Part 11

Usuf stood tall.

The paint clinging to his knees now brushed against the earth, leaving streaks of colour across the grass—traces of art upon the soil.
He turned his head, watching Salih vanish beyond the gate.
And still his voice trembled in the air—

“Tiger! Tigers! Four tigers!”

Usuf only shrugged and laughed. In his eyes there was a rare calm.
He bent low, placing a hand on each dog’s head, one by one.

“Congratulations, my four tiger-dogs.”
His voice was soft, rich with praise.
“If you start a play now, you’ll have an audience. But if you make art…”
He paused, Salih’s voice still echoing faintly in the distance.
“…then someone will always come running, shouting on your behalf.”

The four “tigers” shivered their bodies in unison, as though agreeing, and sat quietly.
At the edge of Joremir the setting sun sank into a deeper crimson slumber. Evening descended; birds returned to their trees. Yet the echo of that cry still lingered in the air—a fragrance of artistic terror.
And there stood Usuf—artist, craftsman, merciful devil. Before him sat four tiger-dogs, who had become the most perfect piece of art that day had birthed.

From that afternoon, a tale began to spread through Joremir—
“Four tigers were seen in the garden.”
But no one knew they had been only four dogs—born on the canvas of an artist’s imagination, a flawless illusion.

Ten minutes later—

Joremir. The sun hung overhead like fire. Not gentle, but burning—turning the city into a realm of illusion and dread. A red mist stretched itself across the sky.

In the garden, where light and shadow met, the air grew heavy. The leaves of lonely trees trembled without pause, as if the planet’s own heart had begun to shiver in advance. Shadows on the ground lengthened, longer and longer. Dewdrops on the tips of grass froze suddenly—as though waiting for something. Strange light began to scratch across the heavens.

The four “tigers” still sat at the edge of the garden. Leaves rustled, but the birds were silent. Usuf stood before them, unmoving. In the dim, dusty light his face seemed carved in stone—still, profound, wrapped in an odd beauty. In his eyes burned a question:

“Is this city truly ready… for the power of imagination?”

At that instant—

A roar. A sound rose from afar, like the growl of some great beast.
But no—it was not an animal.
Nor was it the grind of any machine.
It was the thunder of human footsteps, marching in unison. The clash of armour, the rattle of weapons. The hiss of steel drawn against scabbards. The dull thrum of bows at their shoulders. The faint, tearing whistle of spearpoints cutting the air.

The sound was so vast, so unified, that even the soft soil of the garden trembled. The earth itself began to quake.
Birds burst from the trees, leaves turned their faces towards the sound.

At the garden’s gate—where marble met rusted iron—an army appeared.
First came smoke.
Then came faces.
Familiar faces.

A troop stood at the entrance. Ten, twelve men. They were the garden’s workers—the ones who watered the plants at noon, swept the paths, laughed at Salih and Usuf’s mischief.

But today they were someone else. They were no longer workers. They were warriors.

Their bodies were clad in deep steel-blue armour, the emblem of their order shining at their chests: a half-moon swallowing the sun. In their hands gleamed spears and bows; at their waists hung long swords sheathed in crimson, as though the scabbards themselves had been scorched by fire. In some eyes flickered the darkness of night, in others the brilliance of awe. A terrorless resolve radiated from them—something not easily born.

Sweat streaked their brows, their faces were hardened, but their spines were straight, their stances unbroken. They seemed as though they were stepping into some unknown battlefield.

They marched slowly, but their slowness was the weight of boulders rolling down a mountain.

And before the silent witnesses, the tiger-dogs and their strange master, they gathered one by one—standing in grim formation.

And behind them all—he appeared.
Regal in bearing, leading them forward—

Salih.

But this was not the tear-stained, cowardly Salih.
This was not the boy devoured by terror only ten minutes before.
This was Salih reborn—
in the form of a warrior.

Never had his name been written with confidence. Yet now, that very name rang like a silent war-bell.
The armour upon his chest blazed in the sunlight—a single vertical scar across it, as though a tiger had once clawed down his back. Gleaming.
At his waist hung a black-sheathed sword.
Upon his head a helmet—not of pure gold, but polished so fiercely that it flung light in every direction. From its back spilled a mane of leather, falling over his neck like the hair of a lion.

In his right hand he held a sword. It was no ornament, no flourish. It was a proclamation:

“I have come. This time, nothing will escape.”