บท 3: Chapter 3: The First Move
His breath came in short, shallow bursts, his fingers clamped tightly around the crude wooden spear. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to run, to flee into the underbrush and hope that the Mughal soldier would pass him by without noticing. But something in the pit of his stomach—the gnawing realization that running wouldn't help him survive—kept him rooted to the spot.
He couldn't outrun a trained soldier. He couldn't fight him head-on, either. But maybe, just maybe, he could outsmart him.
The soldier moved methodically, his eyes sweeping the area as though he sensed something was off. His armor clinked with each step, the sound a steady reminder of the danger he posed. The sword at his hip gleamed under the slivers of sunlight peeking through the trees, but it was the dagger—the one highlighted in red by the system—that caught the MC's attention.
"Potential resource: dagger."
The words hovered in his vision, urging him to make a move. He had to get that dagger. His pathetic spear wouldn't stand a chance against a real weapon, and this was his opportunity. If he could just get close enough, maybe—just maybe—he could pull it off.
His heart pounded in his chest, each beat louder than the last. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight, as he slowly crouched lower behind the tree, his mind racing through possible outcomes.
"What the hell am I doing?" he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rustling of leaves. He was not a fighter. This wasn't one of his games where he could reload a save if things went south. If he got caught, he'd be dead. And worse, if the Mughal soldier found out who he was—or what he was trying to do—he might be tortured or killed just like Sambhaji Raje.
But the map in his vision flickered again, and the dagger's red glow intensified. The system was practically begging him to take the chance.
"Fine. Let's do this," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was reassuring himself or making a final, desperate commitment to the madness he was about to embark on.
Moving slowly, he crept forward, careful to avoid any dry twigs or leaves that might give away his position. Every inch closer felt like a mile. The soldier's back was still turned, but one wrong move, one noise, and he'd be dead before he could even try to defend himself. His body trembled as adrenaline coursed through his veins.
Step by step, he closed the distance until he was just a few feet behind the soldier. His hands were slick with sweat as he gripped the spear tighter. He had never been this close to anyone who was armed and dangerous. His mind raced, imagining every horrible scenario that could happen if he failed.
The soldier suddenly stopped.
The MC froze, his heart leaping into his throat. The soldier tilted his head, listening, his hand drifting instinctively toward his sword.
Don't move. Don't breathe. He repeated the words in his head like a mantra, willing himself to blend into the shadows, praying that the soldier wouldn't turn around. The tension in the air was suffocating.
A few agonizing moments passed before the soldier resumed his patrol, his hand falling back to his side. The MC let out a silent breath, relief washing over him. He was still alive—for now.
He inched closer, his mind screaming at him to act before it was too late. With a shaky hand, he reached out toward the soldier's waist, his fingers brushing against the leather strap that held the dagger in place. Time seemed to slow as he carefully began to pull it free, every nerve in his body on edge, waiting for the soldier to turn around.
Just a little more. Almost there.
Suddenly, the soldier shifted, turning his head slightly as if sensing something behind him. The MC's heart skipped a beat, his hand jerking in panic. The dagger slipped loose with a soft clink against the soldier's armor.
The Mughal soldier froze.
The world seemed to stop. The MC held his breath, the dagger clutched tightly in his trembling hand. His mind raced with panic. Run? Fight? Do something!
But before he could make a decision, the soldier spun around, eyes widening in shock at the sight of him. For a split second, neither of them moved. The soldier's gaze flicked to the dagger in the MC's hand, realization dawning.
And then the soldier roared in anger.
The MC's instincts took over. He swung the crude spear wildly, his mind blank with fear. The makeshift weapon struck the soldier's side, glancing off the armor harmlessly. The Mughal soldier snarled and reached for his sword, the metal rasping as it was drawn from its sheath.
"Shit!" the MC cursed, stumbling backward, barely dodging the blade as it swung toward him. His heart raced faster than ever, his vision narrowing in panic. The soldier was faster, stronger, and more skilled. There was no way he could win in a direct fight.
Desperation clawed at him. He couldn't die here. Not now. Not like this.
Without thinking, he lunged forward, jabbing the dagger into the soldier's exposed neck. His hand slipped on the hilt as blood sprayed across his arm. The soldier gasped, his eyes wide with shock, before he collapsed to the ground, clutching his throat as he bled out.
The MC staggered back, dropping the dagger as if it had burned him. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at the soldier's body, the reality of what he had just done crashing over him like a wave.
He had killed a man.
The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of the forest. His hands shook violently, stained with crimson. He fell to his knees, his stomach churning as nausea hit him. He had never hurt anyone in his life, and now, in the span of a few seconds, he had ended someone else's.
"I-I had to," he whispered, his voice trembling. "It was him or me."
But the words did little to ease the weight of guilt that pressed down on his chest. He hadn't killed in defense of some noble cause or out of a sense of duty. He had done it because he was scared. Because he was trying to survive.
His body trembled, the adrenaline fading and leaving behind only the hollow ache of shock. He looked down at his hands, covered in blood, and felt an overwhelming urge to run—to get as far away from the scene as possible.
But he couldn't. He had a mission.
Sambhaji Raje. He had to save Sambhaji. There was no time to waste. He could fall apart later, but right now, he needed to focus.
With shaky hands, he grabbed the dagger again, wiping it on his already dirty shirt. He forced himself to stand, his legs wobbling beneath him. His mind still reeled from the fight, but he knew he couldn't stop now. The path ahead was only going to get harder.
He checked the map, Sambhaji's icon glowing faintly in the distance. Bahadurgad was closer now, but the danger was far from over. If this one soldier was patrolling the area, there were bound to be more.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself.
"Alright, Raje," he muttered, clutching the dagger tightly in his hand. "I'm coming for you. And I'm not stopping until I get you out of there."
With that, he turned and continued down the path, the weight of his first kill heavy on his shoulders, but the determination to succeed burning stronger than ever.
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