“The Royal Army thinks you’re dead. Good. We need you.”

“I want Kyrat to stop burning.”

That was three hours ago.

He crashed through bamboo, hit a slope, and rolled into a river. Cold water choked his lungs. When he surfaced, gasping, he was staring at the feet of a golden statue—Pagan Min, smiling.

A woman in a tattered yellow jacket pulled him behind a rock. Her name was Amita. She smelled of gunpowder and rain.

Wind roared. The valley stretched below like a green-and-gray scar. For one second, he felt free.

“I killed your convoy,” Ajay coughed.

Two factions. One country. No right answers.