The dry, biting winter air of 1563 carried the scent of impending blood and iron across the volatile borders of the northern territories. Inside Badrak, close to the Duranabad frontier, a palpable shift in momentum occurred the moment the heavy transport wagons of the Rudradev Khurda Company finally rolled into the encampment, fully replenishing the prince's war supplies and rations. With his disciplined columns fully stocked, armed, and eager for retribution, Prince Vikramaditya wasted no time. He ordered the army to break camp immediately and march directly toward Count Durani's border garrison, seeking to strike before the traitorous lord could solidify his defensive lines.
However, the shadow network of the Tritiya Netra had already done its work too well. Light-footed scouts returned with urgent intelligence: news of their vanguard commander's absolute defeat at the hands of the prince had already reached the border garrison. Seeing the terrifying reality of a swift royal retaliation, the remaining Duranabad forces had abandoned their posts, choosing to retreat deeper into the fiefdom toward a far more fortified, stone-walled position.
Refusing to allow the enemy the luxury of a prolonged siege, Prince Vikramaditya opted to give relentless chase to the retreating army. He turned to his second-in-command, ordering Colonel Virendra to increase the march speed to double time. The modernization of the royal forces showed its true worth as the highly drilled battalions moved with mechanical fluid precision, rapidly closing the distance between themselves and the fleeing traitors.
By mid-afternoon, the prince's vanguard—which Colonel Virendra took personal command of—came into violent contact with the rearguard of the retreating Duranabad forces. What followed was a masterclass in the lethal line infantry tactics the prince had engineered. Four musketeer companies, arranged one after another in perfect, interlocking columns, advanced with absolute discipline. The frontline company unleashed a devastating, synchronized volley of lead, the roar of their black powder echoing across the plains. The moment their rows finished firing, they seamlessly slowed their pace to reload their weapons while the company directly behind them moved forward swiftly through the ranks to unleash the next wave of destruction. This continuous, rolling wall of fire became an absolute slaughter when the vanguard company equipped with the prized four-shot rotating breech matchlock muskets stepped forward, raining an unrelenting torrent of lead that shattered the enemy's morale.
For hours, this brutal game of cat and mouse continued across the open terrain. Whittled down to less than half of their original strength and suffocating under the unbroken pressure of the imperial volleys, the enemy infantry completely broke. Dropping their weapons in absolute terror for their lives, thousands of Duranabad soldiers fell to their knees to surrender. Seeing the total collapse of their lines, the enemy cavalry—consisting of a mere 500 men—panicked, turning their horses and fleeing at winded speed, leaving the defenseless infantry to fend for itself. It was another resounding, flawless victory for the prince's forces, and the disarmed prisoners were quickly rounded up and placed under heavy guard.
Later that evening, inside the quiet confines of the established army camp command tent, Prince Vikramaditya sat across from Colonel Virendra to assess their operational logistics. The battle-hardened colonel reported that he had already deployed advanced scouts to both forward and rear positions, ensuring that any approaching force—whether an unexpected ally or an encroaching enemy—would be spotted miles before reaching their perimeter.
The prince nodded slowly, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering amber glow of the oil lamps. "The prisoners we have taken will be both a strain on our rations and will drastically slow our march," Vikramaditya murmured, his voice carrying the cold, clinical pragmatism of a veteran sovereign. "Furthermore, we will need to expend vital manpower just to guard them when every single blade counts for the upcoming assault. We need a permanent solution to fix this situation. What are your suggestions, Colonel?"
Colonel Virendra's jaw tightened as he thought of the horrors his people had endured under the northern tyranny. "Your Highness, as far as I remember, the count's army consists mostly of Slamic-following men who possess a thoroughly vile reputation. They have spent years engaging in the systematic looting, raping, and pillaging of the innocent, defenseless Indu population in the name of their rigid faith. In my eyes, they are not honorable prisoners of war; they are nothing but unrepentant criminals. They should be executed."
Hearing this, a slow, dangerous smile crept onto Prince Vikramaditya's face. Truly, he had lucked out in obtaining a second-in-command who possessed the same unyielding, ruthless resolve required to forge a new empire. In truth, the prince had already planned to execute the prisoners, viewing them as nothing more than a tactical liability in his campaign, but now that the colonel had brought the cold necessity forward himself, Vikramaditya gave the final, absolute order. "Execute them all. Let the soil of Duranabad drink the blood of its enforcers."
Present day, deep within the heavily guarded army camp inside the captured territory of Duranabad.
After almost one and a half days of tense, agonizing waiting, the heavy silence of the command tent was finally shattered. A breathless messenger burst through the canvas entry, kneeling low to deliver the long-awaited news: the Count's sole male heir had been successfully ambushed and captured, and he would reach the camp by tonight. Furthermore, the official ransom and taunting notification of the abduction had already been dispatched directly to Count Durani himself, setting the final clock in motion.
By nightfall, the flap of the command tent swung open once more. Agent Vasuki, the elite operative of the Third Eye, stepped into the light. Both he and the small squad of elite guards flanking him looked utterly exhausted, their dark coveralls bloodied and torn, their ranks whittled down to nearly half of their initial numbers from the brutal, close-quarters street fight required to secure their prize. Yet, despite their casualties, they had succeeded. Dragged in tow behind them was the crown jewel of the northern lineage—Rayan Durani.
The Count's son appeared to be close to twenty years of age, quite tall, and possessed a somewhat bulky frame. He was heavily bound in thick ropes, thoroughly gagged, and a dark blindfold covered his eyes.
The moment the guards roughly shoved Rayan into a chair and tore the gag and blindfold from his face, the young noble exploded into a fit of unbridled rage. His face flushed a deep crimson as he began yelling at the top of his lungs, hurling desperate threats across the tent. He screamed that when his father found out about this absolute outrage, none of them would be spared from a slow, agonizing death if they did not cut his bonds and let him go free immediately.
Prince Vikramaditya sat perfectly still in his chair across the wooden table, dressed entirely in pristine black garments that seemed to swallow the light. He listened to the frantic screaming with absolute, unbothered calm, the timeless soul within him watching the display with a sense of clinical detachment.
Finally, once Rayan had completely exhausted his breath, his threats devolving into heavy, ragged panting, the quiet voice of a young boy sliced through the stillness of the tent.
"Don't worry," Vikramaditya said softly, leaning forward into the lamplight, a predatory brilliance flashing in his eyes. "I want your father to know about it. In fact, I engineered this entire operation precisely because I want him to get blind with rage at me for doing this. I need him furious enough to gather his forces, march out from behind those formidable castle walls, and meet me in open battle on the plains. As you see, it is exceptionally difficult and time-consuming for me to get to him while he is safely entrenched within his heavy stone keep, primarily because I currently lack the heavy siege cannons required to breach them."
Rayan's threats died in his throat, replaced by a sudden, chilling realization of the trap his lineage had just stumbled into.
Without another word, Prince Vikramaditya raised a hand, gesturing coldly to his elite guards. "Take him away, put him under our most vigilant guard, and ensure he remains alive."
As the guards dragged the trembling noble back into the dark night, the young prince leaned back in his chair, staring intently at the tactical maps laid out before him. He waited with an icy, impatient resolve, eager to see if Count Durani would take the bait and march out to his own absolute annihilation.