From the very next day, Kazim returned to work as a laborer. Though he could no longer match the strength of his prime, he still had enough power left in his body to keep going. The job didn't pay much—certainly not enough to send Miraz to a good school or dream of making him a doctor—but at least they could afford to eat.
They had shifted to a small slum area. Their income couldn't cover anything better.
When Miraz turned twelve, he quietly started working alongside Kazim. He had inherited the same strong physique that once ran through Mosharrof and Kazim himself. Kazim never asked Miraz to work—never even hinted—but Miraz was fully aware of his uncle-grandfather's declining health.
Back to present—
Miraz took another long drag from his cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke into the air. His eyes looked dull. His heart—heavier than ever.
Today was different. Today, he was deeply broken inside.
His one and only relative in the world—Kazim, his uncle-grandfather—was now lying in a government hospital bed, battling death. The doctors had told him they needed a large amount of money to proceed with the operation. But Miraz… was just a laborer. And to make matters worse, his false identity followed him everywhere—the infamous label of being a Rajakar's grandchild.
Three days ago—
He remembered…
Many years ago, Kazim once told him, "Those who have real strength… should join the military." Miraz was just a kid back then. That day, Kazim had told him about Mosharrof—the real man he never met. How he had abandoned a life of privilege in the Pakistan Army and chose to fight for his country's freedom.
Miraz remembered asking innocently, "If he was such a great man… why does everyone call me a Rajakar's grandson?"
Kazim had gone quiet… then slowly, painfully, told Miraz the truth.
Back then, he hadn't understood much. But as he grew older, the pieces started to connect… and the pain started to make sense.
Now, desperate to save Kazim's life and earn more money, Miraz had decided to try for the military. In the physical tests, he shattered every record. But they still rejected him—because of one line on a file: Grandson of a Rajakar.
Back to present—
That's why Miraz sat in silence… drowning in frustration, unable to cry, unable to scream. His fists clenched, jaw tightened. He was a furnace of helpless anger.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
A loud, rude voice echoed from outside.
"Hey Miraz! You son of a b***! Come out!"
Someone was banging on the door
Miraz flicked his cigarette aside, watching the smoke curl into the air.
"So, they're finally here... Perfect timing. I was just thinking about how to release my frustration."
Yesterday…
After a long day of hard labor, Miraz, like always, went to play football in the evening.
The other boys never truly accepted him as a friend. They let him play only because he was good—really good.
That day, though, he couldn't concentrate. His mind was clouded—with worry for his uncle gramps, the looming cost of the surgery, the pain of being rejected from the military.
Because of that, their team lost.
It wasn't entirely his fault, but frustration boiled over.
"Hey! It's not my job to carry the entire team!" he protested.
One of the boys snapped, "Shut up, you're just a rajakar's grandson."
That line.
Rajakar's grandson.
Miraz had hated those words ever since he was a child.
His vision blurred with rage.
Without thinking, his fist shot forward, striking the boy straight in the nose. The boy dropped unconscious.
The others gasped. "He's a monster!" someone shouted.
And just like that—they all ran.
Back to the present…
Miraz stood still, remembering something his uncle gramps, Kazim, had once told him when he was just a kid:
"If you ever get dragged into a conflict, Miraz—never throw the first punch… but make sure you throw the last."
He grabbed his shirt, buttoning it up calmly.
Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked to the door and opened it.
Outside stood more than twenty boys, most in their early to late twenties. In the front was the same boy he had knocked out yesterday, nose still bruised.
Miraz stared at them, expression calm but deadly.
"Let's get this over with," he said.
Again, Miraz's eyes flicked across every face. One glance was enough—he had already measured their fear, their arrogance, their weapons. They were older, armed, confident in their numbers.
But none of them knew what kind of beast they were hunting.
Then—he ran.
Like a bullet, he tore through the slum streets, kicking up dust, darting past vendors and rickshaws. Shouts exploded behind him as the gang surged forward. Bottles smashed. Dogs barked. Doors slammed shut.
Miraz zigzagged through the chaos until he reached it—a forgotten alleyway wedged between two crumbling apartment buildings. The air was tight. Damp. The only light came from a flickering tube light high above, casting long, twitching shadows.
He stopped. Turned.
A smirk tugged at his lips. "You followed me all this way just to get buried?"
The boys slowed, lining up at the alley's entrance. Bats, rods, sticks. A few wore brass knuckles. Their leader snarled, "You think you're some kind of hero?"
"No," Miraz said, cracking his knuckles. "I'm the test you all fail today."
Then they attacked.
The first came swinging a rod. Miraz ducked under it and punched—straight to the ribs. CRACK. The boy flew sideways into the wall and slumped down, unconscious.
Another lunged. Miraz grabbed his wrist mid-punch, twisted it sharply—SNAP!—the sickening sound of bone breaking filled the alley. The boy screamed and dropped his brass knuckle, clutching his now useless hand.
The others hesitated—but just for a second.
Three charged at once.
Miraz spun—his elbow smashed into one's jaw, sending teeth flying. He headbutted another, and the boy dropped instantly, blood spraying from his nose. The third tried to wrap a chain around his neck—but Miraz pulled him forward and kneed him in the gut so hard he folded in half, wheezing like a broken flute.
He was outnumbered.
But every time they got close, someone fell. His fists moved like hammers. His legs like battering rams. No technique. Just raw, brutal instinct. The body count around him grew. Groans, broken fingers, shattered pride littered the alley.
High above, a silhouette leaned against a dusty window, watching.
Unblinking.
Studying.
But the gang wouldn't stop.
One grabbed a metal bat and screamed, "HIT HIM FROM BEHIND!"
Sand suddenly blew across Miraz's face—his vision blurred. SHHH!
He blinked rapidly. "You cowards—"
THWACK!
The bat hit him square on the back of his head.
He staggered. Another strike. Then a kick. A rod slammed into his thigh. Someone hit his ribs. Another grabbed his neck from behind.
Miraz was buried under the weight of ten attackers.
He hit the ground, blood mixing with dirt, boots crushing down on him.
One of them whispered near his ear, "Rajakar's grandson. That's all you'll ever be."
A flicker.
A twitch.
Miraz's eyes snapped open. Blood dripped from his brow, but his pupils burned.
He slammed his palm against the ground—and with one push, he launched them all back like broken toys.
He rose.
Chest heaving. Skin torn. But unbroken.
He wiped the blood off his lips, then looked up.
"You're right," he said, voice low, dangerous. "That's all they think I am."
His knuckles clenched. "Let's make them regret it."
Miraz stood tall again—bruised, bloodied, but still burning with rage.
The boys who had been flung away scrambled back to their feet, breathing hard. Some were limping, others clutching broken limbs. But then—
More footsteps.
More voices.
More shadows.
From the end of the alley, a second group arrived. Reinforcements.
Ten more. Maybe fifteen.
Crowbars. Iron rods. Hockey sticks. One even carried a broken brick.
Miraz's chest rose and fell. Fast.
He was strong.
But even beasts bleed.
And this time—it was too many.
He roared and charged anyway, rage fueling every step. He punched one so hard the boy flew backward and crashed into a dustbin. Another he grabbed by the throat and slammed against the wall.
But the injuries slowed him. His leg throbbed. His ribs screamed. His head rang from the earlier bat strike.
Still, he fought.
Still, he refused to fall.
A rod cracked against his back—he stumbled but didn't drop.
A punch to his jaw.
A boot to his side.
Another rod—this time to his knee. He collapsed on one leg.
They were swarming now. Like wolves.
He swung wildly, taking one down with him.
But the pain was blinding.
Too many.
Too fast.
A boy stepped in with a crowbar and slammed it into Miraz's side.
CRACK.
Miraz coughed—blood sprayed from his lips.
His vision blurred. Sound faded. The alley spun around him.
One last thought crossed his mind as he collapsed:
"Uncle Gramps… I'm sorry…"
Then—darkness.
His body hit the cold ground.
Still.
Surrounded by silence and shadows.
From the apartment window above, the silent observer didn't flinch. He stared down at the scene with eyes that didn't blink, arms crossed.
A smirk slowly formed on his face.
"…Interesting."