Chapter 14: Do Dushman...

As the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, the air in Punjab was thick with tension. The war had begun. The sound of marching boots and clanking weapons echoed across the battlefield as soldiers took their positions. Half of the army consisted of British soldiers, their red coats standing in stark contrast against the dust-laden winds, while the other half was comprised of Karan's Indian troops—men and women trained with discipline and determination.

The German forces, well-equipped and battle-hardened, stood in formation across the open field. Their artillery gleamed under the golden sky, cannons ready, rifles poised. Smoke curled in the distance as their war flags fluttered ominously. The battlefield stretched vast and unforgiving, a cruel reminder of what lay ahead.

Karan, mounted on his horse, rode through his ranks, ensuring everyone was in place. His sharp gaze met Naina's for a brief moment. She was fully armored, a rifle slung across her shoulder, her posture firm. She gave a small nod, determination blazing in her eyes. He nodded back before turning towards his captains.

"Yudh ki ghadi aa chuki hai," Karan's voice rang out. "Har ek sipahi apni jagah banaaye rakhe. Pichhe hatna ek vikalp nahi hai!"

Captain Jain and Captain Prajapati exchanged glances before looking towards the soldiers. Their orders were clear: hold the line, no matter the cost.

The Germans wasted no time. The first cannon fired, the deafening blast ripping through the silence of dawn. The war had truly begun.

Bullets rained down as both sides charged forward, cries of battle shaking the earth. The Indian soldiers fought fiercely, dodging bullets and taking cover behind the terrain. Karan led from the front, his sword clashing against enemy bayonets as he maneuvered his horse through the chaos.

Naina, with steady hands, took her position behind cover, expertly firing her rifle. She had trained for this, but the reality of war was far more brutal than she had imagined. Yet, there was no room for hesitation.

The battlefield was engulfed in smoke and fire, screams echoing in the distance. And this was just the beginning.

The first cannon roared across the battlefield. Smoke erupted from the horizon, mixing with the morning mist, as gunfire rattled through the air like an unrelenting storm. The war had begun.

Karan stood at the front, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos unfolding before him. British soldiers, dressed in their signature red and khaki, charged forward, their bayonets gleaming under the dim sunlight. On the other side, the German troops stormed with equal ferocity, their dark uniforms making them look like a wave of death crashing onto the land. Between them, Karan's soldiers—his trainees—stood their ground, their hands gripping rifles, their faces a mixture of fear and determination.

"Aage badho! Peeche hatna maut hai!" Karan's voice boomed over the gunfire as he unsheathed his sword, leading the charge. The earth trembled beneath their boots as they sprinted forward. Bullets whizzed past, striking the ground, slicing through bodies, but the soldiers didn't stop.

Naina was right beside him, her hands steady on the rifle. She fired at an advancing German soldier, her shot precise, sending him collapsing to the ground. But there was no time to pause—another enemy charged at her with a bayonet. She barely had time to reload when the German lunged. Before the blade could touch her, Karan's sword sliced through the air, blocking the attack. With a swift movement, he turned and drove the blade through the enemy's chest.

"Dhyan do, yeh maidan hai! Yahan sochne ka waqt nahi milta!" Karan snapped at her, his expression fierce.

She gritted her teeth, nodding, before leaping into the fray again.

Explosions shook the ground, sending men flying. The smell of gunpowder and blood thickened in the air. The British captains barked orders from their horses, staying behind while the Indian soldiers fought in the frontlines like pawns on a chessboard.

Karan saw Captain Howard, a high-ranking British officer, standing at a distance, casually watching as Indian men sacrificed their lives for a war that wasn't theirs. Rage boiled in his chest. But before he could react, a grenade landed near him.

"Sabko hat jao!" he yelled, pushing a soldier aside as the grenade exploded, sending him flying backwards. His ears rang, the world spinning around him. He tried to get up, but his body felt heavy.

"Karan!!" Naina's voice cut through the haze. She was beside him in an instant, checking his bleeding arm.

"Main theek hoon..." he muttered, forcing himself to stand. But before he could regain balance, a German soldier stormed at them with a bayonet.

Naina didn't think. She grabbed Karan's sword from his hand and met the attack head-on. The clash of steel rang out as she dodged and countered, her movements almost instinctive. With one swift motion, she drove the blade into the German's stomach, pulling it out just as quickly. The soldier fell with a final gasp.

She turned to Karan, chest heaving. "Ab mujhe sikhaane ki zaroorat nahi hai, samjhe?"

Despite the blood staining his uniform, Karan let out a breathy chuckle. "Lagta hai mera sikhaya kaam aaya."

But there was no time to celebrate. A distant war cry caught their attention. More German soldiers were advancing, their numbers overwhelming. The British officers still stood back, unwilling to move forward. Karan clenched his fists. This wasn't just war. This was a game where Indian soldiers were mere pawns, thrown to die while the real players stayed protected.

His jaw tightened. "Aaj inhe dikhate hain ki hum sirf mohra nahi hai, hum yudh ke nayak hai!" He turned to his troops. "Tayyar ho jao! Yeh tumhara desh hai, tumhari mitti hai! Yeh angrez sirf apni jeet chahte hain, magar yeh jung hamari bhi hai!"

A roar of agreement rose among the soldiers. Guns reloaded, swords drawn, they charged forward, not as servants of the British, but as warriors of their own land.

The battlefield raged on, but something had changed. They weren't just fighting for survival anymore—they were fighting to prove that Bharat's warriors would not fall so easily.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a deep crimson hue over the battlefield, a tense silence settled over the war-torn land. The day's battle had been brutal, relentless gunfire and clashing steel filling the air since dawn. Now, as the war was temporarily brought to a pause, Karan stood amidst the weary but unbroken ranks of his trainees, counting heads with a steely gaze.

To his immense relief, none of the trainees had fallen. They were battered, their uniforms stained with blood—some their own, some their enemies'—but they were alive. Some clutched their arms, some had their foreheads wrapped in makeshift bandages, yet not a single one had succumbed to the war's merciless grasp. Karan exhaled, allowing himself a rare moment of solace.

But that peace did not last long. His sharp eyes traveled across the battlefield, witnessing the horrifying injustice done to his Indian soldiers by the very British they were supposed to be fighting alongside. Wounded Indian soldiers were left to suffer, denied medical treatment, while the British casualties were immediately tended to. Supplies meant for all were hoarded by the British ranks. Some of the Indian troops were even forced to fight on the front lines while the British hung back, using them as human shields. It wasn't war—it was exploitation.

Fury burned in Karan's chest like a raging inferno. His fists clenched as he turned away, not trusting himself to keep his emotions in check. His loyalty had always been to Bharat, but now, standing in the middle of this battlefield drenched in the blood of his own men, he knew—this war was not theirs to fight. They were pawns, disposable sacrifices in the British Empire's twisted game.

"Karan."

He turned sharply to see Naina standing beside him, her face streaked with sweat and dirt, yet her eyes burned with an idea. A dangerous one.

"Agar hum inhi British faujiyon ko maar dein, aur kahani aise banayein ki Germans ne maara?" Her voice was low, urgent, and filled with a calculated determination.

Karan's jaw tightened. The suggestion was madness—but it made sense. If they could eliminate the British soldiers under the cover of battle and shift the blame to the Germans, not only would they rid themselves of the oppression, but it could also shake the very foundation of British control over Indian troops. The thought alone sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins.

He stared at Naina, whose gaze did not waver. The girl he had once scolded for laziness, the trainee who had once struggled to climb a horse, was now proposing a rebellion within the battlefield itself. And yet, he could see it in her eyes—she was ready to do whatever it took for their people.

Karan's fists unclenched as he exhaled, his mind racing. If they did this, there would be no turning back. The British would hunt them down as traitors. But if they didn't... more of their own would die as mere puppets of the empire.

His voice came out as a whisper, filled with unspoken resolve. "Yeh sirf ek idea nahi hai, Naina. Yeh bagawat hai."

Naina didn't flinch. Instead, she gave him a single nod. "Aur kab tak ghulami mein ladenge? Agar ab nahi, toh kab?"

Karan glanced back at his injured trainees, then at the British officers laughing in their tents, feasting while the Indian soldiers bled in the dirt. His decision was made.

His gaze met Naina's once again, and this time, there was no hesitation. "Toh taiyaar raho. Kal hum sirf ek jung nahi, azaadi ki jang ladenge."

The rebellion had begun.

The cold morning air was thick with tension as Karan, Naina, and the selected trainees moved silently through the mist-covered battlefield. The British camp was unaware of their betrayal about to unfold. The Indian soldiers, once forced to fight under the Union Jack, now had a different mission—free themselves from the grasp of their oppressors before truly fighting the Germans.

Karan signaled with his fingers, and the trainees fanned out. They knew the plan. It had to be swift, precise, and without hesitation.

The first British guard didn't even get a chance to scream before a knife was driven into his throat. Another was silenced with an arrow through his heart. The attack was executed like a shadow moving through the camp. By the time the alarm was raised, half of the British troops had already fallen.

Gunfire erupted as the remaining British soldiers scrambled for their weapons, but the Indian trainees were already upon them. Karan shot two directly in the chest before using his bayonet to finish another. Naina fought fiercely, slashing through a soldier's leg before driving her blade into his ribs. The battle within the British camp was short-lived. By sunrise, the British soldiers were dead, and their bodies lay scattered across the ground.

Karan stood over the bloodied field, breathing heavily. "Ab sirf ek dushman baaki hai," he muttered, looking toward the German encampment. The real war had yet to begin.

The battle raged on for seven days. Every sunrise brought new attacks, and every sunset saw the field littered with bodies. The Germans were relentless, but the Indian soldiers were determined. They were no longer fighting for the British. They were fighting for themselves.

Cannons roared, rifles cracked, and the cries of men echoed across the battlefield. Karan led his troops with unwavering precision, while Naina proved to be more than just a medic—she was a warrior, stitching wounds one moment and slicing through enemies the next.

On the fourth day, their rations ran low, forcing them to scavenge whatever they could from fallen enemies. On the fifth, they lost two soldiers—brave men who had fought until their last breath. Their loss burned into Karan's heart, but he had no time to grieve.

By the seventh day, the battlefield was drenched in blood, but the German forces were crumbling. The last wave of their army fell to the relentless attacks of the Indian soldiers. By nightfall, the war had ended. The Germans had surrendered.

Victory belonged to them—not the British, not their foreign rulers, but to the Indian soldiers who had fought for their own survival.

Karan stood at the battlefield's edge, his sword stained red, his uniform torn, and his heart heavy. Naina approached him, equally exhausted but victorious. They looked at each other, knowing this was more than just a battle won—it was a step toward something greater.

They had defeated their enemies. Both of them.

The war was over. Victory was theirs. But the weight of it all still hung in the air. The tent was dimly lit, the flickering lamps casting long shadows on the tired but victorious soldiers. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and burnt gunpowder. Some of the trainees sat in silence, exhaustion evident in their eyes, while others winced as their wounds were treated.

Naina moved between them, her hands steady as she cleaned cuts and bandaged wounds. She had lost count of how many men she had helped, but she didn't stop—not until every last one of them had been tended to.

Finally, she turned toward Karan. He was seated in the corner of the tent, his shirt already discarded, revealing deep bruises and fresh cuts across his chest and stomach. His muscles were taut, his posture rigid as he watched her approach.

Without a word, she knelt beside him and dipped a cloth in antiseptic, carefully pressing it against a wound on his chest. He hissed slightly, but she ignored it, focused entirely on her task.

Karan had been treated before. He had faced injuries far worse than this. But for the first time, he wasn't paying attention to the pain. Instead, his eyes followed the way a few loose strands of her hair fell over her face, how her lips were slightly parted in concentration, how her long lashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks.

He had never looked at her like this before.

Naina was always the reckless, stubborn trainee—the one who challenged him, the one who infuriated him, the one who refused to back down. But right now, she wasn't just a soldier. She wasn't just a trainee.

She was a girl.

A girl with delicate features, with warm brown eyes that held quiet determination, with hands that were rough from training but gentle as they worked on his wounds.

His jaw tightened. What the hell was he thinking? This was Naina. She wasn't—

"Dard ho raha hai?" she asked suddenly, her voice breaking through his thoughts.

Karan blinked, realizing he had been staring at her. He quickly looked away. "Nahi." His voice was sharper than he intended.

She rolled her eyes. "Chhup. Dard toh ho raha hoga."

She pressed the cloth a little harder against a wound on his stomach, making him wince.

He exhaled sharply. "Agar jaan leni hai toh ek hi baar teer maar de."

A small smirk tugged at her lips, but she didn't reply. Instead, she continued wrapping the bandage around his torso, her fingers brushing against his skin.

Karan clenched his fists. He wasn't sure if it was the exhaustion, the adrenaline still fading from battle, or something else entirely—but for the first time, he felt truly unsettled. And it had nothing to do with war.

It had everything to do with her.