54. Flames of Rebellion

The wind was sharp and biting, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp earth as it swept over the rolling hills. The rising sun cast long, golden spears of light over the rugged terrain, but the warmth did little to dispel the lingering chill from the night's frost.

On the horizon, a small village came into view—one of many scattered across the noble-controlled lands. Its thatched roofs were weathered and sagging, its fences broken and bent by years of neglect.

It was a place forgotten by the nobles.

But not by Harsh.

---

The village square was little more than a muddy clearing with a cracked stone well at its center. Smoke drifted lazily from the handful of chimneys, and the scent of stale bread and boiled roots hung in the cold morning air.

Peasants—thin and hollow-eyed—gathered in clusters, watching warily as Harsh's riders arrived.

There were no banners, no grand declarations. Only the soft clink of iron stirrups and the steady rhythm of hooves on frozen earth.

Bharat rode beside Harsh, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His eyes scanned the villagers with practiced caution.

"Same as the last," he muttered. "Half-starved. The men are weak, the women weaker."

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Then they're exactly what we need," he replied softly.

Bharat glanced at him, frowning.

"They can barely stand," he said flatly. "You want them to fight?"

Harsh didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he dismounted slowly, his boots sinking slightly into the mud.

He walked into the center of the square, ignoring the suspicious glances and the whispered murmurs.

A young boy, no older than ten, stared at him from the edge of a doorway. His face was smeared with dirt, and his ribs jutted sharply against his skin.

Harsh met the boy's eyes.

Then he removed his cloak—the thick, weatherproof wool cloak he had taken from a dead noble in the last battle—and walked forward.

He knelt in front of the boy and wrapped the heavy fabric around his thin shoulders.

The villagers fell into a stunned silence.

Harsh's voice was low but firm when he spoke.

"No child should know hunger," he said quietly.

He slowly rose to his feet and turned to face the crowd. His eyes swept over the weary faces.

"I know why you're afraid," he said. "You've been hungry for so long that you've forgotten what it feels like to be full. You've been broken for so long that you no longer remember what it's like to stand tall."

The villagers stared at him, wide-eyed and silent.

"You think you can't fight," Harsh continued, his voice growing stronger. "You think you're too weak, too tired."

He pointed to the thin, scarred hands of a nearby farmer.

"But those hands once held your sons and daughters. They planted fields that fed entire villages. They carried the weight of your families when no one else would."

His gaze hardened.

"You are not weak."

He walked slowly through the crowd, his voice unwavering.

"You think you can't bleed," he said softly. "But your backs have been bleeding for years—whipped by men who take and take until you have nothing left."

His eyes burned with conviction.

"They have already taken everything they can," he declared. "Now you have nothing left to lose."

There was no roar of approval. No defiant cheer.

Only a long, heavy silence.

And then—slowly—a man stepped forward.

His face was lean and weathered, his eyes sunken with hunger. But he clutched the crude farming scythe in his hand like a weapon.

And he knelt before Harsh.

"I will fight," the man rasped hoarsely.

A murmur swept through the crowd.

One by one, more villagers stepped forward—men and women both. Some clutched rusted farm tools. Others had nothing but their bare hands.

But they knelt at Harsh's feet.

And they swore.

---

The next morning, Harsh stood on the cold, damp earth of a hastily cleared field.

Before him stood two hundred villagers—men, women, and a few boys barely old enough to carry a blade.

They clutched rusted sickles, dented knives, and iron pitchforks. Their faces were grim and their shoulders stiff with uncertainty.

Ravi paced along the line, scowling.

"They're as green as spring leaves," he muttered.

Bharat shook his head.

"No," he replied softly. "They're hungry. That makes them dangerous."

Harsh stood before the villagers, his arms crossed over his chest.

When he spoke, his voice was sharp and unyielding.

"Drop your weapons," he ordered.

The villagers hesitated.

"I said drop them," Harsh repeated firmly.

Slowly, the villagers obeyed, their makeshift weapons falling into the dirt with dull thuds.

Harsh's eyes were hard.

"Your weapons are useless," he declared coldly. "Rusty iron won't save you in battle. You'll need something stronger."

The villagers glanced at one another uncertainly.

Harsh's eyes narrowed.

He drew two short wooden sticks from his belt and strode toward the nearest man—a burly farmer with a face lined by years of sun and toil.

Without warning, Harsh struck him.

The first blow landed sharply on the man's thigh. The second cracked against his wrist.

The man cried out and stumbled back.

"Again!" Harsh barked.

The man's face paled.

"Pick up your weapon!" Harsh snapped.

The man obeyed, snatching the wooden stick from the ground.

Harsh struck again—a swift, punishing blow to the man's ribs.

The farmer gasped, falling to one knee.

Harsh's voice was low but merciless.

"In battle, they will not wait for you," he growled. "They will not give you time to catch your breath. They will not fight fair."

He reached down and hauled the man back to his feet.

"Now—again."

The farmer's eyes narrowed. His teeth clenched.

When Harsh struck this time, the man blocked it.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Harsh's eyes gleamed.

"Again!"

The farmer lunged forward, his stick snapping upward. Harsh blocked the strike easily, but the man's eyes were sharper—more focused.

And Harsh grinned.

The training was brutal. Relentless.

Over the next few days, Harsh drilled them mercilessly. He made them drop their makeshift weapons and learn to fight with their fists, their feet, their elbows. He forced them to fight in the mud, to stumble and rise again.

He taught them to fight dirty—to gouge eyes, break fingers, and crush throats.

And by the end of the week, the villagers were no longer peasants.

They were fighters.

---

Far to the west, in the manor of Jayanth Varma, the nobles gathered in secret.

Jayanth sat at the head of the table, his eyes hooded and calculating.

The nobles were shouting, their voices hoarse with anger.

"They've killed more of our men!" one noble spat, slamming his fist onto the table. "How long are we going to let this rabble defy us?"

Another noble shook his head.

"They're growing stronger. Villages are flocking to him."

Jayanth's lips curled into a thin, cruel smile.

"Then we burn the villages," he said coldly.

The nobles fell silent.

Jayanth's eyes glinted with malice.

"We make an example of them," he said softly. "We burn their homes, their fields, their families. Let them choke on the ashes of their rebellion."

The nobles nodded slowly.

And the order was given.

---