Amid the thunderous explosions that shattered the air, Nurlan darted through the shadows of crumbling stone and withered roots. Every footfall kicked up a spray of dust.
Dasamuka—the blood-soaked giant with only five heads remaining—staggered under the agony, yet forced himself onward. Each step trembled, but his rage alone kept him moving.
Each of his remaining heads began functioning like a small army.
One locked its gaze onto Nurlan's escape route. Another tracked the three falcons skimming low across the battlefield. The others barked commands, shouting hoarsely as they relayed orders to one another.
From the mythology stands, a storm of fury erupted.
The creatures rose to their feet. Feathers bristled. Scales quivered. Horns glowed.
Every one of them demanded the same thing.
Revenge.
To them, the once-fearsome Dasamuka had become nothing more than a colossal punching bag, battered relentlessly by human strategy. And now that the boy had finally been exposed, the scent of victory filled the air.
"Crush him!"
"Finish that brat!"
"Pulverize him!"
Yet amid the chaos, Johan did not move.
His face remained calm.
His posture remained straight.
As though he were simply waiting for something.
Libra's violet eyes flicked toward him for a brief moment. Her lavender hair shimmered softly.
Your representative is cornered, she thought.
What have you prepared, Johan?
But Johan merely watched the arena, both arms folded across his chest.
Like a man who had calculated every move before the dice had even been thrown.
At the edge of the battlefield, Nurlan suddenly stopped.
No longer running.
No longer hiding.
He climbed atop a weathered statue of Ganesha. His breathing was ragged, yet his emerald eyes burned with unwavering focus, locked onto Dasamuka.
The giant lumbered closer.
Every heavy step shook the earth.
The human spectators collectively held their breath.
Dasamuka planted one enormous foot, preparing to leap in for the kill.
Johan quietly drew a long breath.
"Now," he murmured.
Nurlan bit his lower lip, swallowing the anxiety that threatened to surface.
His shoulders rose and fell rapidly—not from fear, but from adrenaline surging through his veins.
He reached into the leather pouch at his waist and pulled out three fragile-looking bundles.
Sand bombs.
Each pouch had been crafted from a mixture of quartz sand, marble dust, dry clay, and a small amount of sulfur he had gathered from the roots of ancient trees along the arena's rocky slope.
He raised the three pouches high into the air for his falcons to see.
Their wings spread wide, trembling as though they instantly understood the new payload they were meant to carry.
"Up. Left. Strike the main eyes."
Nurlan whispered, almost soundlessly.
Yet the ultrasonic whistle between his lips carried the command far more clearly than words ever could.
The three peregrine falcons swooped down in perfect sequence, each snatching one pouch before disappearing into the forest canopy.
They slipped through the lingering green poison mist.
Dasamuka, now reduced to five heads, staggered forward.
But the giant's instincts had not completely faded.
The moment he spotted the three white streaks overhead, he snarled.
"Bombs again? Foolish human! Did you really think I wouldn't learn from your tricks?!"
One head—growing from his right shoulder—raised a massive fist, ready to swat them aside.
The first falcon dove like lightning.
Dasamuka swung.
BLAAAGH!
The pouch burst apart.
But there was no explosion.
Instead—
A violent cloud of white sand erupted directly into the faces of three heads at once.
"ARGHH! W-WHAT IS THIS?! MY EYES—!!"
The giant screamed.
Not from fire.
Not from an explosion.
But from hundreds of grains of quartz and razor-sharp marble fragments blasting into his eyes, scraping, gouging, and tearing through them.
Two more heads recoiled in shock.
The second falcon arrived.
The main head lunged, trying to slap it away.
But panic ruined his timing.
His colossal fist struck nothing.
FWOOOSH!
The second sand pouch burst directly before the main face.
Sand and marble dust exploded like a desert storm.
Eyes on the left.
Eyes on the right.
Eyes beneath.
All instantly turned bloodshot, streaming tears mixed with blood.
Dasamuka thrashed wildly.
"MY EYES! YOU CURSED BIRDS!"
The third falcon—the fastest of them all—still carried the final pouch.
Dasamuka covered his face with all five remaining small hands, desperately shielding what little vision he had left.
Too late.
The falcon plunged from behind.
It slipped between the shattered bones of Dasamuka's shoulders.
PRAAAK!!
The final pouch burst behind the giant's main head.
Fine dust drifted through his tangled hair before slipping through tiny gaps and reaching the last untouched eye.
A scream shook the entire arena.
"AAAAAARGHHH!!"
Dasamuka was now completely blind.
The human stands, which had remained frozen in anticipation, erupted to their feet.
"S-Sand bombs?"
"I thought those were explosives!"
Across the arena, the mythology stands fell silent.
Like a graveyard.
Nearly every creature stared at Dasamuka, who now stumbled blindly, battered beyond recognition and stripped of nearly all his heads.
Sharp-eyed creatures—harpies, feline yokai, and winged draconids—whispered in horror.
"How... how could humans do this?"
"Not through strength..."
"But through intelligence."
"They... deceived the giant's instincts..."
The falcons completed their final maneuver, sweeping low as the last sand pouches burst like tiny stars across Dasamuka's face.
Nurlan heard the cheers.
But he never looked back.
His eyes remained fixed solely on Dasamuka, who slowly struggled back to his feet.
Shoulders as broad as temple gates rose and fell with every painful breath.
Suddenly, Dasamuka threw open the three mouths on the front of his body.
The reddish-gray tongues within vibrated like war drums before battle.
He crouched low, gathering strength.
Meanwhile, the two remaining pairs of functional eyes fixed themselves upon the sky where the falcons still circled through tears.
"Another foul breath?" Nurlan muttered uneasily.
His hand immediately reached for the small herbal vial hanging from his belt.
A sharp, almost piercing aroma flooded his nostrils as he inhaled deeply.
It wasn't pleasant.
But it was precisely what had kept his mind clear against Dasamuka's toxic breath.
He steadied himself.
The five remaining heads exchanged glances.
As though thinking.
The foul breath is coming again.
Those mouths are going to—
GRAGHHH!!!
Instead—
A deafening roar ripped through the arena.
Nurlan dropped the herbal vial instantly.
Both hands flew to his ears.
The sound stabbed into his hearing, as though it were shattering the very bones inside them.
His jaw clenched.
His thoughts spun wildly.
The pain reached deep into his chest.
Without realizing it, the whistle that had been his greatest weapon was knocked from his lips.
Dasamuka's roar finally ceased.
Then—
He drew another enormous breath.
Preparing to unleash it once more.
Nurlan collapsed onto his hands and knees.
Cold sweat streamed down his temples.
His ears rang violently.
"No time..." he muttered, forcing himself to breathe.
But the sonic assault had already disrupted the falcons' coordination.
The first falcon faltered.
Its left wing dipped several inches.
Its flight circle wavered.
The second rushed to cover the gap.
Yet the force of Dasamuka's roar swept it sideways through the hot currents above the arena.
The third froze for a fatal fraction of a second.
Long enough to shatter the flawless formation they had practiced countless times.
And in that instant—
One of Dasamuka's smaller hands—
One of the four parasitic little arms constantly writhing around his body—
Shot forward.
The hand looked unimpressive.
But its fingers clamped shut like steel pincers.
One falcon was caught.
Its wings locked.
Its body twisted violently.
The bird let out a tiny cry—
One almost completely drowned beneath Dasamuka's monstrous roar.
Then it was dragged downward...
Toward the giant's central jaws.
Nurlan looked up.
His face drained of color.
"No... Tura!!"
His cry shattered the air like a stone cast into a silent lake.
Even the spectators fell silent.
Nurlan stood frozen.
His throat tightened.
His eyes remained fixed upon the drifting feathers of his companion, still floating gently through the air.
His gaze hardened.
Not with rage.
Not with hatred.
Only with resolve.
He bit his lower lip, struggling to hold back the tears threatening to escape.
A whisper slipped from his lips.
"There is no time to cry on the battlefield..."
He quickly lowered his head and retrieved the fallen whistle from among the dried leaves.
His fingers trembled.
But he forced them steady.
He blew a long, piercing note.
A razor-thin sound that sliced through despair itself.
The two remaining falcons immediately swooped down.
Landing briefly upon Nurlan's shoulder and forearm.
Their eyes blinked rapidly.
Uneasy.
Yet still obedient.
They seized the prepared sand pouches waiting beside him.
Then took flight once more.
They climbed.
Circled.
Searching for an opening through a sky now choked with dust and the lingering echoes of Dasamuka's roar.
In the distance, Dasamuka slowly lifted his head.
Though his eyes remained swollen, bloodshot, and streaming with tears, they were now forced wide open like massive serving platters held apart.
For the first time...
The monster was paying attention.
Analyzing.
Something he almost never did.
Normally, he crushed his enemies before they even had the chance to think.
But this opponent was unlike the slow Titans.
Unlike the reckless Harpies.
Nurlan fought with patterns.
With intelligence.
And it forced Dasamuka—a monster who rarely thought—to finally begin learning.
The sand bombs descended as usual.
As gravity pulled them downward, Dasamuka inhaled deeply.
His stomach expanded like a colossal balloon.
Then—
He exhaled with tremendous force.
Not an ordinary gust.
But a blast powerful enough to topple ancient trees.
The violent wind slammed into the falling sand bombs, hurling them harmlessly aside like grains of dust.
Nurlan's eyes widened.
Yet he refused to panic.
He blew the whistle again.
Sharper.
Faster.
The remaining falcons swooped back down, collecting the explosive bombs waiting beside his feet.
The whistle's pitch climbed into an almost inaudible ultrasonic note.
Its command was unmistakable:
A low-altitude strike.
Target the necks of the three front heads.
The two falcons took flight again.
Flying low, they weaved between Dasamuka's writhing little arms.
They slipped beneath his armpits.
Passed under the curve of his elbows.
Even threaded through his enormous fingers as they snapped at them like annoying insects.
But the greatest threat did not come from those hands.
One of Dasamuka's heads—
The one growing from his abdomen—
Released a long, piercing scream.
It was not an attack.
It was interference.
Nurlan's whistle note broke.
The falcons' instructions were disrupted.
And within that fatal half-second—
Akhzan—
The fastest falcon.
The spearhead of every assault.
Lost his balance.
One wing faltered.
His body drifted into the narrow gap between Dasamuka's armpit and arm.
The giant's elbow and upper arm slammed shut.
Crack.
Akhzan's wing stiffened.
Then...
Stopped moving.
His body was crushed before he could complete his final mission.
"AKHZAN!!"
Nurlan's scream soared above the deafening arena.
It echoed from the temple walls.
Echoed through the hearts of every spectator witnessing the tragedy.
Dasamuka turned toward him with a chuckle.
"What? So your birds actually have names? I thought they were just ordinary birds."
His tone was light.
Casual.
Like a child snapping an insect's wings without the slightest remorse.
Nurlan fell to his knees.
His knees slammed against the ground.
He didn't even feel it.
His empty emerald eyes reflected nothing but Akhzan's feathers drifting slowly before his face.
His fingers dug into the dried leaves.
Trying to restrain—
Or perhaps release—
The emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
And within that agonizing silence...
Saigal glanced toward the sky.
Toward the place where Tura's and Akhzan's feathers still floated upon the wind.
Only for a moment.
Then he spread his wings once more and dove toward the gap between Dasamuka's shoulders.
Explosive bombs still hung from his talons.
Saigal did not hesitate.
He did not fear.
He did not understand grief.
There was only one thing he understood.
His master's command.
Saigal spread his wings, twisted through the air, and plunged once more—
As though prepared to tear open the heavens themselves to carry out his mission until his very last breath.