***
{Outside The Projection}
Nasir’s words hadn’t only shaken up his people.
No, they had an effect here, hundreds of years later.
They gripped the whole world and refused to let go, demanding to be heard.
The hall was no different.
His voice echoed in their heads, making them forget the fiery night the projection had skipped past.
His unshakable belief—it had buried itself in their chests and set them ablaze.
“God, did you feel that? I felt that shit.”
“That speech—damn, that speech.”
“I’d follow that man to the ends of the planet.”
“He could’ve told me to run headfirst into a mountain, and I would’ve done it.”
“It was war; it was a sword drawn at the throats of his enemies.”
“Seriously, how the fuck is this guy unknown?”
Voices had risen, mixing together, overlapping.
“What was that gesture they did? The ‘T’ thing?”
“Yeah! Even our Lady did it. What for?”
None of those pledged under the new Nasir responded to that question.
They were quietly staring at their former leader, eyes wide, tears threatening to fall.
Seeing that, Silver Beard stepped forward to explain.
“That’s their symbol of resistance against evil.”
“Evil?”
“Yeah. It’s their mark. The ‘T’ stands for Triumph. For Nasir.”
Someone exhaled loudly, running a hand through their hair.
“Damn, man. No wonder they’d tear the world apart for him.”
“He makes fanatics out of anyone who listens.”
“I mean, look at us! We’re just watching, and even I’m ready to unsheathe my sword!”
“No kidding. If he had been here, in front of us, I think we would’ve been chanting, too.”
As the crowd buzzed with this new sense of awe, a pair of blue eyes welled up with a few quiet tears.
Those eyes belonged to the man’s son.
Duban.
He watched, absorbed, and memorized every movement, every syllable, every pause that made the people hold their breath.
This man was his FATHER.
The father he had grown up with.
The father he had admired, followed, feared, and loved.
This was him. This was the Nasir he knew.
This was Nasir in his full glory.
Duban felt his throat tighten.
This… this was the man he had lost.
And yet, right now, standing here, watching his father command an entire city’s spirit, he felt like he had him back, even if just for a moment.
“That’s right…”
A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“This is you, Father.”
***
{Inside The Projection}
The war moved fast.
Much faster than Malik had expected.
Last night, that village was burnt to the ground.
Its people were evacuated beforehand, but that didn’t change their fates.
Without their homes, their farms, and their lands, death had come closer to claim them.
Even though Nasir had relocated them into the city, they were now no more than beggars, living a life no different than Faqir.
Rather, it was arguably even worse. At least Faqir knew how to scrape by. They didn’t. And with war going on, no one had time or sympathy for folks labeled as traitors.
And so, Malik, not wanting to be reminded of his faults with every breath, took any memory of what happened that night and buried it somewhere deep.
He could not afford to distract himself, especially not now.
His commander didn’t waste a damn second.
The second his speech ended, the whole city was moving like someone had set fire to their asses. No hesitation, no second-guessing—just men grabbing weapons, throwing on armor, tightening straps, while women checked on supplies, made meals, and got their men ready to tear through the enemy like a sandstorm through an unguarded caravan.
The plan was simple: hit ’em hard, hit ’em fast, and don’t let ’em breathe.
Avoid drawn-out sieges; no waiting games.
This was a punch to the throat.
A knee to the gut and a boot to the ribs while they were down.
…It worked.
Most of the ‘rebels’ never saw it coming.
The militia tore through their nearest outposts and villages in a few hours.
They burned fields, raided supply depots, collapsed tunnels, and forced them to scramble.
The enemy couldn’t just hunker down and hope to outlast them. No, now they had to move. They had to fight on militia terms. And that meant they were already beginning to lose.
But where did Malik fit into all this?
He wasn’t part of the charge. Wasn’t swinging a blade, wasn’t setting fire to granaries, wasn’t getting caught up in the chaos.
That wasn’t his job.
He was part of the other war.
The quiet one.
The one where people like him—people who could turn battles with a single move—were waiting.
Jinn didn’t give a shit about foot soldiers. That was just background noise.
The real fight was between them. The ones who decided the winners of wars.
Malik, no longer covering his eyes, tailed a platoon making their way toward the Pit.
He was finishing what he had started.
Winning the Pit would be the first real strategic victory they’d pull over the ‘rebels.’
This platoon would lay siege to the place, hammer at its defenses, try to force the rebels into surrender or slaughter. But Malik?
He wasn’t there for that.
Again, his job was to stand back and watch.
Not because he doubted he could take anyone there, but because none of these fights truly mattered.
What mattered was the enemy Jinn.
The one lurking in the back just like him, waiting for the moment to turn the tide.
That was where the real battle would begin. And he wasn’t about to throw himself into the meat grinder just for the sake of a few foot soldiers.
No, he’d wait. He’d watch.
The second he saw them move, then, and only then, would he make his own.
Because this war wasn’t going to be won with bodies thrown into the quagmire.
It was going to be won in the space between heartbeats.
Multiple ‘spaces’ for sure, but spaces nevertheless.
High chance it’d take long.
Days, perhaps weeks, maybe even months.
Good thing that Malik was damn insane at waiting.
At least his experience taught him that one thing.
Patience was a must.
Always.
He was called a kitten for that by ignorant soldiers.
A little kitten hiding behind lions.
But he only smiled at them.
Their lives weren’t long.
