Part 8

Mahadi Grandpa’s food hotel—this was no longer just a roadside inn. At that moment, it became an unseen battlefield, where every breath, every step, even the clink of knife and fork carried hidden meaning.

Outside, the sun was sinking. Through the cracks of the window poured a blood-red light, as if the sky itself was hinting at what was to come. The air was heavy—not only with the scent of spices now, but also with suppressed rage, wounded pride, fear, and a storm of unspoken words. The wooden floor trembled faintly, while the onlookers took a step forward, then froze in hesitation.

On the walls, the shadows of old swords swayed under the dim lantern light. Someone set down their bread, their eyes locked still.

The man in the white shirt—still shaken, lips streaked with fresh red blood—suddenly pointed his finger straight at Salih. His voice rang out, sharp and merciless:

“It’s all this boy’s fault. Because of his chair, I tripped and fell.”

The words sliced through the silence like hidden blades. The room froze again. Every face turned, as if each syllable carried a curse.

The air grew colder. Someone coughed nervously, but even that sound was swallowed by the heavy quiet that wrapped around them.

Salih lowered his glass, tilting his head slightly. His eyes filled with sheer confusion. He looked around. No one else—only an old man with cloudy eyes, another staring blankly into his plate. Who was he talking about? Which boy?

Salih’s bewilderment climbed into his throat, pulling his brows together.
“What did I even do?” he muttered to himself, lips curling in a helpless smile.

In that moment, his simple words sounded almost like a cruel joke. He had done nothing. Yet the blame, the insult, the entire weight of the situation, came crashing down upon him.

And then—it was as if thunder descended from the ceiling.

Two shadows swept into the room, tall and terrible. A sudden gust of wind blew through, the curtains lifted and fell, the air itself trembled.

Two men—huge, their skin a dark bronze, thick black hair spilling down to their necks. Scars of old battles lined their faces, untold stories pressed into the corners of their lips. Their very presence made the light in the room thicken, as if time itself slowed.

They stood—one on each side of Salih—like two mountains, trapping a broken boy between them.

The smell of sweat mixed with the metallic scent of wrath. Their eyes were like prison bars, behind which burned streaks of fire.

Salih’s face tightened. His lips trembled, the shiver crawling into his throat. And then—

He suddenly broke into tears.

The room was wrapped in such silence, it was as if even feelings themselves had frozen.
And then—
The sound of a door.

The heavy iron frame creaked as it swung open, as if to announce that this story was not yet over. Someone had been waiting for this arrival.

Usuf entered.

His clothes shimmered in the dim light, catching glimmers like golden dust beneath the sun. His eyes held a storm—an uneasy blend of fury and astonishment. Across his face was carved a firmness far beyond his years. He walked forward with the sleek, silent stride of a hunting tiger.

One glance—and he saw it all.
Salih, in tears.
The two hulking figures towering over him.
Usuf’s eyes narrowed, dark with rage.

He strode quickly to Salih’s side. Fire burned in his chest, something unspoken pressed against his throat until it burst out:

“Why are you hurting my friend? You’ve got plenty of nerve, haven’t you?”

His voice echoed through the room. The air itself seemed to tremble at the sound—words carrying the force of a weapon, though he held none.

Several men caught their breath. Someone’s clay cup slipped from their hand and shattered on the floor. Even the breaking sound felt distant, drowned beneath the weight of Usuf’s words.

The two giants—men so feared that dogs stopped barking when they passed at night, men who had walked the city streets with their chests thrust out like kings—suddenly froze. Their eyes widened, stunned. They stared at Usuf with disbelief.

A boy.
Barely twenty.
Yet the fire in his gaze struck them like a physical blow to the shoulders.

The man in the white shirt smirked. His lips twisted into a cruel smile.
“Just by standing next to you, your friend started crying.”
Mockery—sharp, poisonous.

Slowly, Usuf turned to look at Salih. His eyes were not angry, not accusing—just… weary, almost irritated.

Salih could not meet his gaze. He lowered his head. Then, scratching at his hair, he forced a crooked little smile. A sad smile, wrapped in guilt.

That only deepened Usuf’s fury at him.

But the fire in Usuf’s eyes had already ignited the blood of the others.

The white-shirted man stepped closer, contempt dripping from his face, lips curled with wet disdain.
“And who exactly do you think you’re threatening? Go on then—what are you going to do?”