaming with intent, aiming to quell the tempestuous force before them. Yet, he moves with the fluidity of water and the grace of a seasoned dancer, eluding their sharpened blades as if engaged in a deadly ballet.

Suddenly, the night echoes with the staccato rhythm of gunfire. Auntie Nishaa, a guardian spirit in this dance of fate, and another dauntless ally release their fiery wrath upon him. Bullets, like avenging furies, seek their prey, burying deep into his flesh, painting his stomach and leg with vivid crimson. Yet, in a testament to his otherworldly resilience, he defies the mortal blow, standing tall, an embodiment of defiance and willpower.

With a storm of motion, this warrior—nigh unbeatable—unleashes his might upon my comrades. In a move reminiscent of the cunning of old world deities, he turns the tools of his adversaries against them, launching one of their forsaken grenades. The resulting explosion reverberates like the thunder of gods, a deafening testament to his indomitable spirit.

The scene unfolds like an ancient epic, where gods and mortals blur, where tales of heroism and tragedy are birthed. In my eyes, this lone soldier rises to the pantheon, echoing the feats of demigods from myths of yore, whose battles raged for eons. I can’t help but wonder, had destiny not intervened, just how many more would’ve witnessed the unyielding might of this modern-day titan?

Suddenly, the very fabric of the night is rent asunder by an ethereal luminescence, a light so intense it seems as if the heavens themselves are bearing witness. An otherworldly, majestic vibration of a sitar chord envelops the battlefield, resonating like the celestial harmonies sung by the muses. It feels as though the cosmos pauses, the deities of old beckoning one of their own back to the starry pantheon.

In this divine interlude, he stands, a modern-day Hanuman, unyielding and unbroken even as the cruel hands of mortality seek to claim him, his life essence spilling forth in a tragic tableau. Through the swirling mists of anguish and the fog of battle’s aftermath, a whisper floats to my ears, suffused with the pride and honour of a warrior’s last stand: “Congratulations.”

It's uncertain whether he directed it to me or to the short-haired girl standing way behind him. Her face displays a mix of resolve, gratitude, and grief. Strands of her hair dance wildly in the heat, and her eyes—though wet with unshed tears—burn with a fire that mirrors the intensity of the scene around her. The weapon embedded in her arm glows even brighter than the surrounding flames, pulsating with an energy that seems almost alive. But as quickly as that light built, it fades, extinguishing in the same dramatic fashion in which it appeared.

Hidden from my sight by the capricious dance of shadows and light, I cannot see his visage, but in my heart’s eye, I picture a countenance touched by peace, a smile that speaks of battles won and a journey completed. As the magnitude of his sacrifice and the finality of his departure dawns upon me, a deluge of sorrow engulfs my very being. And in that hallowed aftermath, the battlefield grows eerily silent, punctuated only by the soft lament of distant fires and the raw cadence of my own grief-stricken elegy.

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