The year was 1563. Within the volatile borders of the Duranabad county, the heavy morning mist clung to the grass of the high ground, where the professional ranks of Prince Vikramaditya Deva's modernized army stood in absolute, eerie silence. The dry winter air bit at the faces of the soldiers, but not a single man broke formation.
Colonel Virendra had arrayed the vanguard with meticulous precision on this elevated terrain. Three companies of musket infantry, their multi-shot matchlocks boasting ring bayonets that gleamed coldly in the weak sunlight, were extended as the primary vanguard line. Interspersed mathematically among them were two companies of heavy pikemen. Each pikemen company was split, positioned strategically so that their flanks were entirely enveloped and protected by the rapid-fire capability of the musketeers. Directly behind this vanguard line stood the deadly repeating crossbowmen, their magazines loaded with poison-tipped bolts, ready to rain continuous ranged support over the heads of the infantry once melee combat erupted. Deep in the rear, a final company of seasoned musketeers was held in tight reserve, a tactical hammer ready to be deployed wherever the frontline might buckle under pressure.
Looking into the distance across the plains, Prince Vikramaditya raised his spyglass. The advancing army of Count Amir Durani was a massive, sprawling beast, easily outnumbering his own forces by more than double. As the prince scanned the enemy ranks, his eyes narrowed slightly upon spotting heavy, muzzle-loading bronze cannons being hauled into position. They were likely supplied by the Bengal Sultanate, a dangerous byproduct of their alliance with the Portuguese.
"Bronze artillery," Vikramaditya mused internally, his futuristic mind calculating the trajectory and impact fields. It could pose a distinct problem, but it would also serve as the ultimate crucible to test the mettle, discipline, and morale of his soldiers under live bombardment. Anticipating this, Colonel Virendra had already ordered the companies into a deliberate loose formation, minimizing the potential casualties from incoming solid shot. The lines would only tighten into an impenetrable wall when the enemy drew near for melee.
On the opposite side of the field, positioned safely within his rear guard, Count Amir Durani looked up at the prince's high-ground position with unbridled disdain and white-hot fury. When he had received the prince's insolent, elegant letter threatening his lineage, he had been so enraged he wanted to strangle the little brat with his own hands. Durani had immediately dispatched a letter of his own to King Mahendra Deva, demanding royal condemnation for the prince's unlawful aggression. The king's reply had been simple, cold, and devastating: "You reap what you sow, Count. But do not worry, I will not interfere. Since the prince has challenged you to an open battle and leveled formal accusations of high treason against you, you are free to respond."
Today, Durani intended to slaughter the young prince, rescue his son Rayan, and formally sever Duranabad from this wretched kingdom to declare it a part of the Bengal Sultanate. What he still could not comprehend was how his initial vanguard of ten thousand men had utterly failed to capture the brat. His intelligence stated the prince traveled only with a private army; surely, the regular Royal Army must have secretly intervened to protect him. Snapping out of his thoughts, the count turned to his army commander. "Begin the cannon bombardment on their positions immediately," he barked. "And prepare the vanguard to march forward. We will crush them in melee."
Observing the enemy's slow, deliberate advance and the unlimbering of the bronze cannons, Prince Vikramaditya remained perfectly calm. He turned to Suresh, the commander of his elite royal guard. "Commander Suresh, tie the captive Rayan securely onto a horse and send the beast galloping directly toward the enemy lines," the prince commanded, his voice dropping into a chilling register. Turning to Virendra, he added, "Colonel, task your absolute best marksmen to watch that horse. The moment Count Durani's son reaches the halfway mark between our positions, shoot him dead."
Colonel Virendra and Commander Suresh looked at the young boy, a cold sweat breaking on their necks at the sheer psychological cruelty of the maneuver.
"I want the count to see his son executed before his very eyes," Vikramaditya explained, a predatory brilliance flashing in his gaze. "It will shatter his tactical restraint. He will lose his cool and launch a reckless, en-masse assault on our high ground in a fit of rage, completely abandoning his waiting game and rendering his artillery bombardment ineffective before it can thin our ranks. Do you understand what I want?"
Both officers nodded grimly, saluted, and hurried to execute the order.
Moments later, a frown creased Count Durani's brow as a single horse came charging out from the prince's lines. As the animal drew closer, his confusion turned into a gasp of recognition—it was his son, Rayan, bound tightly but clearly alive. Durani's chest swelled, and a triumphant laugh began to form in his throat at what he perceived to be the prince's absolute foolishness.
Crack!
A singular, high-velocity musket fire echoed across the valley. Halfway across the field, Rayan's body jerked violently as a lead ball tore through him. He slumped over, dead instantly, his corpse catching in the stirrups and ropes, dragged brutally through the dirt as the terrified horse kept running.
The spectacle broke the count's sanity. A guttural scream of pure agonizing rage ripped from his throat. Over the edge with grief and fury, Durani completely abandoned his tactical plan. "Kill them! All of them! Attack en-masse!" he shrieked, ordering his entire army forward.
The psychological trap snapped shut perfectly. From the high ridge, Vikramaditya watched as Count Durani's massive infantry vanguard broke formation, sprinting wildly up the slope in a chaotic frenzy to engage in melee. On the flanks, the count's heavy cavalry surged forward, attempting a rapid double-envelopment.
As the Bengal-supplied bronze cannons opened fire, solid iron balls smashed into the dirt of the high ridge, throwing up debris and causing scattered casualties among the prince's lines. Yet the discipline of his soldiers held firm. On Vikramaditya's signal, his own missile troops responded with terrifying, futuristic devastation. First, the long-range Varshastra iron rockets were unleashed, trailing thick white smoke and screaming across the sky to crash into the tightly packed enemy ranks. As the raging horde drew closer, the devastating electrical and explosive properties of the Vajrastra missiles were unleashed, tearing entire files of men to bloody shreds.
When the blood-maddened enemy infantry finally stumbled into musket range, Colonel Virendra's drums shifted cadence. "Volley fire! Present... Fire!"
A blinding wall of fire and nitrated smoke erupted from the three vanguard companies. The lead musket balls obliterated armor and bone alike, cutting down the front ranks like wheat before a scythe. By the time the battered vanguard managed to crash into the defensive wall of pikes and bayonet-fixed muskets, their morale was completely compromised. To compound their nightmare, the repeating crossbowmen standing in safety behind the frontline kept up a relentless, mechanical rhythm, raining poison-tipped bolts into the melee. Though the prince's forces took casualties in the grinding infantry clash, their rigid, professional ranks refused to dent. Vikramaditya observed the unwavering stoicism of his soldiers with immense, quiet pride.
On the flanks, the count's cavalry was charging aggressively in a tight wedge formation. Seeing this, Colonel Virendra acted instantly. He ordered the reserve musketeer company to split, rushing to reinforce both edges of the ridge alongside a contingent of Varshastra rocket launchers that had been held back precisely for this moment.
The resulting maneuver turned the flanks into a literal death trap. The advancing cavalry was first systematically thinned by the screaming rocket impacts, then shredded by disciplined, alternate musket volleys. When the surviving horsemen finally slammed into the defensive squares hastily formed by the musketeers, their momentum was dead. Their morale shattered completely when Commander Suresh led the elite royal cavalry guards in a devastating, thunderous counter-charge. The enemy cavalry broke and routed in utter panic.
The sight of their cavalry fleeing acted as a domino effect. The remaining Duranabad infantry, already drowning in their own blood and utterly broken by the unnatural discipline of the prince's forces, threw down their arms, turned their backs, and began a chaotic, mass retreat.
Vikramaditya had explicitly laid out two mandatory objectives for this phase of the battle. "Suresh, Virendra, I want the count's bronze cannons captured entirely intact, and I want Count Durani dead or in chains," he had ordered.
With a roaring battle cry, the elite royal cavalry guards surged down the ridge to fulfill those objectives, heavily supported by the advancing lines of Colonel Virendra's infantry.
From the rear, Count Amir Durani watched the total annihilation of his army—an army more than double the size of his opponent's—in absolute, catatonic shock. His grand ambitions of joining the Bengal Sultanate, his ancestral pride, and his son were all dead, reduced to ashes on the plains. His personal bodyguards desperately grabbed at his reins, begging him to flee the field and save himself, but the count could barely register their voices.
By the time the shock broke and he came to his senses, the prince's elite royal guards were already crashing through his personal defense perimeter. Durani drew his sword, trying to desperately fight his way through the melee, but he was spotted.
Commander Suresh, catching sight of the traitorous lord, spurred his mount forward and charged directly at the count. A fierce, desperate duel ensued between the two men. Durani fought with the wild strength of a cornered animal, but Suresh's martial discipline was flawless. As the duel raged, additional royal guards swarmed the position, completely overwhelming the count's remaining defenders and trapping him. Seizing a momentary opening in the chaos, Commander Suresh swung his blade with lethal precision, landing a deep, fatal blow that cut the count down.
Count Amir Durani collapsed into the dirt of his own county, his lifeblood seeping into the soil. The iron harvest of Duranabad was complete, and the path to the mineral wealth of the north lay wide open for the rising empire.