Far away from the farm, a man hid among the branches of a tall tree. He wore a white full-sleeve T-shirt and black jogger pants. A green towel partially covered his face. In his hands rested a sniper rifle, its scope fixed steadily on a target. A bullet cracked through the silence.

    One of the guards collapsed instantly with a headshot. Panic erupted across the farm. The gunmen scanned the surroundings, firing bullets randomly into the darkness. The man in the tree remained calm. He adjusted the scope and fired again. The bullet struck the petrol tank of a nearby car. The guards rushed toward the vehicle, confused.

Then came the final shot.

    The bullet pierced the tank again, and the car exploded violently. Flames burst into the air. The wind carried the fire through the dry plants, and soon the entire farm began to burn. The gunmen desperately tried to control the fire, throwing sand and water onto the flames. Through the smoke, someone noticed movement.

“Shoot him!” a guard shouted.

    A blurred figure appeared through the burning fields — the same man from the tree, moving swiftly toward the farm.

Two or three gunmen tried to reload their weapons, but he was already close. One of them rushed forward to slash him with a knife. The man dodged the attack, grabbed the weapon — a kukri — and struck back instantly. The blade flashed in the firelight.

Amid the chaos of the burning farm, the guards were confused whether to stop the fire or stop him. One by one, they fell as the man cut through them with the kukri.

Without slowing down, he moved toward the bungalow and entered it.

    Inside, several men immediately opened fire. He ducked behind a large pillar, bullets striking the walls around him. Calmly, he reloaded his sniper rifle. Within seconds, he aimed upward and fired. The bullet struck a massive chandelier hanging above the gunmen. The chain snapped, and the chandelier crashed down, crushing the men beneath it. The man stepped out from behind the pillar. One of the wounded men trapped under the chandelier groaned.

“You… a**hole… show your face.”

    The man slowly removed the towel covering his face. The wounded man stared in shock. “Qasim… you?”

    The man smiled slightly. “Virat,” he said calmly. “A soldier from India.” He kicked the man’s head aside and continued moving deeper into the bungalow. More guards appeared. Virat fought through them with the kukri, moving quickly through the halls.

Soon he realized something — his ammunition was gone. He slid behind a large barrel, scanning the room for another weapon. Near the wall he noticed a bow and a bundle of arrows. The arrow tips were coated with glass shards, iron filings, and gunpowder. Virat rolled across the floor, grabbed the bow, and aimed instantly.

The arrow sliced through the air and struck a gunman in the chest.

Again.

And again.

    Virat moved from cover to cover — hiding, aiming, shooting. Each arrow flew with deadly precision. Within minutes, the room fell silent. Finally, Virat reached the top floor. Inside a dimly lit room, a thick-bearded man sat watching everything through CCTV monitors.

Virat stepped forward.

“Anwar,” he said calmly. “Enjoying the show?”

Anwar turned toward him, furious.

“You motherf****r! You destroyed everything. You betrayed me. I won’t let you leave alive.” Virat gave a small smile.

“For that… you’ll have to try.”

He released the final arrow.

The arrow flew straight and pierced Anwar’s heart.

Virat walked toward him slowly, pushing the arrow deeper.

“Goodbye.”

Anwar collapsed.

    Virat left the bungalow and stepped outside. The farm was now completely engulfed in flames. The fire roared high into the night sky. He walked away from the burning fields without looking back. After some distance, he took out his walkie-talkie.

“Mission accomplished,” he said calmly.

“Anwar is dead. Farm destroyed.”

The night fell silent again.