"3RD PERSON POV"
"THREE YEARS LATER"
"UMAR FAROOQ BASE CAMP – EASTERN BORDER"
The night was young, and the stars glittered quietly across the vast, ink-black sky. A cool breeze passed through the trees, carrying with it the distant sounds of guards patrolling the camp—footsteps crunching over gravel, low murmurs of men clutching their rifles.
Just outside the camp perimeter, a group of armed men stood silently. Their eyes were fixed on the young man standing before them.
Aravind.
He no longer looked like the boy who first arrived at this place. The innocence of childhood had been replaced by a quiet, intimidating intensity. His once soft features had sharpened—now a face of cold composure and steel will. His dark, deep-set eyes gazed up at the stars with unreadable thought. Long, unkempt hair flowed gently in the night wind, brushing against his jawline. His lean frame had matured into that of a disciplined athlete—wiry, agile, and efficient. Every muscle had a purpose. Every move was calculated.
Three years had passed.
Three years of merciless training. In that time, Aravind, Rayyan, and the children chosen for Umar Farooq's special squad had been reshaped—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
They had been trained in silence and shadow.
—Mastery over multiple martial arts.
—Tactics of stealth, infiltration, and silent assassination.
—Explosives creation and bomb defusal.
—Guerrilla warfare, survival in harsh terrains, and battlefield adaptability.
—Psychological manipulation, information warfare, and deception.
—Multiple languages, cultural codes, hacking, and cyber-intel.
They weren't just being trained as terrorists. They were being sculpted into ghosts—untraceable weapons meant to tear Hindustan apart from within.
But there was something Umar Farooq hadn't accounted for.
Underneath the layers of obedience and discipline they wore like masks, Aravind and Rayyan had been slowly, methodically, reshaping the minds of the children around them. In secret, over years of whispered words and late-night conversations, they rewrote the ideology Farooq had drilled into them.
They spoke of freedom, not vengeance.
Of truth, not blind faith. Of a future where they weren't pawns in someone else's war.
And over time… the children listened.
They believed.
And now, without firing a single bullet, Aravind and Rayyan had done what no army could. They had turned Farooq's finest creations into their own loyal subordinates.
Aravind stood still, his eyes fixed on the night sky, where a thousand stars burned silently. The breeze carried a faint chill, but it was soothing—calm before the storm.
Footsteps approached from behind. Aravind didn't need to look. He already knew who it was.
"Bhaijaan…" came the familiar voice.
He turned slightly. It was Rayyan.
Rayyan had grown too. The boy was gone, replaced by a young man who had survived fire and blood. His long dark hair was tied back, and his sharp gray eyes glinted beneath the dim moonlight. A faint scar ran across his right eye—a reminder of brutal training, earned in silence. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his posture carried quiet strength.
Rayyan stepped beside Aravind, hands folded behind his back.
"Umar is sending us on our first mission in two days," he said. "What's the next step?"
Aravind didn't respond right away. He kept his gaze on the stars, as if drawing resolve from the cosmos. Then he spoke, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command.
"It's time, Rayyan."
His tone was steady—each word sharp, measured, and filled with purpose.
"Time to destroy the place that raised us like caged dogs. Time to break free from the chains that bound us. Time to kill Umar Farooq and his brother."
He paused, exhaling slowly.
"It's time to take the first step toward our true goal… a better tomorrow. A world where balance exists. No more blind hatred. No more manipulation. Only truth."
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was heavy. The men around him didn't speak, but their eyes glowed with shared purpose. Fire burned in their hearts. Every child once trained to hate had now grown into a soldier for something greater.
Aravind didn't look at them. He didn't need to.
"Sahil."
A boy with long, tied-back hair stepped forward from the group. He was young but sharp-eyed, carrying the same quiet fire as the others. "Bhaijaan?" he replied respectfully.
Still staring at the sky, Aravind asked,
"Where's your duty tomorrow night?"
"Inside the kitchen," Sahil replied. "I'm on food prep for the entire camp."
Aravind nodded faintly. "You know what to do, right?"
Sahil's lips curved into a small, confident smile. "Don't worry, Bhaijaan. They'll all be sleeping early tomorrow."
Aravind's gaze remained fixed on the night sky, the stars reflecting quietly in his dark eyes. He stood like a statue, unmoved, calm—but in his silence, a storm brewed.
"Zafar," he called out without looking.
A tall young man stepped forward from the shadows. His broad shoulders and sharp jawline gave him an imposing presence. "Bhaijaan," he answered with a slight nod.
"Your duty is to guard the explosives, right?"
"Yes, Bhaijaan."
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Aravind's lips. "Good. I want to see Eid and Diwali at the same time tomorrow night."
Zafar's eyes lit up with excitement, a rare smile breaking through his stoic face.
"Of course, Bhaijaan. The sky will shine brighter than ever before."
Aravind nodded, satisfied, then turned to the group of young men gathered around him.
"Rayyan. Amar."
The two immediately stepped forward.
"You two will be stationed near Umar Farooq's tent. No one goes in, and no one comes out unless I say so."
Rayyan and Amar exchanged a glance, then nodded firmly. "Understood."
Aravind's eyes scanned the rest.
"The rest of you—surround the camp perimeter. I don't want Farooq escaping, and I don't care who you have to go through to make sure of that."
A chorus of nods followed, silent and determined.
But then Rayyan spoke up, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Bhaijaan... what about Saif? He'll be on patrol tomorrow night with his squad."
Aravind didn't flinch. His voice was calm, resolute. "I'm on patrol with him tomorrow. I'll handle Saif and his men myself."
The group tensed.
"Bhaijaan, you'll be alone—" someone started to protest.
But Aravind raised his hand, and silence followed instantly.
"I said I'll handle it," he repeated, eyes still on the sky.
They knew better than to argue when he spoke like that. His authority wasn't loud—it was absolute.
A beat of silence passed, then Aravind turned to face them all. His voice was low but filled with power.
"Tomorrow is the day. Everything we've prepared for comes down to one night. No mistakes. No hesitation."
He took a breath. "May the god be with us. Hail Dharma."
The group responded in steady unison, voices calm but heavy with meaning.
"Hail Dharma."
Then Rayyan raised his voice slightly, a fire burning behind his scarred eyes.
"For the glory of Dharma."
And the reply came as one—sharp, focused, and clear.
"For the glory of Dharma."
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"3RD PERSON POV"
"NEXT NIGHT"
After dinner, Umar Farooq felt strangely tired. He couldn't explain it, but his eyelids grew heavier with every step. Brushing it off as exhaustion, he returned to his tent early, leaving behind the usual post-meal conversation. As he lay on the thin mattress, sleep took hold faster than usual. He didn't even hear the night wind rustling the flaps of his tent.
Outside, the same drowsiness began creeping over the guards posted around his camp. One leaned against his rifle, yawning. The other rubbed his eyes and blinked hard, trying to stay awake.
Footsteps approached.
Rayyan and Amar moved calmly through the dark, their boots making almost no sound against the dirt. Their expressions were cold and focused. As they neared the two guards standing at the tent's entrance, the sleepy men straightened up, struggling to keep their eyes open.
Rayyan scowled, his tone harsh but steady. "You two look half-asleep. We don't work like that. If Farooq or Saif catch you like this, you'd wish you were dead."
One of the guards grunted, annoyed. "What do you mean, kid?"
Amar stepped in, his voice calm but firm. "It means go get some rest. We'll take over your post."
The other guard narrowed his eyes. "You sure about that, kid? It's Farooq's tent. No room for screw-ups."
Rayyan gave a short nod. "We're sure. Just leave it to us."
The guards looked at each other for a second, unsure. But the sleepiness was winning fast. One of them finally sighed. "Alright… Just be careful. Keep your eyes open."
Without another word, the two men stepped away into the night, leaving Rayyan and Amar standing in front of the tent. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Both knew what had to happen next.
All around the camp, similar scenes were playing out—children of the squad, now trained, now loyal to Aravind and Rayyan, quietly replacing the original guards. The poison in the food had worked perfectly, laced in just enough dose to dull the senses and bring on an unnatural sleep.
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"WITH ARAVIND"
Deep in the forest, under the cover of darkness, Saif led his squad through their regular patrol route. The trees stood tall and silent, the moonlight barely slipping through the dense canopy above. Everything seemed quiet—too quiet.
One of the men let out a long yawn, stretching his arms lazily. Another rubbed his eyes, blinking slowly as sleep crept in.
Saif's temper flared. "What the hell is wrong with you idiots? Stay alert! We're not out here for a midnight walk."
One of the men glanced at him, his voice groggy. "It's not like that, bhai… I don't know why, but I feel really sleepy tonight."
The others murmured in agreement, their heads drooping, feet dragging through the underbrush.
A deep frown formed on Saif's forehead. Something didn't feel right.
"Damn it… fine. I'll call in another squad to take over this shift. Ali, get your comm and—"
He paused mid-sentence. His eyes scanned the line of men, his head turning slowly.
Ali was gone.
His heart skipped.
"Where's Ali?" he barked.
Everyone turned to look, confusion spreading among them. Whispers filled the night air as they searched the shadows.
Then, in a flash—like a blur of wind—something moved.
A soft thud echoed through the trees. One of the men gasped, stumbling backward as blood sprayed across his chest. Another man screamed.
A head hit the ground with a sickening thump.
The body collapsed a few feet away.
Saif's eyes went wide, his instincts kicking in.
"TAKE POSITIONS!" he roared.
The men scattered, dropping into defensive stances, guns raised, eyes scanning the darkness.
Suddenly a roar shook the forest—an explosion, loud and violent, echoed from the direction of the base camp. The ground trembled beneath their feet. Flames lit up the sky, turning the night into day.
Saif whipped his head toward the light, eyes wide with shock as the orange glow painted the treetops. The entire horizon behind them was burning.
"The camp…!" he muttered, realization hitting him like a hammer. His expression twisted with panic.
"It's an enemy attack! MOVE! Head back to camp—NOW!" he shouted.
The squad didn't hesitate. They turned and sprinted through the trees, hearts pounding, guns in hand.
But behind them, death was stalking.
Aravind moved like a ghost. One by one, he emerged from the shadows, his blade flashing silently. A quick pull, a slit throat. A flick of the wrist, and another man dropped. No screams. No sound. Just bodies falling into the dark, never to rise again.
Saif kept running, unaware that his men were being picked off like prey. His boots pounded the dirt path as he pushed through the smoke-filled air, heart racing with fear for his brother.
When he finally reached the camp, he stopped in his tracks.
The scene before him made his blood run cold.
Flames danced across the base. Bodies of their comrades lay scattered across the ground, lifeless and charred. Smoke coiled around the tents like a serpent.
And in the center of it all, Umar Farooq was on his knees. Blood soaked his clothes, his hands bound behind his back. His face was battered. He looked up helplessly.
Standing behind him was Rayyan, calm and collected, aiming a pistol straight at Farooq's head. Around them stood Aravind's squad, weapons drawn, eyes sharp, expressions unreadable.
Saif's chest tightened. "RAYYAN! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU—"
His voice cut off mid-sentence.
In an instant, a silver flash cut through the air.
And Saif's head fell from his shoulders, rolling across the ground.
Blood burst from the neck like a fountain, painting the dirt red.
Farooq stared in horror, eyes wide, body shaking. He screamed, his voice raw and broken.
"SAIF! SAIF!!!"
Farooq kept screaming, his voice echoing in the night like a wounded animal. Tears and rage mixed on his blood-smeared face.
From the forest, Aravind stepped forward, his clothes soaked in blood, a sharp, short axe gripped loosely in his right hand. His eyes were calm—unnervingly calm. Not a flicker of doubt or mercy.
Farooq locked eyes with him and roared, "ALI! YOU FUCKING TRAITOR! WHY!? I RAISED YOU! I FED YOU! I TAUGHT YOU! I GAVE YOU A HOME! AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!? I'LL KILL YOU WITH MY OWN HANDS!"
Aravind said nothing. Instead, he walked over to Saif's severed head, picked it up by the hair, and kicked it hard toward Farooq.
The head rolled across the dirt, stopping just inches from Farooq's knees.
Farooq's face twisted into disbelief, then pure madness. His scream cracked in his throat.
Aravind stepped closer. Slow, unhurried steps.
He crouched down in front of Farooq, bringing himself to his level. Their faces were inches apart—one calm and cold, the other furious and broken.
Then, in a low, steady voice, Aravind spoke.
"You talk about what you gave me?" he said. "You gave me nothing, Farooq. Nothing."
Farooq's eyes burned with fury, but he said nothing. Aravind went on.
"Everything I have… every breath, every skill, every scar—I earned it. With my own hands. Through blood and pain. You didn't give us a home… you gave us a prison. You didn't raise us… you used us."
His voice turned sharper, laced with venom.
"You stole the childhoods of innocent kids. You tore apart families. You brought suffering into every life that crossed your path. You took joy, peace, and freedom. And now…"
He leaned in closer, voice like a blade.
"…you will watch it all end."
Farooq spat blood from his mouth, glaring up at Aravind with wild eyes.
"DO YOU THINK I CARE ABOUT THE LIVES OF SOME INSECTS?!" he roared. "YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET THIS, ALI!"
But before he could finish, Aravind spoke—calmly, without a hint of fear.
"Maheshwar."
The single word cut through the night like thunder. Farooq froze, confusion flickering across his face. His rage paused, swallowed by something colder—dread.
He looked up at Aravind, as if trying to process what he had just heard.
Aravind straightened, towering over him. He slowly raised his arms to his sides, like a man revealing his truth to the world.
"I am Maheshwar. Maheshwar Chaturvedi."
Then his voice rose, strong and unwavering, carried by fire and conviction.
"AND WE… WE ARE THE EVIL THAT HUMANITY NEEDS. WE ARE THE BALANCE. WE ARE TOMORROW. WE ARE—DHARMA CHAKRA!"
As his words echoed into the night, gunfire erupted into the sky.
A storm of bullets lit the darkness, like fireworks tearing through the heavens. His soldiers shouted in unison, their voices fierce and proud.
"HAIL DHARMA!"
"HAIL DHARMA!"
Farooq sat frozen, eyes wide, unable to comprehend the shift, the meaning, or the power that now stood before him.
Aravind looked down at him one last time, voice low, final.
"See you in hell, Farooq."
And with a swift, clean strike—Farooq's head fell to the ground.