Brotherhood of Fire and Blood

The battlefield was set.

Darkness loomed over the abandoned compound, the air thick with the scent of rust and gunpowder. The place reeked of misery, a graveyard of hope for those trapped inside. Girls—helpless, terrified—locked away like caged animals, their silent prayers lost to the wind.

Outside, the enemy stood ready. Dozens of men, armed to the teeth, their fingers curled around their triggers, their eyes scanning every shadow. No one could enter. No one could leave. Their orders were clear: kill on sight.

A dead silence stretched across the compound. It was eerie, unsettling. Every soldier's pulse drummed in their ears, the weight of their weapons familiar yet heavy. Nothing stirred. Not even the wind.

Then—

A whisper of death.

Two men collapsed where they stood, their bodies crumbling to the ground before they even had the chance to scream. A cold shock spread through the ranks. Eyes darted around in panic, searching for the shooter. No muzzle flash. No sound. Just bodies hitting the dirt.

Another fell. Then another.

The enemy's formation wavered, unease slithering into their minds. Where was the attacker? Who was taking them down?

Then, the silence was shattered.

A deep, guttural roar tore through the night—the unmistakable sound of an engine revving, cutting through the stillness like a war cry. A shadow burst through the darkness, moving like a phantom. A sleek black bike sliced through the night air, its rider cloaked in black, his form blending with the void.

"Fire!" someone shouted.

Bullets rained down, a storm of lead tearing through the space where the rider should have been. But he was too fast. Too precise. Like a specter, he weaved through the barrage, untouched, unharmed.

The bike screeched to a halt in the middle of the battlefield. The rider turned, his movements fluid, controlled. A deadly predator assessing his prey.

Then, in a single swift motion, he reached behind his waist, fingers curling around cold steel. The gun gleamed under the faint moonlight. And before his enemies could react—

Bang.

One down.

Bang.

Another.

Each shot was precise, each movement calculated. He didn't waste a single bullet. Bodies fell around him like autumn leaves, and the ones left standing? They were already dead inside.

The bike hummed beneath him, an extension of his body, his control absolute. But the job wasn't done.

Slowly, he swung his leg over and dismounted. Boots hit the ground with a quiet thud. The weight of his presence alone was enough to make the remaining men hesitate. He reached up, fingers gripping the edge of his helmet, and pulled it off in one smooth motion.

Meet Zayan.

The youngest in his group. The wildest. The one who never played by the rules.

His face was a contradiction—handsome enough to make women stare, dangerous enough to make men wary. A single scar traced his cheekbone, a mark from a past he never cared to explain. But it wasn't the scar that made people uneasy—it was his eyes. Dark, sharp, filled with the kind of reckless thrill that said he was here for a good time, not a long time.

To him, life was simple—guns, girls, and adrenaline. The only three things that ever made his heart race.

And right now? His blood was pumping.

He ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Tsk. That was barely a challenge," he muttered to himself, his voice laced with amusement.

With a slow stretch, as if shaking off the boredom, he flicked the safety back on his gun and tucked it into his waistband. Then, he tilted his head, surveying the scene like a king surveying his playground.

"Alright, boys," he drawled, flashing a lazy grin at the few terrified souls still standing. "Who's ready to make this fun?"

They ran.

He laughed.

The night had only just begun.

The moment of triumph didn't last.

Before Zayan could fully enjoy the chaos he had created, the distant thunder of boots echoed through the battlefield. Shadows moved swiftly, forming a new threat. More men—heavily armed, more dangerous, more prepared—poured into the field like a wave of death, their weapons gleaming under the dim lights.

Zayan clicked his tongue, watching as he became the center of their deadly aim.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, stretching his neck as he flicked his empty magazine to the ground. His smirk never faltered, but even he knew this wasn't looking great. "I think it's time—"

Before he could finish, chaos erupted again.

A loud crash shattered the enemy's tight formation. A sleek, jet-black car burst onto the battlefield at full speed, tires screeching as it tore through the dust and debris. Armed men barely had time to react before the vehicle spun to a perfect stop right in front of Zayan.

The tinted window rolled down just enough for a voice to call out—calm, sharp, commanding.

"Get in. Fast."

Zayan didn't need to be told twice. With a swift move, he threw himself into the backseat just as bullets rained down, bouncing uselessly off the car's reinforced exterior.

Then—the real storm began.

Two barrels peeked out from the passenger and backseat windows. Within seconds, gunfire erupted. Silent. Precise. Ruthless. The enemy didn't even get a chance to fire back. One by one, they fell, collapsing like puppets with their strings cut.

Zayan leaned back, grinning lazily as he watched the massacre unfold.

"Damn," he chuckled. "You guys really know how to make an entrance."

The car came to an abrupt halt, its powerful engine still humming. Dust swirled in thick clouds, shrouding the battlefield in a golden haze. And then—through the settling mist—three figures emerged.

The first to step out moved like a beast unleashed, the weight of a heavy rifle resting effortlessly on his shoulder. His presence alone sent a ripple of dread through the remaining enemies.

Meet Rudra.

A man who carried death in his hands. If the phrase "killing with his eyes closed" had a face, it would be his. Cold, ruthless, unstoppable. His fury burned like an eternal fire—always raging, always ready to consume. But it was a fire reserved only for his enemies. For his loved ones, he was the shield, the protector.

Rudra's sharp eyes scanned the battlefield, his jaw tightening as he let out a slow breath. Then—

A gunshot cracked through the air.

Without missing a beat, Rudra shifted his weight, dodging the bullet with terrifying ease. His expression didn't change. If anything, he looked bored.

"Why do they always make me do this?" he sighed, raising his rifle with deliberate slowness. His finger barely twitched on the trigger.

Bang.

The man who fired at him collapsed, a single bullet between his eyes.

Rudra lowered his gun with a sigh. "I don't even like shooting," he muttered.

The dust thickened as the second figure emerged.

Unlike Rudra, this one moved with a strange mix of mischief and ease. His steps were light, as if he was walking through a game he had already won. His hands didn't carry a weapon—because he never needed one in the traditional sense.

Meet Karan.

If there was a world untouched by technology, Karan hadn't found it yet. To him, hacking wasn't just a skill—it was his art, his weapon, his playground. There wasn't a system he couldn't crack, a code he couldn't break. If human survival didn't require food or water, he would have spent every second of his life with his one true love—Jugnu, his AI-powered computer setup.

People called him a gaming god, but in reality, he was more than that. If Karan wanted, he could ruin lives with a single keystroke. No bullets. No bloodshed. Just pure, merciless digital annihilation.

But today? Today called for something more direct.

His hands slid into his pockets, his lips curving into an almost angelic smile.

He looked like a saint.

Too bad he wasn't one.

"Should I play with them a little?" he asked casually, glancing at Rudra, who simply rolled his eyes.

"You had your fun hacking their security," Rudra grunted. "We're here to finish the job."

Karan sighed dramatically. "You guys never let me enjoy myself."

Then, as if to prove his point, he flicked his wrist.

A phone in his pocket lit up.

A second later, every remaining enemy's gun let out a sharp beep—before the safety locked, the triggers jammed, and their weapons became nothing more than useless hunks of metal.

Karan grinned. "Oops."

The remaining enemies scrambled, realizing their guns were dead weight. Their terror was almost pitiful.

Zayan stepped forward, stretching lazily. "So... do we shoot, or do we let them run?"

Rudra's grip tightened on his rifle. "They don't get to run."

Karan chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, at least let me take their bank details first."

And just like that—the hunt resumed.

The battlefield was turning against them.

Zayan, Rudra, and Karan had been holding their ground, but the enemy just kept coming. More men. More guns. More firepower. The three had fought through impossible odds before, but this—this was different.

Their bullets were running low. Their energy was wearing thin. And worst of all, the enemy was closing in, tightening the noose around them.

Zayan's usual cocky grin had faded, replaced with clenched teeth as he ducked behind cover. His fingers tapped impatiently against his last loaded magazine.

Karan wiped the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand, his usually playful eyes darkening. "I really hate when the odds aren't in our favor."

Rudra exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his rifle. He wasn't afraid of death, but he hated losing. And right now, it felt like they were seconds away from it.

Then—

A deep, commanding voice echoed through their earpieces.

"Step back."

For a second, none of them moved.

Then the realization hit them.

A second later, the world shifted.

The distant roar of an engine cut through the air, slow and deliberate—like a predator circling its prey. The ground trembled slightly as a convoy of black armored SUVs emerged from the darkness, moving with terrifying precision.

The enemies hesitated. Their confidence cracked.

Because they knew what this meant.

He was here.

The lead vehicle stopped. Unlike before, there was no rush, no recklessness. No need. The enemies had the numbers, but they had already lost.

Because he had arrived.

The door clicked open—not slammed, not thrown. Just a simple, calculated movement. And then—he stepped out.

Meet Veer

The Lion

The king

Unlike Zayan's reckless thrill, Rudra's ruthless anger, or Karan's playful destruction, Veer was something far more dangerous. He was calm. Collected. Unshaken. His presence alone demanded obedience

He was not a man. He was force

The man who never lost battles—he ended them.

Dressed in a pitch-black suit, unbothered by the bloodshed around him, he walked forward with a measured calm. There was no rush in his steps, no sign of fear.

He didn't need to run to make an impact.

He was the impact.

A scar traced his sharp jawline, a reminder of a war long past. His eyes—cold, calculating, impossibly steady—swept across the battlefield, analyzing every detail, every weakness, every exit. He didn't need to ask for a report. He already knew.

Zayan let out a breath of relief, a smirk creeping back onto his lips. "Took your damn time, King."

Veer didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

With a single, effortless motion, he lifted his hand.

And with that gesture, hell rained down.

The SUVs behind him opened fire—clean, precise, surgical. A team of Veer's elite men stepped out, their bullets slicing through the enemy like a scythe through wheat.

The tables turned in an instant.

Panic erupted among the enemies. Their once-firm stances faltered, their confidence shattered. The men who had been hunting were now the hunted.

One of them, trembling, raised his weapon toward Veer—

Veer didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

Instead, he took one step forward.

The man froze.

Just one step. That's all it took to drain the life from his enemy's face. Because in that moment, the fool realized—he wasn't aiming at a man.

He was aiming at a lion.

And lions don't fear the prey.

The moment stretched—then Rudra, with ruthless precision, put a bullet between the enemy's eyes. The man dropped lifelessly to the ground.

Silence.

The battlefield, once a deafening warzone, was now eerily quiet.

The remaining enemies had two choices—fight and die, or surrender and pray for mercy.

Veer gave them neither.

He walked past the bodies, his voice deep, final.

"Burn it all."

With that command, his men moved.

The air filled with the crackle of flames as they set fire to the enemy's base. Explosions erupted, lighting up the night like the wrath of a god. Smoke curled into the sky, a symbol of his victory.

Zayan let out a low whistle, watching the destruction unfold. "Man, you really know how to make an entrance."

Karan chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Took his sweet time too."

Veer ignored them. His gaze was fixed ahead. The battle was over.

And just like always—he had won.