The war had begun to settle into a rhythm of chaos—steel clashing against steel, screams echoing through the air, and the ground soaked in blood. The sun, now high in the sky, bathed the battlefield in a merciless light that showed no mercy to the fallen. Horses neighed and galloped, their hooves crushing remnants of shields and flesh alike.

Bodies of warriors from both ends lay strewn, some still groaning in pain, others silent forever. Amidst the rage and bloodshed rode Veer, seated atop his black horse—Chetak—his sword moving with practiced ease, his strikes deliberate yet lifeless.