Chapter 8 : The Second Strike-Ambush in the Convoy

The Krishna River ran thick and sluggish that dawn, swollen from rains, carrying streaks of red soil and debris from upstream. The water reflected the pale sun like molten metal, streaked with the shadows of cliffs rising jagged and cruel on either side. Dhaara’s valley lay silent beneath a fog that hugged the riverbanks, hiding secrets, concealing movement. Here, the Devil moved with purpose, the weight of every fallen villager and lost convoy etched into his eyes.
He crouched on a ridge overlooking the narrow gorge known to locals as the Blood River Route. Below, the convoy snaked through the gorge — carts laden with food, ammunition, and most importantly, diamonds — the lifeblood of Varma’s empire. Guards rode along in tight formation, rifles raised, eyes scanning the cliffs.
The Devil’s gloved hands rested on the smooth walnut of his rifle. His gaze swept over every detail, memorizing angles, shadows, and weak points. Beside him, Ishani’s fingers tightened around her dagger, eyes flitting between the Devil and the convoy. Her first strike had forged her courage, but the Devil’s calm reminded her she was still a student in this deadly calculus.
He spoke softly, almost to himself, but Ishani caught the weight of each word:"Plans on paper burn. The real plan lives inside your breath."
The villagers had prepared in secret. Children crouched on higher ridges, ready to whistle signals. Women waited with oil, spikes, and traps hidden along the path. Men armed with stolen rifles and pistols took cover among the jagged rocks, ready to strike when the moment came.
“Move,” the Devil whispered. And like shadows, they melted into the fog.

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The convoy entered the gorge unaware. The air smelled of wet earth, sweat, and horses. The first cart hit the trap: a cleverly concealed spike pit, hidden beneath leaves and dirt, tearing through the wheels. Horses screamed as the lead wagon tumbled, breaking into splintered wood. The second cart slammed into the wreckage. Flames erupted, licking at dry hay and crates of ammunition.
Chaos erupted instantly. Guards scrambled, rifles barking into the fog, bullets spitting sparks against stone walls. Smoke and fire blurred vision, but the Devil moved with precision, silent as a storm. Every shot from his rifle was a sentence, every swing of his blade an execution.
Ishani fired from her perch on the ridge, her first real test. One guard spotted her, rushing up the incline with a sword raised high. Fear clawed at her chest, but she steadied her breathing. The dagger in her hand felt heavier, more certain. She drove it upward, chest meeting blade, feeling warmth explode across her hands. The man collapsed, blood soaking her sleeve, and she did not look away.
The Devil moved beside her in a seamless flow. Where bullets flew, he countered. Where men lunged, he intercepted. One guard fell to his blade, another crushed beneath the force of his elbow and knee, his spine shattering under precise, unflinching strikes. The river below caught the reflection of fire, painting red streaks on his black coat.
A mercenary, a tall man with a scar across his cheek, advanced through the smoke, rifle cocked. “You think you can stop Varma?” he sneered.
The Devil’s voice was calm, deadly:"I don’t think. I act."
In a single fluid motion, he rolled toward the man, fists smashing ribs, wrist snapped, and the rifle fell to the river. A blade flashed. Blood arced. The mercenary collapsed, the fog swallowing him.
Ishani watched, both horrified and mesmerized. The Devil’s movements were a language of violence, each gesture precise, deliberate, and impossible to resist or predict.
Minutes passed, but to Ishani, it felt like hours. The convoy lay in ruins. Carts burned, horses screamed, bodies sprawled across the mud. The children’s whistles directed the last of the stragglers into traps. Flames licked higher. Smoke burned eyes and lungs.
The Devil finally lowered his weapons, breathing measured, calm. His eyes swept over the carnage, lingering on Ishani.
“You survived,” he said.
She swallowed, nodding. The weight of her first true kill, the smell of blood, and the screams of men and horses pressed down on her, but she stood.
“This is only the first,” he said, voice carrying over the smoke. “The first strike is never victory. It is only the declaration that the hunt has begun.”

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By midday, word of the ambush had reached Varma. Inside his fortress, he slammed a jeweled glass against the marble table, crimson wine sloshing like blood over his knuckles.
“Find him!” he roared at his captains. “This Devil — this thing — burn him alive. I want every village he touches razed to ashes. If he dies, fine. If not… I will personally see him tortured.”
But the Devil’s shadow had already spread through Dhaara. Mothers whispered his deeds to children. Farmers spoke of him as a myth, the girl beside him a ghost of vengeance. The whispers traveled faster than Varma’s orders. Fear had entered the minds of his men.

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Night came again, and Dhaara’s valley was alive with preparation. Crates of captured rifles and ammunition were stacked, maps spread across stones, and every recruit knew their role. The Devil walked silently among them, eyes scanning, calculating.
“I am not helping you,” he said, addressing the gathered villagers. “I am not pitying you. You have suffered, yes. But suffering does not make you mine. Only one thing binds us: the Lords are our enemy. Give me your hand, your blood, your life — and I will help you take back your freedom.”
Children shifted, some trembling, some eager. Women held knives and whispered strategies. Men adjusted their rifles, checking the cold steel. Ishani’s gaze never left him. She felt the pull of something she could not name — awe, fear, trust, and… something deeper.
She stepped forward, voice steady:“I am not your burden. I am your ally. My hand will strike as yours does. My blood will spill if it must. I don’t want to live as their entertainment. I want to live as their end.”
The Devil’s eyes softened for the briefest moment, a flicker beneath the mask of ruthlessness. Then he nodded.
“Stand with me,” he said.
The villagers echoed it. The night held its breath.

---
The ambush would come in two days. Every detail had been rehearsed, every trap set. The Devil moved along the ridge alone, watching the river twist and turn, reflecting flames of his previous strike. His mind was a maze of strategy, ruthlessness, and suppressed grief. Every guard killed, every convoy destroyed, was not vengeance — it was preparation, shaping the battlefield for something far larger.
Ishani approached quietly. “Why stay? Why not strike and vanish?”
The Devil’s gaze did not shift from the river:“Because the fire that took everything from me still burns here.”
The words were soft, almost lost in the wind, but Ishani felt their weight. Behind his violence was history, and behind his calm, a storm of memory and pain. She could not ask more now, for the work ahead demanded all focus.
The valley was silent again, but tension hummed in every stone, every tree, every shadow. The Devil’s war had moved from whispers to open battle, and the Blood River Route was only the first mark of a campaign that would consume Varma’s empire, one strike at a time.
Somewhere in the cliffs, the Devil’s silhouette merged with the fog. Not a man. Not a god. A storm waiting to break. And Dhaara waited with him.
The hunt had begun. The world of Varma would never see the dawn the same way again.