Chapter Six: The Thirteenth Day
The man who carried the cheque stood trembling.
Dark bruises circled his throat like fingerprints that refused to disappear.
He stood inside a dim office lit only by television screens.
Across from him sat Scar — the dictator's son.
The heir to power.
The shadow behind fear.
The name people whispered.
Scar held a glass of whiskey.
He listened.
"He… tore the cheque," the man said, voice shaking.
"In front of everyone."
Scar took a slow sip.
"And?"
"He lifted me by my neck."
Silence.
Scar stood.
Walked closer.
Examined the bruises.
"In his father's mourning house?" Scar asked softly.
"Yes."
Scar's jaw tightened.
"He humiliated you."
The man lowered his head.
Scar's voice turned colder.
"What's his name?"
The room froze.
"John," the man answered.
"John Knight."
Scar repeated it slowly.
"John… Knight."
A faint smile appeared.
"A knight."
He walked back toward the television screens.
News channels were covering the upcoming 13th-day ritual of the respected old man.
Crowds expected.
Community leaders attending.
Public sympathy rising.
Scar watched in silence.
"He wants dignity," Scar muttered.
He turned toward his assistant.
"How many men can you gather within an hour?"
"Fifty."
Scar nodded.
"Send them."
The assistant hesitated.
"To do what, sir?"
Scar sat down slowly in front of the largest screen.
His voice was calm.
"Break their bones."
The assistant stiffened.
"Make them kneel."
Scar's eyes darkened.
"Make John Knight beg for mercy."
The room felt colder.
"And make sure it's live."
The assistant swallowed.
"And you, sir?"
Scar leaned back comfortably.
"I want to watch."
He lifted his glass.
"I want to see if this 'knight' bleeds."
Thirteenth Day – Morning
White covered the house.
The air carried the scent of sandalwood and grief.
Relatives gathered quietly.
Priests prepared the sacred fire.
The old man's photograph stood beside offerings.
John Knight sat before the altar.
Still.
Calm.
White cloth around his shoulders.
Ash placed across his forehead.
His brothers sat behind him.
The youngest sister beside their mother.
The girl stood slightly to the side.
His mother's bangles rested on her wrist.
They did not tremble.
The priest began chanting.
Outside the gates—
Engines stopped.
Black vehicles lined the street.
Fifty men stepped out.
Iron rods.
Chains.
Cold smiles.
Inside—
The chanting grew louder.
The priest's voice echoed.
"For one hour," he instructed John,
"you must not leave the altar."
John nodded.
Outside—
The gates burst open.
Chairs overturned.
People shouted.
The first wave of men stormed the courtyard.
Inside his office—
Scar leaned forward in his chair.
Eyes fixed on the live broadcast.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Show me," he whispered.
Inside the ritual hall—
The second brother slowly lifted his head.
The third brother stood halfway.
The youngest sister clenched her fists.
The girl looked toward John.
John did not move.
The sacred fire burned steadily.
The storm had arrived.
And Scar was watching.
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