Arjun — Karan

An old woman sat on the steps, weaving a garland of marigolds. Her hair was white, her face a map of sorrow. When she looked up and saw the two young men standing before her, the garland fell from her hands.

Durjan tried to flee. He ran toward the very grave he had dug twenty years ago.

Arjun (now Suraj) cracked his knuckles. “And this time, the soil will not hide you. It will drink you.”

Arjun caught him by the neck and dragged him to the edge of the well. Karan stood beside him, silent.

Above them, the stars burned bright. And in the ruins of the old haveli, Radha lit a single lamp.

The battle was not a fight; it was an accounting. Karan moved like a shadow, his sword singing a song of restitution. Arjun was a storm of fists, breaking bones that had once held a whip against innocent backs. One by one, Durjan’s men fell, not from hatred, but from the sheer, unstoppable weight of justice.

Vijay would wake with dirt in his lungs, gasping for air. Suraj would see a woman with tears like diamonds in his dreams, calling a name he did not recognize: Arjun . They felt a pull toward their old village, a sensation of unfinished business coiling in their guts like a serpent.