The day of Kunwar Naunihal's wedding was finally here, and the city of Lahore buzzed with excitement. The procession, or Barat, was a magnificent sight, with elephants draped in silk, horses decorated with intricate gold bridles, and men dressed in resplendent attire, moving through the streets. The clanging sound of wedding bells mixed with the rhythmic beat of dhols, while children ran alongside the parade, cheering with joy. Naunihal himself sat atop a grand white stallion, his regal sherwani embroidered with gold thread, and his Sehra of pearls cascading down his face. Though his heart swelled with happiness, his thoughts occasionally wandered to the distant border, where a far more serious event was brewing.
Far away in Jamrud, at the gates of the empire, the air was thick with tension. The Afghan forces had arrived in full force, ready to exploit what they believed to be their opportunity—General Hari Singh Nalwa's sickness. But they didn't know that Nalwa, with Kunwar's help, had recovered, stronger than ever. The time had come for the battle of Jamrud to begin.
The vast expanse surrounding the fort was a battlefield waiting to ignite. The Afghan forces stretched out in an endless wave of black and gold, their banners fluttering violently in the wind. At the front of the Afghan army stood their ruthless leader, Shahan Malik, a towering figure known for his ferocity and mastery over fire, an ability that had burned through many enemies in the past. His presence alone stirred fear among the ranks, and his black beard framed an expression of sheer bloodlust.
Inside the Sikh camp, the atmosphere was different—focused and determined. The warriors of the Khalsa prepared themselves, tightening their turbans, checking their armor, and offering prayers. They knew that today, they were not just defending a fort, but the very pride of the Sikh Empire.
Kunwar Singh, with newfound strength from his grueling training under Abreo, stood ready. His *talwar*, named *Sheshnaag*, glowed with a faint light, crackling with latent energy. Abreo, his mentor, stood beside him, calm and focused. His blade, *Ghungroo*, was famous for its speed, known to dance like a storm of lightning when in his hands.
"Remember, Kunwar," Abreo said, his voice low, "the blade is not just a weapon. It's an extension of your soul. Today, you must let your inner strength guide your *talwar*."
Kunwar nodded. "I'm ready," he replied, tightening his grip on the hilt of *Sheshnaag*. His gaze hardened as he looked out toward the battlefield.
Among the warriors was Vice General Garja Singh, known for his brutal strength. His *talwar*, *Rana*, was a heavy blade that could cleave through enemies like butter. Garja's mastery over the earth chakra allowed him to manipulate the ground, summoning stone pillars and creating shockwaves with every strike. He was a one-man fortress, and today, he would be the wall that the Afghan forces would break against.
The Sikh forces assembled near the fort's gate. Nalwa, his eyes burning with the fire of battle, mounted his warhorse, dressed in his signature steel armour adorned with intricate engravings of Sikh symbols. His aura was so intense that it vibrated through the ground, and even the fiercest Khalsa warriors could feel its weight. His weapon of choice today was his *khanda*, *Vajrakrita*, a double-edged blade known throughout the empire. The *khanda* was said to possess the power of lightning, able to split the sky with a single swing.
The first wave of Afghan forces began to charge, their cries filling the air like thunder. Shahan Malik stood at the center, his eyes ablaze with malice. "Today, Jamrud falls," he roared, his fists igniting with flames. With a swift motion, he summoned a wall of fire that raced toward the fort, its heat searing the earth.
"Hold steady!" Kunwar shouted as he stepped forward. He raised his *talwar*, *Sheshnaag*, which crackled with the power of lightning. Channelling his energy, he slammed the blade into the ground, and a wave of electricity surged forward, meeting the flames head-on. The clash of elements exploded in the battlefield, lightning and fire swirling in a violent dance.
Abreo, swift as the wind, dashed into the fray. His *talwar*, *Ghungroo*, hummed with each motion, and his chakra, centred in his throat, allowed him to manipulate sound. Each swing of his sword created sonic booms that knocked Afghan warriors off their feet. His blade was a blur, cutting through the enemy ranks with deadly precision.
Garja Singh bellowed as he charged into the heart of the battle. With each swing of *Rana*, the ground quaked beneath him. His control over the earth chakra allowed him to summon massive stone pillars from the ground, which he hurled at the enemy. Afghan soldiers were crushed under the weight of his power, and Garja laughed, his booming voice echoing across the battlefield. "Come! Test your strength against the earth itself!"
The battle raged on for hours. Bodies littered the ground, and the air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke. But despite the Afghan numbers, the Sikh forces held strong, their warriors pushing back wave after wave of attacks.
Suddenly, a shift occurred. The air grew heavy as if charged with unseen energy. Nalwa, who had remained at the rear, finally stepped onto the battlefield. His presence was like a storm descending on the earth. Every soldier, both friend and foe, could feel the immense power radiating from him. His eyes, glowing with fierce determination, locked onto Shahan Malik, who stood at the other end of the battlefield.
"It's him," one of the Afghan soldiers muttered, his voice trembling. "Hari Singh Nalwa…"
The very mention of Nalwa's name sent waves of fear through the Afghan ranks. Some dropped their weapons and fled, their courage shattered by the mere sight of the legendary general. But Shahan Malik was undeterred. His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his body erupting into flames. "Come, Nalwa! Let us see if the tales of your strength are true!"
Nalwa said nothing. He raised his *khanda*, *Vajrakrita*, high above his head. The skies darkened as if responding to his call, and lightning crackled across the horizon. His voice, when he finally spoke, was like thunder. "You will learn today, Malik, the true power of the Khalsa."
Shahan Malik roared in defiance and charged, flames swirling around him like a fiery tornado. He summoned a massive fireball and hurled it at Nalwa with all his might. The blazing sphere tore through the air, leaving a trail of scorched earth in its wake.
But Nalwa was unmoved. With a swift motion, he swung *Vajrakrita* downward. The ground trembled as the blade connected with the fireball, splitting it in half. Lightning surged from the *khanda*, striking the earth with such force that the battlefield shook. The resulting explosion sent shockwaves across the land, and a massive crater formed where the fireball had been.
Shahan Malik staggered, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Impossible…"
Nalwa's aura intensified, his body surrounded by arcs of lightning that crackled and hissed in the air. "You challenge the might of the Khalsa with your flames, Malik? Let me show you the power of thunder."
With a single, fluid motion, Nalwa thrust *Vajrakrita* into the ground. The earth beneath him erupted as a massive bolt of lightning surged forth, striking the ground and spreading outward in all directions. The sheer force of the attack split the battlefield, and the Afghan warriors were thrown into chaos as the ground itself turned against them.
Shahan Malik, seeing his forces in disarray, knew this was his last chance. Summoning every ounce of his strength, he dashed toward Nalwa, his body cloaked in flames. He raised his sword, prepared to strike, but before he could reach Nalwa, the general moved with blinding speed.
Nalwa swung *Vajrakrita* in an arc, and the air itself seemed to shatter. The force of the blow was so immense that Shahan Malik was thrown backward, his sword clattering to the ground. Blood poured from a deep gash across his chest, and his flames flickered and died.
"Your reign of terror ends here, Malik," Nalwa said coldly. His *khanda* gleamed in the fading light, still crackling with residual lightning. "This battle belongs to the Khalsa."
With a final, desperate cry, Shahan Malik tried to stand, but his strength failed him. He collapsed onto the blood-soaked ground, defeated. The remaining Afghan forces, seeing their leader fall, fled in terror, leaving behind their dead and wounded.
Nalwa turned to his warriors, his voice booming over the battlefield. "The fort of Jamrud stands. The Khalsa stands."
The warriors erupted in cheers, their voices rising in a triumphant roar. The battle was over, and the legend of Hari Singh Nalwa had grown even greater.