‎

‎Chakar stepped forward, calm and steady. He didn’t run, just walked, eyes fixed on Azaar.

‎

‎Azaar sneered. “So, the boy shows up. Think you can stop me?”

‎

‎Chakar’s voice was flat. “Step away from him.”

‎

‎Azaar laughed, venom glowing along his arm. “Then earn it.” He lunged, striking fast.

‎

‎Chakar met him with water drawn from the air, redirecting the blow. The fight broke out across the narrow ridge—Azaar’s strikes sharp and venomous, Chakar’s counters precise and fluid. Where Azaar was brutal, Chakar was controlled, forcing him back with quick shifts and compressed strikes.

‎

‎Azaar grew angrier, pressing harder with the stone feeding his venom. Chakar set traps—ice underfoot, pressure strikes to the chest, binding bands of water that slowed Azaar’s movements. The fight turned against him.

‎

‎Finally, Chakar unleashed a focused blow to Azaar’s jaw. The older man staggered, still trying to fight. Chakar stepped in, boot pressing him down, then drove one last concussive strike. Azaar collapsed unconscious, bloodied but alive.

‎

‎The Zorgor Stone rolled free. Salal crawled forward and clutched it, shaking.

‎

‎Chakar exhaled, steadying himself. He looked down at Azaar, then at Salal. “He breathes. That’s enough.”

‎

‎Salal nodded weakly, wrapping his wounded arms. Chakar bound Azaar’s wrists with hardened water so he couldn’t escape.

‎

‎“Later,” Chakar told him quietly. “We don’t kill. We answer.”

‎

‎The mountain was silent again except for the wind. Three figures remained—Chakar, Salal, and the unconscious Azaar. The fight was over, but the consequences were only beginning.

‎

‎The mountain air grew colder as the night slipped into dawn. Chakar crouched beside Salal, pressing his hands over the poisoned wounds. Water shimmered faintly around his palms, glowing as it seeped into Salal’s veins, flushing out the venom. Salal’s breathing steadied little by little, though his body still shook from exhaustion.

‎

‎“You’ll live,” Chakar muttered, voice low but firm. “Just hold on.”

‎

‎The first streaks of sunlight stretched across the peaks. It was 5:45—too early for peace, too late to hide. From the valley below, shouts echoed. The Syraas patrol. Their torches and banners appeared along the rocky path, climbing fast.

‎

‎Chakar stood as the Syraas arrived, armored boots crunching the frost. Their leader’s sharp eyes swept over the scene: Salal half-healed on the ground, Azaar unconscious and bound in hardened water ropes, and the Zorgor Stone gleaming faintly in Salal’s trembling hands.

‎

‎The leader didn’t waste words. He marched forward, tore the stone from Salal’s grip, and held it high. “This belongs to us.”

‎

‎Two others moved to Azaar, dragging his limp body up by the arms. Shackles were clamped on his wrists, his head lolling as they began to carry him down toward the valley.

‎

‎Salal tried to push himself up, panic flashing across his face. “Wait—he’s still—”

‎

‎Chakar put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. “Let them. He’s their problem now.”

‎

‎The Syraas leader gave Chakar a long look—measuring, suspicious—but said nothing. With the stone secured and Azaar in chains, the patrol began their march back down the ridge. Their chants and armor rattles echoed until the sound faded into the valley below.

‎

‎Silence returned with the rising sun. The peaks glowed gold, the night finally broken. Chakar exhaled and looked at Salal. “We’re not done,” he said. “This was only the beginning.”

‎

‎Salal nodded weakly, his eyes heavy but burning with resolve.

‎

‎The mountains stood tall around them, holding secrets and shadows that weren’t finished yet.

‎

‎Salal: Thanks for helping me, Chakar. I didn’t realize that guy was such a miserable person.

‎

‎Chakar: Don’t talk nonsense right now.

‎

‎Salal (grinning in a silly, goofy mood): You act all cold and serious, but deep down you’re actually soft-hearted. A good person.

‎

‎(Chakar’s chest tightens for a moment. His heart melts hearing those words. His gaze lingers on Salal, shaken by how easily his walls were seen through.)

‎

‎Salal: What’s with that look? You sleepy or something?

‎

‎Chakar (shifting his eyes away): Don’t ask me random questions. Just take me somewhere I can get breakfast.

‎

‎Salal: Okay, buddy… but fair warning, my friends might be there.

‎

‎Chakar: Sorry. I can’t come then.

‎

‎Salal: Relax, I’m just joking. They won’t be there.

‎

‎Chakar: I don’t have time for jokes or silly moods right now. Just take me to the restaurant.

‎

‎Salal: Alright, alright—sure thing.

‎

‎They were finally making their way out of the mountains, feet dragging across the dirt path.

‎

‎Salal (half whining, half joking, with fake teary eyes): “Ughhh, I don’t even wanna climb down anymore… I don’t got that much energy left.”

‎

‎Chakar (glancing sideways, calm and blunt): “So what.”

‎

‎Salal (huffs, throwing his arms dramatically): “Bruh, can’t you just be normal for once?”

‎

‎Chakar: “I’m normal.”

‎

‎Salal (snorts, smirking tiredly): “Heh… yeah, sure. Normal people don’t sound like you.”

‎

‎The banter faded as they finally reached the bottom of the mountain path. The sunrise had already stretched across the village rooftops, painting the world gold.

‎

‎Salal (pointing ahead, grin breaking through his fatigue): “C’mon, I’ll take you somewhere. Best breakfast in the whole village… Duzdar Ichiku.”

‎

‎Chakar (raising an eyebrow, quietly intrigued): “…Duzdar Ichiku?”

‎

‎Salal: “Yep. Trust me, bro. Their kaksoo and chaakat alone can bring a dead man back to life.”

‎

‎And with that, the two made their way toward the bustling little restaurant, the scent of fresh-baked bread and steaming tea already reaching them.

‎

‎The two pushed through the sliding wooden doors of Duzdar Ichiku, the warmth spilling over them like sunlight. The smell of tea and grilled skewers mixed with chatter, laughter, and the clatter of bowls.

‎

‎But Chakar froze halfway inside.

‎

‎Everywhere he looked — long tables, crowded benches — were faces. Familiar ones.

‎

‎Salal (grinning sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck): “…Uh, surprise. Guess everyone had the same idea.”

‎

‎At the corner, Nazim sat with his arms crossed, straight-backed, a bowl of chaakat untouched in front of him. His eyes flicked toward Chakar like a blade.

‎

‎Next to him, Gull Banok nearly dropped her cup when she noticed Chakar. Her cheeks flushed faint pink, and she quickly looked away, pretending to listen to Mahal, who was teasing Gulsher into another shouting match.

‎

‎Zal leaned back with his arms spread across the bench, smirking. “Well, well, look who finally decided to act like a villager instead of a mountain ghost.”

‎

‎Gohram and Bahram were already arguing over who could eat more skewers in one sitting.

‎

‎At the other table, Zarnaz rested her chin in her palm, giving Chakar a sly glance. “Careful, white-hair. Sit too close and I might just eat you alive.”

‎

‎Sarmach rolled his eyes: “Ignore her, bro. She says that to everyone.”

‎

‎Songadh perked up the moment she heard Chakar’s name. “Oh! That reminds me—your name’s exactly like this story my grandma used to tell about some old warrior. You sure you’re not secretly ancient?”

‎

‎The whole place burst into laughter. Everyone — except Nazim and Gull Banok, who was still stealing shy glances from across the table.

‎

‎Chakar narrowed his eyes at Salal, deadpan: “…Didn’t you say it’d just be breakfast?”

‎

‎Salal (grinning, guilty but playful): “Hehehe… oops. Guess I lied.”

‎

‎Chakar (flat, annoyed): “I don’t have time for jokes.”

‎

‎But even as he said it, the energy of the room tugged at him. The laughter, the rivalry, the teasing — all of it felt alive in a way the mountain silence never did.

‎

‎Salal shot his hand up the second they found an empty table squeezed between the chaos.

‎Salal (grinning, voice loud enough to cut through the noise): “Yo, Dazgerito! One chaakat, one kaksoo! Make it steaming hot, yeah?”

‎

‎From behind the counter, a burly old man with a thick beard and a towel over his shoulder barked a laugh. His voice carried like a drum.

‎Dazgerito: “Hah! Sure, kids, sure. Sit your tired bones down and let this old duzdar Ichiku owner remind you why my food keeps the whole village alive. Best chaakat, crispiest kaksoo — you’ll be begging for seconds before you finish the first bite.”

‎

‎The room laughed with him — regulars already knew his pride was half the flavor.

‎

‎Chakar (low, unimpressed, but quietly curious): “…He talks too much.”

‎

‎Salal (elbows him, smirking): “Nah, bro. He talks like the food’s already in your mouth. Just wait. You’ll see.”

‎

‎Dazgerito slammed two bowls down on the counter a moment later, the steam rising in twisting spirals, carrying the scent of roasted bread, spiced milk-tea, and sizzling herbs that cut through even the thickest fatigue.

‎

‎The bowls clattered onto the wooden table, steam curling like ghostly ribbons. Salal’s eyes lit up like he hadn’t eaten in days.

‎

‎Salal (already rubbing his hands): “Finallyyy. Bro, one bite of this chaakat and you’ll forget Azaar even existed.”

‎

‎Before Chakar could even reach for his cup, a familiar voice cut in low from behind them.

‎

‎Gulsher (leaning down, whispering to Salal with a sly smirk): “…, Salal? isn't that Some new cold-faced handsome strongest guy you picked up to be friends?”l

‎

‎Salal nearly choked on his chaakat, coughing into his sleeve.

‎Salal (hissing under his breath): “Bro, keep it down—he’s right there.”

‎

‎Chakar, expression flat as stone, slowly turned his eyes toward them. He didn’t say a word—just one sharp glance that made Gulsher’s smirk twitch for half a second.

‎

‎Gulsher (snickering to cover it up): “Tch… figures. You always find the weird ones.”

‎

‎Salal groaned, burying his face in his bowl: “I can’t take you anywhere.”

‎

‎Zal leaned back in his chair, flashing his usual cocky grin as soon as Chakar stepped closer.

‎Zal (smirking): “So you’re the guy who got number one, huh? Let me introduce myself properly—Zal Riens. Friend of Salal too, by the way. Guess that makes us kinda close already.”

‎

‎Chakar’s eyes barely flicked his way. His tone was flat, uninterested.

‎Chakar: “I don’t have that much time to waste on your words.”

‎

‎The table went quiet for a split second. Zal froze mid-smile, then scoffed like he didn’t care, though his eye twitched.

‎

‎Cut to the girls’ side of the restaurant—already whispering, already watching.

‎

‎Gull Bahar (resting her chin on her palm, dreamy): “As usual… he’s always like that. Cold. Mysterious. While being so damn handsome.”

‎

‎Songadh (clutching her cup dramatically): “Uff—he’s too handsome. I actually can’t handle myself right now. My heart’s about to leave my body.”

‎

‎Mahal (rolling her eyes, smacking Songadh’s arm): “Songadh. This is not funny, you sound pathetic.”

‎

‎Zarnaz (sharp, deadpan, sipping tea): “We can’t do anything to a simp. You all know that.”

‎

‎Songadh pouted while the others laughed under their breath.

‎

‎And then—another voice joined in from the corner. Shafrah, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

‎

‎Shafrah (smirking, voice smooth): “Well… I kinda agree. Chakar’s handsome—even more than Nazim.”

‎

‎The group of girls exploded at once—gasps, protests, laughter.

‎

‎Mahal (snapping back): “You’re just trying to stir things up—don’t compare them like that!”

‎Songadh (gasping dramatically): “OHH nooo, not the Nazim fans vs Chakar fans fight starting already…”

‎

‎Meanwhile, Chakar didn’t even glance at them—already sipping his tea, eyes fixed somewhere far away like none of it mattered.

‎

‎The laughter, chatter, and fangirl chaos swirled around the restaurant. Boys were talking over each other, girls were comparing him to Nazim—but Chakar didn’t seem to care. He sipped his tea, calm as ever.

‎

‎Then it happened.

‎

‎By pure accident, his eyes flicked sideways. Right into Gull Banok’s.

‎

‎For a heartbeat, neither moved. His cold, sharp glare—something he usually carried without thinking—met her wide, soft one. Instead of looking away, though, she froze, then instinctively… glared back.

‎

‎It wasn’t fierce. It wasn’t planned. But it startled them both.

‎

‎Chakar (internally, caught off guard): “…She’s glaring at me?”

‎

‎Gull Banok (heart racing, cheeks burning, thinking): “Why did I… why did I glare back?!”

‎

‎The others noticed instantly.

‎

‎Songadh (whispering with a grin): “Ohhh… ohhh no way. Did you just see that? She glared back at him!”

‎

‎Mahal (snorting): “Hah! The shy one just gave him attitude.”

‎

‎Zarnaz (smirking, sipping tea): “Finally. Someone with the guts.”

‎

‎Chakar blinked once, breaking the eye contact, and went back to his tea like nothing happened. But Gull Banok was left flustered, fiddling with her sleeves, trying to hide the pink climbing her face.

‎

‎The boys, meanwhile, leaned over.

‎

‎Zal (grinning, elbowing Gulsher): “Bro, bro, did you see that? She actually glared at him.”

‎

‎Gulsher (snickering): “Man’s cold aura finally bounced back.”

‎

‎The restaurant filled with more laughter, chatter, and teasing—but under the table, Gull Banok couldn’t shake the weird flutter in her chest, and Chakar couldn’t shake the thought that someone had actually looked back at him the same way.

‎

‎Sarmach: “Um… Chakar, should I… introduce myself?”

‎Chakar: “No.”

‎Sarmach: heher (looks off in another direction, awkwardly scratching his arm)

‎

‎Gulsher: smirking “Sarmach, my dude, you got played harder than a Zorgor Stone in the finals.”

‎Songadh: leaning back, amused “Honestly, I respect the commitment to awkwardness.”

‎

‎Sarmach shrinks a little, muttering: “Heher…” again, like he’s got no comeback, while Chakar casually stares at the horizon like a brooding iceberg.

‎

‎