Indra stood on the blood-soaked plateau, his hands empty, but his spirit more lethal than ever. He was in the heart of the Theta Mountains, surrounded by the remnants of the Warrior Society—men who saw their leader pinned to a rock and realized that if they didn't kill Indra now, they would never leave these peaks alive.
"He's unarmed!" one of the traitors shrieked, rallying the remaining sixty elites. "Kill the ghost! Take his head to Hikumbus!"
Indra didn't flinch. He didn't even look toward the monolith where his spear held Veda's corpse. His eyes drifted to a gnarled Khadira tree (Acacia) clinging to the cliffside, its wood as hard as iron and its branches jagged. With a sudden, explosive movement, he snapped a thick, six-foot limb from the tree.
The Dance of the Ironwood
The Warrior Society charged, their steel swords flashing. Indra met them not with metal, but with the raw, unyielding weight of nature. He utilized Lathi Khela—the ancient art of staff fighting—combined with his own terrifying strength.
The branch became a blur. When he swung, the wood didn't snap; the bones of his enemies did. He cracked skulls through bronze helmets and shattered wrists with surgical precision. To Indra, the branch was no different from his spear; it was simply an extension of his will. He parried a heavy broadsword, the wood absorbing the blow, and stepped into the attacker's guard, thrusting the jagged end of the branch through the man's throat.
He fought his way toward the monolith, a path of broken bodies marking his progress. The traitors realized too late that disarming Indra hadn't made him vulnerable—it had only made him more creative in his cruelty.
The Reclamation
He reached the stone where Veda hung. With one hand, he fended off three attackers with the blood-stained branch, and with the other, he gripped the shaft of his black meteorite spear. With a guttural heave, he ripped the weapon from the stone and Veda's chest.
The weight of the spear returned to his palm, and the atmosphere on the plateau changed instantly. The "Revenant" was whole again.
"Now," Indra said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to command the mountain itself to listen. "You die for the crime of existing."
What followed was no longer a battle; it was a cold-blooded execution. Indra abandoned the defensive grace of the staff and returned to the lethal efficiency of the spear. He moved among the remaining warriors like a reaper in a field of wheat. He didn't just kill them; he dismantled the Warrior Society. He targeted their joints, their eyes, and their hearts. He wanted them to feel the weight of their betrayal in the final seconds of their lives.
One by one, the "Elite" warriors of Ohm fell into the snow, their blood steaming in the freezing air.
The Collection
When the silence finally returned to the summit, Indra stood amidst a circle of sixty dead men. He walked over to the bodies of his prizes. With the same clinical detachment he used for training, he took his blade.
He severed the head of Supreme General Veda, the man who had tried to build a king and ended up building his own executioner. He then reached into his pack and pulled out the head of General Moon Gyu, her features frozen in the shock of her defeat.
Indra tied the two heads to his belt, adding them to the collection that already included Mo Fan. He looked like a demon from the ancient texts—a dark prince adorned with the trophies of empires.
He didn't look at the Theta capital. He didn't look at the path ahead. He turned back toward the Gorge of Sighs, his black spear trailing in the snow, leaving a crimson line that pointed straight back to the heart of Ohm. He had conquered the mountains, killed the traitors, and now, he was returning to claim the world he had promised to burn.