The final battle was a sandstorm.
One second, they were advancing—lines formed, weapons drawn, marching toward the fortress. The next?
Hell broke loose.
Steel clashed. Fire erupted. Sand whipped. Wind howled. Earth cracked. Water hissed.
Screams tore through the air, and the scent of blood filled Malik’s lungs as the desert became a slaughterhouse.
The enemy Jinn had attacked.
Six of them.
The militia believed that the ‘rebels’ only had one left, but…
Reinforcements had come from Al-Ayan.
Malik was right.
It was never that simple.
Five walking calamities were upon them.
Now, six kings of battle faced another six.
And Malik watched as, without hesitation, his people split off to meet them.
Nasir was the first, going after who appeared to be their leader.
The ground cracked under every one of his steps—he was dragging half the desert with him.
Graybeard, Uncle Jafar, went after another, his old bones moving like they were young again.
He vanished in a blink, reappeared mid-air, and slammed down.
His blades of wind were louder than the war itself.
Wiry Fingers, Jamal, locked eyes with his opponent and grinned, cracking his knuckles.
Then, a whip of sand tore through his jaw—and he laughed. Laughed like a lunatic. Healing the deadly wound in just a moment.
Farid? The one with the scars. Silent. Focused. Already gone.
He fought in the shadows. Stepping from one to the next.
Bahir, the slowest of the lot, moved as well, meeting his opponent.
His full plate lit up with runes as fireballs slammed into him—one after another—and he didn’t even budge. Not a dent. Just kept walking toward his Jinn, Hellbent on ending him.
Which left the last one.
The strongest one.
Malik took a step forward.
He appeared before the Jinn in a flash of fire, sand scattering behind him.
This one…
This one was different.
His skin was covered in blackened markings, his eyes a very bright dark.
“You’ll pay for what you have done.”
His voice was like grinding stone.
Malik cracked his neck.
“I will… but not today.”
The Jinn didn’t hesitate. Neither did Malik.
Crack!
Lightning split the sky, and a bolt seared toward him.
Malik moved.
Fast. Faster than sight—though only for a moment.
He rolled through the sand as lightning obliterated the spot he had been standing in.
Then he was there.
Right in front of the Jinn.
His fist shot forward—a strike that could break a mountain.
The Jinn caught it, and a bang! Of air crashed into their surroundings.
For a moment, they locked eyes—pure power against pure power.
Then the sand beneath exploded.
They clashed once more.
Fists met flesh. Power met power.
Every impact sent shockwaves ripping through the battlefield.
Soldiers were thrown off their feet.
The very earth trembled and split.
Malik fought hard, fast, ruthless.
Every strike, every kick, every movement was a killing blow.
But his opponent?
Relentless, a storm given form.
Fire roared.
Lightning cracked.
And neither of them gave an inch.
It felt like forever.
Victory was always just one move away.
Then it would slip through their fingers.
Every attack had an answer.
Every counter had a counter.
It was like fighting a mirror.
Two monsters locked in a battle neither could afford to lose.
Until, finally, Malik saw it.
The ‘moment.’
The smallest crack.
And that was all he needed.
His Spine Splitter drove into the Jinn’s chest.
The air ripped apart, and lines showed themselves on his skin.
They were cracks, and light spilled from them, making him out to be some broken lantern.
He gasped, body shattering like glass.
The Jinn… he was gone.
Ash on the wind.
A battle that should have lasted hours, days, or even weeks had ended in minutes.
That showed Malik’s growing experience.
Now, with no distractions, he turned to the gate—
The last damn thing standing between them and victory.
Massive. Iron. Stone. Nine tons, at least.
Big enough to stop an army.
Big enough to stop any man.
But Malik wasn’t just any man.
He exhaled.
Steam rolled off his skin, his body a furnace, his blood a wildfire.
The ground beneath him blackened, scorched from the sheer heat rolling off him.
He stepped forward and appeared before the gate, the wind generated pushing away every soldier in the front line.
Malik took a beat and muttered something under his breath.
Sand floated up and began to swirl around his form, burning as it did.
Then, a moment later, he dug his fingers beneath the edge of an impossible weight.
“Hup.”
He lifted.
It shifted… it rose an inch.
GRRRNNNK-KKKRRRNNN-CLAAANG!
The battlefield stopped.
The fighting froze.
Both sides just stared.
This wasn’t something a human should be able to do.
Not even a Jinn.
Malik had the gate up to his waist.
The muscles in his arms and legs screamed.
His spine felt like it would snap in half.
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t even breathe.
He just kept pushing.
Higher. Higher.
Until the gate was above his head.
“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
Then, with a roar that split the sky, he threw it.
A nine-ton slab of iron and stone was hurled aside.
It crashed down with the force of a falling giant.
The ground shook, rumbling for miles on end.
Dust swallowed the world.
And when it finally cleared—
They saw it.
The path was open.
But before Malik could turn to his people, order their charge, his eyes met a kid’s.
There, slumped against a broken wall, gripping the hand of a dead man.
His brother? His father? Maybe both.
The boy wasn’t crying. Just staring.
Face covered in blood and dust. Hollow-eyed.
His sword was clutched to his chest. Shaking. Mumbling prayers.
Malik saw it.
The cost.
But he didn’t stop.
This was what he accepted.
Turning around, he faced his people.
The entirety of the Nasir Al-Sultan were gawking at him.
Their faces a mix of shock, terror, and awe.
Malik took a breath—still burning—and raised a fist.
“GO! FIGHT! WIN!”
And they did.
“FOR NASIR!”
“FOR GLORY!”
“FOR THE FALLEN!”
“DEATH TO THE BASTARDS!”
“LEAVE NONE STANDING!”
A dozen voices. Then hundreds. Then thousands.
“TEAR THEM APART!”
“NO MERCY!”
“SLAUGHTER THEM ALL!”
“RIP THEIR HEARTS OUT!”
They tore through the entrance, a flood unleashed.
Blades flashed.
Blood splattered.
War cries kept ripping through the air.
Malik moved without thought, without hesitation.
One step—one swing—ten bodies fell.
Another ten.
And another ten.
The rebels buckled, trying to hold the line, but it was over.
Desperation clawed at their faces, dragging them back, back, back—
To the heart of the stronghold.
To the mosque.
But they couldn’t even run.
Malik was upon them before they even had the thought.
And further annihilating whatever remained of their morale…
He was the first to reach their leader’s abode.
Inside, the incense was thick, nearly burning at the throat.
Some sort of holy texture was carved into the walls, bathed by natural light.
Undeniably beautiful.
It was a place of peace, a sanctuary—
Now twisted into a fortress of war.
At the center, a man stood.
White and green robes.
A long beard.
Dark eyes.
The caliph.
“You cannot enter the house of God.”
Malik stepped forward.
Blood dripped from his sword, landing heavy on the sacred floor.
He looked around—at the scrolls, the banners, the broken prayers.
Then, his gaze snapped back to the man in white and green.
“God’s not here.”
Malik chuckled.
“This is just an empty box.”
The caliph’s face twisted, eyes narrowing into slits.
“And who are you to say that?!”
Malik didn’t blink.
He only pulled back his cloak, revealing his face.
“A cursed man. Cursed beyond oblivion.”
His face showed a tiny smirk.
“Your God’s love is not unconditional…”
He took a step closer.
“‘He’ doesn’t love me.”
He took another.
“And ‘He’ sure as Hell doesn’t love you.”
The caliph’s hands shook.
His breath came in ragged bursts.
“I—”
He clenched his fists.
“I have done his bidding… My life’s work is in ‘His’ name!”
Malik’s lips further curled into something cruel.
“This? Hah! Your life’s work makes ‘Him’ puke.”
Veins bulged at the caliph’s temples.
His hands shook with something beyond fury—beyond hate.
“I AM THE CALIPH OF THIS CITY!”
“…Your God knows I wouldn’t be here without you.”
Malik lifted his curved sword and pointed it in the direction of the bodies.
The dead. The men who fought and bled for a war that was never theirs to fight.
“And those men wouldn’t be standing before ‘Him’ if not for you.”
Unable to control himself, the caliph lunged, a dagger appearing in his grasp.
Malik moved; his sword swung.
One strike.
Through flesh, through bone.
Clean.
Final.
A wet, gurgling gasp resounded.
The caliph’s eyes went wide—disbelief, pain, failure.
He crumpled.
“…”
Silence.
A very loud silence.
Malik clicked his tongue.
He wiped his blade clean and turned around only to find that he wasn’t alone.
The soldiers had come, and they stared—horror, reverence, awe.
They waited for him to say something.
He didn’t have much left to give.
So he simply said—
“It’s done.”
The war was won.
