The ruin breathed with the night.
It was not alive, not truly—but it remembered. Broken walls leaned inward like old men listening to secrets they were never meant to hear. Stone pillars lay half-buried under dirt and moss, their carvings long erased by time. Above, the sky showed itself through a torn roof, stars blinking faintly as if unsure whether this place deserved their light.
Akil sat alone on a fractured slab of stone.
His back was hunched, elbows resting on his knees. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember glowing softly in the dark. Smoke curled upward, slipping through the gaps in the broken ceiling and vanishing into the night.
His chest hurt.
Every breath scraped against damaged ribs, the pain sharp enough to keep him awake, dull enough to feel permanent. The bandages beneath his clothes were already damp again. He could feel the warmth of blood seeping through.
He inhaled anyway.
The smoke filled his lungs, rough and bitter.
"So this is recovery," he muttered to no one.
The ruin answered him with silence.
Akil exhaled slowly, watching the smoke fade.
"Kashifuddin…" he said quietly.
The name echoed strangely against the stone.
"He didn't come," Akil continued, his voice low and raw. "Not when it mattered."
His fingers tightened around the cigarette.
"He watched. He always watches."
A bitter laugh escaped him, short and broken.
"When my sister needed him… when I needed him… he chose silence."
He crushed the cigarette against the stone slab, sparks dying instantly.
"Strongest man in the village," Akil scoffed. "Strong enough to do nothing."
His shoulders trembled—not from cold, but from something deeper.
He stood up.
Pain exploded across his ribs, bright and immediate. His vision darkened for a second. He leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, breathing through clenched teeth.
He straightened slowly.
"I don't need you," he whispered into the ruins. "I never did."
The words sounded hollow the moment they left his mouth.
Then—
Footsteps.
Not one pair.
Many.
Akil froze.
The sound echoed through the broken arches, multiplied by stone and shadow. Measured. Confident. Unafraid.
From the darkness beyond the collapsed entrance, figures began to emerge.
First shadows.
Then shapes.
Then faces.
Men stepped into the moonlight one by one, spreading out naturally, as if they had practiced this formation many times before. Some leaned against broken pillars. Others rested hands in their pockets. None of them looked rushed.
At their center walked Zarqael.
His hands were wrapped cleanly, knuckles protected, wrists tight. His posture was loose, relaxed in a way that spoke of experience rather than arrogance. His chin was slightly lowered, eyes forward, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet.
A boxer's stance.
Zarqael stopped a few meters away from Akil and looked around the ruin.
"Romantic," he said calmly. "I like ruins. They don't interrupt."
Akil said nothing.
Zarqael's eyes settled on him.
"You look worse than last time," Zarqael added.
Akil straightened fully, forcing his body to obey him.
"So you came," Akil said.
Zarqael tilted his head slightly. "Of course."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"You didn't think I'd let you sit alone with all that anger, did you?"
The men around him chuckled.
Person 1: "This is the Iron Circle's pride?"
Person 2: "Looks like he already lost the fight."
Person 3: "Careful, he might bleed on us."
Laughter bounced off the stone walls, sharp and mocking.
Akil's jaw tightened.
"You killed my sister," he said.
Zarqael took a single step forward.
"And you're still leading with emotion," he replied evenly. "That's your biggest weakness."
Akil moved.
No warning.
No hesitation.
He charged.
His fist swung wide, fast, desperate.
Zarqael leaned back just enough.
The punch cut through empty air.
Akil swung again.
Zarqael pivoted to the side, footwork smooth, controlled. He barely moved, like he was stepping around an inconvenience.
A jab snapped out.
Clean.
Sharp.
Akil's head snapped back as pain exploded across his face.
White flashed behind his eyes.
He staggered but didn't fall.
Zarqael was already there.
Another jab. Then a cross.
The impact crushed the air out of Akil's lungs. He gasped, coughing, his body folding inward.
Person 1: "That's it?"
Person 2: "I expected more."
Akil roared and swung blindly.
This time—
His fist connected.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't clean.
But it landed.
Zarqael's head jerked slightly to the side.
For half a second, everything stopped.
The laughter died.
Akil froze, breath hitching.
Hope flared inside him—small, dangerous, intoxicating.
Zarqael straightened slowly.
He touched his jaw.
Tested it.
Then he smiled.
"That was your best one," Zarqael said softly. "Wasn't it?"
Something in his eyes changed.
The casual looseness vanished.
His stance tightened.
And then—
He moved.
A body shot slammed into Akil's ribs.
Pain detonated through his chest.
Another punch followed immediately.
Then another.
Each blow landed with terrifying precision, targeting muscle, nerve, breath. No wasted movement. No anger.
Just dismantling.
Akil tried to swing back.
Zarqael slipped past him, footwork effortless, shoulders rolling as punches grazed past empty space.
A hook crashed into Akil's temple.
He dropped to one knee, the ground rushing up to meet him.
Person 3: "Stand up, Iron Circle!"
More laughter.
Akil spat blood and forced himself upright.
His vision swam. His legs trembled.
He swung again.
Missed.
Zarqael stepped inside his range and drove a punch straight into Akil's chest.
Akil gasped, breath stolen, legs buckling.
Across the village—
Masleuddin burst into Kashifuddin's room.
"Zarqael attacked," he said urgently. "Eastern Branch. Full group."
Kashifuddin's eyes narrowed.
"Where?"
"Near the old ruins," Masleuddin replied. "Akil's there."
Kashifuddin's jaw tightened.
"He just recovered," he said. "And Zarqael attacked again… this soon?"
Ayaan stood nearby, frozen.
"What?" he whispered. "Akil's alone?"
Fear slammed into his chest like a fist.
Back at the ruins—
Zarqael circled Akil calmly.
"This is what happens," Zarqael said, "when you fight alone."
Akil clenched his fists, blood dripping onto the stone beneath his feet.
He refused to fall.
Somewhere deep inside him, a line was thinning.
And the night was far from finished.