Arya lost control. The dagger had hit him deep. His vision blurred, his breath ragged. Blood soaked his tunic, but before he could react, Kalanemi yanked the dagger out and plunged it back in. A gasp left Arya's lips as he collapsed to his knees, his strength failing him. The world slowed around him. He saw Kalanemi raise the dagger for the final strike—and then, a loud crack.
A whip lashed across Kalanemi's wrist, knocking the dagger from his grip. A second later, Ganak charged forward, his presence like a storm crashing through the chaos. Kalanemi barely regained his composure before Ganak shoved him back, sending him sprawling onto the bloodstained floor.
The twins wasted no time. Seizing the moment, they lunged at the remaining guards, cutting them down with swift, merciless precision. Amidst the frenzy, Yatnish turned and ran. Cowardice bled through his every step as he bolted toward the corridors, desperate to escape.
Arya struggled to rise. His limbs trembled. His wounds burned. But when his gaze locked onto Yatnish's retreating form, a fire reignited in him. He clenched his jaw, snatched the whip from Ganak, and staggered forward, barely able to stand yet unwilling to let his enemy flee. The twins pursued Yatnish first, their footsteps pounding through the castle halls.
They caught up to him just as he reached a narrow passage. Rudra, without hesitation, hurled a knife. The blade found its mark, sinking deep into Yatnish's thigh. A choked scream erupted from him as he crumpled to the ground. Arya arrived moments later, panting, his vision dark at the edges, yet his grip on the whip remained firm. Raghav helped him stand as Rudra pressed a knee against Yatnish's back, forcing him down.
Arya didn't hesitate. He uncoiled Rudra's chain and looped it around Yatnish's neck.
The man gasped, clawing at the steel links, but Arya didn't care. With raw, brutal effort, he dragged Yatnish across the stone floor, each step sending sharp pain through his own wounded body. The twins and Ganak called out to him, but their voices were distant, meaningless. His only focus was on the traitor at his feet.
By the time they reached the balcony, the entire pit was watching. Guards, fighters, prisoners—hundreds of eyes locked onto the spectacle unfolding before them. Arya hauled Yatnish to the edge and shoved him against the stone railing. He looked into his enemy's terrified eyes, saw the pleading, the desperation.
And he let go.
Yatnish plummeted, his scream lost in the roar of the crowd. The sickening crunch of his body breaking against the ground sent a shockwave through the pit. But it wasn't over. The prisoners surged forward, a frenzied, wrathful tide. They swarmed him, boots and fists striking in unison, unleashing their fury upon the man who once tormented them. Yatnish was consumed by their vengeance.
Arya barely stood at the balcony, blood dripping from his wounds, breath ragged. Yet, in that moment, he wasn't just another man. He was something greater.
A ruler.
The pit erupted in chants of his name. The very people who once fought to survive under Upendra and Yatnish now looked to him. Kalanemi's words echoed in his mind—you either rule by force or they choose you.
He had been chosen.
As the deafening cheers filled the air, Arya met a pair of unreadable eyes across the pit. Ashvapati stood amidst the chaos, his massive frame unmoving, his gaze locked on Arya. He had witnessed everything—Yatnish's downfall, the riotous acceptance of Arya as their leader. And then, slowly, he nodded. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.
That was all Arya needed to see.
He had survived. Again. Every time they tried to break him, he rose stronger. Every time they buried him, he clawed his way back. From the ashes of his suffering, a new ruler had emerged.
The king of the pit was born.
Arya's time had begun.