Sathya ducked beneath Mohit's heavy swing, pivoting low and slashing upward with his blood-forged blade. Sparks flared as the crimson knife scraped against Mohit's golden-armored forearm—a clash of flesh and magic, of instinct and will.
Mohit grunted, the blow glancing off his arm. With a sudden surge, he stepped in and drove his shoulder into Sathya's chest, ramming him backward with brute force. The café trembled under their weight as chairs crashed and tables splintered.
Why?
Why was a weakling like Sathya still standing?
Mohit's eyes narrowed, muscles flexing beneath his shirt like coiled steel. His breath came in sharp huffs, eyes burning with disbelief and a hint of frustration.
Mohit: "Give up already. You should've stayed in your place."
Sathya spat blood to the side, one foot sliding back as he steadied himself.
Sathya: "Nope. You're wrong. I won't stay down."
That answer hit harder than any punch. Something about it struck a chord Mohit didn't want to acknowledge. His face twisted—not just in rage, but in something deeper.
A voice echoed in his mind. Cold. Commanding.
"Don't look weak. You're from a warrior caste. Behave like it."
His father's voice.
For a second, Mohit wasn't in a fight—he was a boy again. A memory flashed: blood running from his nose, a bruise swelling on his eye, standing in his childhood home with a trembling lip.
He'd lost a fight at school. Come home crying.
His mother had knelt beside him, whispering soft reassurances.
But then he arrived.
The slap was sudden. Loud. The sting outlived the moment.
"Don't come home crying," his father had barked.
"Strike back. Make them regret touching you."
And he did. From that day forward, he followed his father. Or tried to. His mother had protested, but she was drowned out by the brute will of the man he called Father.
He became what his father demanded—tough, relentless, unforgiving.
And it worked .
People moved out of his way when he walked into a room.
They bowed their heads.
They lowered their voices.
They feared him.
Because people were cowards.
All they needed was a shove to break.
So why…
Why wasn't HE breaking?
Mohit clenched his jaw, his fists trembling.
He surged forward, closing the space in an instant. His golden-coated fist cut through the air like a sledgehammer. Sathya tried to duck, twisting to the side—but this time, Mohit didn't care about the blade grazing his side.
He let it slice.
Blood sprayed.
Mohit wrapped his arms around Sathya mid-motion, gripping him in a crushing bear hug, muscles straining with effort.
And then—with a roar—he bulldozed him straight through the café.
Chairs shattered beneath them. A table splintered as they crashed over it. Mohit didn't stop. He charged, dragging Sathya like a ragdoll until they smashed through the glass café door, exploding into the mall corridor beyond.
Glass rained down like crystal shrapnel.
They landed hard. Sathya crumpled to the floor, slick with a mixture of his blood and Mohit's. His blade arm hung limp, twitching.
But even as Mohit towered over him, blood seeping from gashes across his chest and arms, something burned inside him.
"Will Father be proud of me?"
He looked down at his trembling hands. Crimson dripped from his fingers.
Another memory surged.
That first time—after he struck back at the boy who bullied him—his father had nodded. Not smiled. Just nodded.
That was his approval. Cold and wordless.
Mohit had learned then: pain was the price of being respected.
Love had nothing to do with it.
Power did.
And now—he was power incarnate.
So why… why did He keep getting up?
Sathya groaned, pushing against the tile floor with wobbling arms. His body shook. Blood smeared across the ground as he rose, first to his knees, then slowly, stubbornly to his feet.
Mohit stared, dumbfounded.
This was madness.
A fresh stream of blood coiled down Sathya's arm, pooling into his palm—congealing, twisting—until another crimson dagger was born.
Mohit: "STAY DOWN! Or I'll kill you!"
Sathya coughed, wiped blood from his lips, and smiled through bruised lips.
Sathya (defiant): "I refuse to listen to others."
His back straightened. His shoulders squared. His legs trembled—but didn't buckle.
Sathya (with a grin): "I'll do what I want. Let's start… Round 3."
Mohit's fists clenched, golden light flickering across his forearms like living metal.
Mohit: "You'll lose round after round. And then… you'll die."
Sathya (low, resolute): "That's something we'll have to find out."
They stood there, in the shattered remains of the mall entrance—surrounded by broken glass, flickering lights, and loud voices as the crowd watched from the from afar.
One bleeding, but burning with defiance.
The other—stronger, faster, but suddenly unsure.
And so began Round 3.