Arya gritted his teeth as he tried to push himself up, but his body refused to listen. Every muscle ached, his bones felt heavy, and his vision swam with exhaustion. The battle had drained him more than he had expected. His breathing was ragged, and each inhale burned his lungs.
His fingers dug into the cold ground as he forced himself to move, but his arms trembled under his weight. He had won—but at what cost? His body was battered, his energy completely depleted. He needed rest, but he couldn't afford to stay here for long.
Not with them searching for him.
Meanwhile, in the city…
The air was tense, thick with the presence of countless assassins. Soldiers in dark armor moved through the streets, their boots echoing against the stone pathways. Some walked in pairs, others stood on rooftops, their eyes scanning every shadow, every alleyway, every face in the crowd.
They were hunting for a ghost.
Arya Chhetri.
