The panic inside the café had already begun to seep into the broader mall corridor.
Cries rang out. Distant footsteps echoed as shoppers ran for safety, their hurried movements reverberating off polished floors and glass storefronts. Tables lay overturned inside the shattered café, glass crunching underfoot. The fight had spilled into the open now—right into the heart of the shopping centre.
The atmosphere was thick with fear and confusion.
Security had arrived.
Or rather—what passed for security.
In India, mall security guards were often little more than deterrents in uniform. Men hired not for their combat training, but because there were no other jobs available. Middle-aged, underpaid, and out of shape, they were expected to look official enough to keep rowdy teens or petty thieves in line. Nothing in their contract—or their courage—prepared them for this.
And now they stood frozen, staring at the chaos unfolding before them.
Two young men—clearly Gifted—were facing off in the centre of the mall's corridor. One, his arms glowing with a pulsating gold sheen. The other, bleeding but defiant, conjuring a blade of hardened blood from his palm.
The security guards hesitated. One stepped forward instinctively, then halted.
His hands twitched by his sides. He looked back at his colleagues, uncertain. None of them moved. Their breath shallow, their eyes wide. What were they supposed to do? Intervene?
They'd all heard the stories—how even the weakest Gifted could punch through concrete or lift motorcycles when enraged. Even without elemental powers or flashy abilities, Gifted were monsters of muscle and momentum.
And these two?
They looked like they were born for war.
Around them, chaos bloomed like wildfire.
The crowd that had once been mindlessly window-shopping, hanging out with friends or taking selfies, was now scattering in every direction. Some families clutched their children and ran for the escalators. Others ducked behind pillars or kiosks, peeking out with trembling fingers holding onto false safety.
But not everyone fled.
A group of teenagers—typical daredevils with too much curiosity and too little sense—had pulled out their phones. Faces lit by their screens, they captured the scene from behind overturned benches. One even whispered, "Dude, this is going to go viral."
Another replied, "Are you mad? That guy just bled a knife."
The first teen kept filming.
The corridor filled with tension, sharp and electric.
Mohit's posture was upright, imposing—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, golden energy flickering across his arms like living armor. He took a step forward, the polished tile cracking faintly beneath his foot.
Opposite him, Sathya's stance was lower, grounded. One leg behind the other for balance, knees slightly bent. Blood trickled from his lips, but his eyes were sharp, alive. His right hand held the crimson dagger, still dripping. His fingers twitched as he adjusted his grip.
Neither flinched.
Neither blinked.
They were locked into something bigger than either of them had intended.
This was no longer a scuffle between two young men.
This was a war of principles. Of pride. Of pasts that refused to stay buried.
Mohit had always stood tall, always swung harder, and never accepted weakness. To him, backing down was death. His Father had beaten that lesson into him.
And Sathya—Sathya had spent a lifetime doing the opposite. Backing down. Biting his tongue. Swallowing his voice.
Not anymore.
He wouldn't be the silent one again.
One of the braver guards finally drew in a shaky breath and took a step forward. He raised a trembling hand.
"Stop!" he called out, voice cracking. "Both of you—stop this before someone gets hurt!"
Neither of the fighters moved.
Sathya tilted his head slightly, as if acknowledging the voice—but his gaze never left Mohit.
Mohit didn't even register the interruption.
To them, the world had gone silent. The mall, the crowd, the fear—it was all background noise. The battlefield had narrowed down to a single corridor. A single moment.
A single truth:
This wasn't about dominance anymore.
It was about identity.
About everything they had carried for years—everything they had never said, never fought for, never allowed themselves to feel.
And now, it all came pouring out.
One had never backed down from anything—and refused to recognize a rival who dared to challenge his rule.
The other had always backed down from everything—and finally refused to let things remain that way.
The air between them was electric—crackling with rage, defiance, and something unspoken. Their eyes locked, refusing to blink, as if any sign of weakness would tip the scale.
Mohit loomed like a titan, taller, broader, back arched slightly as he inhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring. Blood ran in rivulets down the torn lines of his back, but he stood tall—proud, angry, unstoppable. His muscles tensed with each breath, and his magic began to pulse violently in response.
A golden shimmer danced across his right arm, then his left—growing, hardening, until both limbs gleamed like molten metal. His biceps rippled as the magic crawled up to his shoulders, solidifying into armor-like plating. Each movement radiated power—his sheer will bleeding into the air around him.
Across from him, Sathya stood battered but unwavering. His shirt was torn, ribs bruised, lip split, but he didn't flinch. His eyes burned—not with rage, but with resolve. His chest rose and fell in short, sharp breaths, but his stance was grounded. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. His blade of blood twitched in his hand, reacting to his intent.
No more running. That was the promise etched into the lines of his jaw.
His own magic stirred—responding not to dominance, but to desperation. Blood began to seep from his wounds, not to weaken him, but to heal him. It coiled over his skin like sentient ink, sealing cuts, reinforcing muscles, hardening into armor at his forearms.
Mohit moved first.
He lunged with explosive speed—faster than anyone in the crowd could follow. He raised his right arm, fist clenched so tightly the knuckles cracked inside their golden shell, and brought it down like a falling boulder.
Sathya's instincts screamed. He dove sideways at the last second, his body twisting mid-air, just as Mohit's golden fist slammed into the ground.
The entire corridor shook.
Tiles shattered like glass. A crater formed where Sathya had stood. Mohit's arm sank in to the wrist, dust and debris erupting upward.
Screams erupted.
People scattered. Some fell. Others tripped over overturned chairs and planters as they fled. The brave security guard who'd tried to intervene was now being dragged away by his colleague, eyes wide with fear.
These weren't boys fighting anymore. These were monsters.
Sathya hit the ground in a roll and scrambled to his feet. His eyes widened at the destruction. Mohit's hand was lodged in the floor. Stuck. Vulnerable.
Without wasting a second, Sathya surged forward—blade raised.
Mohit saw him coming. He twisted, using his free arm to try and block—but Sathya was faster. He juked right, sliding under the block, and plunged his crimson blade deep into Mohit's left shoulder.
Mohit roared in pain, body convulsing.
He grit his teeth, rage giving him strength. With a guttural growl, he ripped his golden fist free from the floor, concrete and rebar exploding in its wake. He twisted his hips and drove his elbow into Sathya's side with brutal force.
CRACK.
Sathya's body folded. He flew through the air like a ragdoll, slamming into a group of guards who had just arrived. They collapsed under his weight, groaning as one of them clutched his knee in agony.
Sathya gasped, ribs screaming, vision blurred—but he forced himself up. He could hear it.
Footsteps.
Thunderous, fast, relentless.
Mohit was charging.
Straight toward the guards. Toward him.
The guards panicked. Some screamed, some bolted, some just froze. Mohit didn't slow. He was barreling forward like a juggernaut, golden fists pumping, blood flowing from his shoulder but ignored.
Sathya's mind raced.
Too fast to outrun… too strong to block.
Then he saw it.
The crowd.
He darted sideways and blended into the group, weaving through the stumbling guards. Hoping. Praying.
He'll hesitate, Sathya thought. He won't charge blindly into people—
But Mohit didn't care.
He roared and plowed through the crowd, tossing people aside like leaves in a storm. Chaos erupted. Bodies flew. Security scattered.
But in the confusion, Sathya struck.
From behind a retreating guard, he lunged and slashed downward—his blade slicing into Mohit's right leg.
Mohit grunted, pain flashing in his eyes, but his hand lashed out and grabbed Sathya by the torso.
Two golden arms wrapped around him in a crushing bear hug.
"Nowhere to run," Mohit snarled through clenched teeth. "I'll kill you right here."
And he started to squeeze.
Sathya screamed, bones grinding. His arms pinned, ribs pressing inward like a vice.
"You idiot," Sathya gasped.
With every ounce of strength, he summoned a blade in his palm and jammed it upward—straight into Mohit's chest.
Right in the heart.
The blade elongated—pushing through flesh, bone, and muscle until it pierced all the way through his back.
Mohit froze.
His mouth opened, but no sound came.
The color drained from his face. His grip loosened. Blood spilled from the wound, hot and fast.
"Oi, idiot," Sathya coughed, eyes meeting Mohit's.
Mohit looked up, dazed.
Sathya raised his chin—motioning behind him.
Mohit turned.
Too late.
He was inches from the railing.
And Sathya's foot was already in motion.
He drove it forward—a brutal Spartan kick—that landed square in Mohit's chest.
The force shattered the railing.
Mohit's body twisted, spun, and dropped—falling two full floors before crashing into a decorative fountain below.
CRACK. THUD. SPLASH.
The mall fell silent.
Only the faint trickle of the broken fountain could be heard.
Mohit lay still, blood oozing from his chest.
Above, Sathya stood, body trembling, ribs broken, breath ragged.
He stared down at the ruin, at the boy who once towered over him.
No words. Just silence.
The Fight was over.