(Vasusena's POV)



The judgment had been passed.



And Vasusena felt nothing. Even after the conversation he had with Arjuna and Acharya he still felt aimless.



The world was a hollow murmur as he walked forward, each step slow, deliberate, as though the earth itself sought to drag him down. The air pressed close, heavy with whispers—his name, spoken not with hatred, but with something worse. Regret. Uncertainty.



The same city that once spat "Radheya" like a curse now let it fall from trembling lips, soft and uneasy, unsure whether to despise or revere. But Vasusena knew the nature of men—the sweetness of gratitude always turned bitter. Praise curdled into scorn. Reverence, into indifference. In the end, he would be abandoned. That was how it always ended.



Then—hurried footsteps. A voice, raw with desperation.



The boy's parents—Sadava's parents—collapsed before him, their bodies bent low against the earth, faces streaked with tears. The mother's voice cracked as she choked on her sobs, her hands reaching, trembling, clutching at the edge of his garment as if he were a god who could grant miracles.



"You saved our son, Radheya," she wept, her voice shattering against the silence. "You saved him... when no one else would."



Vasusena's eyes fell upon her, and memory struck. He remembered her gaze from days past—cool, cutting, averted as though the sight of him stained her. The slight curl of her lip, the disdain hidden beneath courtesy. No plea for his kindness then. No thanks. No name on her tongue—only the charioteer's son.



And now she knelt. Now she begged. Now she wept.



How fate loved its cruel ironies.



"Thank Prince Suyodhana..." he murmured uncomfortably before trying to step out of the conversation. He just filled his quota of socialising with people with Arjuna and Kripacharya today and he had no wish to speak with anyone.



But then—



A touch. Small. Soft. Unshakable.



A child's hand. His palm, warm and fragile, wrapped around Vasusena's calloused fingers.



Sadava.



The boy stood before him, his eyes wide—not with fear, nor awe, but something purer. Something that scraped against every guarded piece of Vasusena's soul.



Hope.



"How can I be like you?"



It was a question—simple. And yet it gutted him.



The world contracted to that single, fragile moment. Vasusena's chest seized with a pain he could neither swallow nor escape. His throat burned with the weight of everything he could never say. What could he tell this child, who still believed that strength was glory, that victory was salvation? How could he stain such innocence with the truth—that the path to power was paved in ash, and every triumph reeked of blood?



His voice, when it came, was low, and it hurt.



"If the world is merciful, child... you will never be like me."



He smiled, but the smile was a thing broken—thin and cold, a mask that barely clung to the ruin beneath.



But he knelt, meeting the boy's gaze—warrior to child, scar to softness, shadow to sunlight. His voice dropped to a whisper, raw, pleading, though he knew the boy could never understand the prayer hidden within it.



"Study," he said, and the word was not a command, but a gift—his only gift. "Study well. Knowledge—they can't take that from you. They will steal your gold. Tear away your land. Strip you of your name. But knowledge... knowledge is a weapon. A shield. A kingdom that no conqueror can burn. Learn, Sadava. Learn... so you will never need to fight the wars I have fought."



The boy's fingers tightened—so small, so fierce—clinging to Vasusena's hand with a resolve that was too bright, too pure.



"Then I will study," Sadava vowed, his voice soft but unshakable. "And in a few years... I will be like you."



The blow was swift. And it struck deeper than any blade ever could.



A fracture opened in Vasusena's chest, and he felt it splinter, raw and merciless. He smiled, but it was a hollow thing, stretched thin over the chasm inside him.



"No," he whispered, his voice breaking on the single word. His thumb brushed over the child's small hand—gentle, as though he could guard him from the world itself. "Be better than me."



And before the boy could see the ruin behind his eyes— He turned away.



The road stretched before him, endless and cold. With every step, his body grew heavier—like the earth itself sought to crush him beneath the weight he carried. He felt the jagged edge of his breath, the tight coil of something unnamed knotting in his chest. He did not remember the gates. He did not remember crossing the threshold.



But he remembered the fall.



His knees struck the earth, the impact dull and final. His palms met the ground, fingers digging into the soil as though he could hold himself together if only he pressed hard enough. His shoulders heaved, his body curling inward as if he could cage the shattering ache inside him. But it was useless.



The breath that tore from his throat was a broken thing—raw, unbidden, and helpless. The world blurred, sight drowning in a haze of unshed anguish.



And then—



"Agrajah!" A voice—young, familiar, frightened.



Sangramjit.



Footsteps, rushed, stumbling—then stopping. Frozen. The boy stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with something Vasusena had never wanted to see—



Shock. Disbelief. And Fear.



Because his little brothers, in this life, had never seen him break. Never seen him fall.



Sangramjit's voice fractured, thin and sharp with panic. "Amma!" He turned, his voice piercing the air—raw, desperate— "Amma, come quickly!"



And she came.



A voice—wild, familiar— "Vasu—"



The world narrowed to warmth—familiar arms, pulling him close, gathering him up as though he were a child once more.



His mother.



Her embrace was the only shield he had left. And against it—



The dam broke.



His shoulders shook. His breath was shattered glass. And the tears—the tears that he had buried beneath the weight of a lifetime—fell, hot and silent.



Her voice trembled against his temple, a whisper cracked with worry. "Vasu... what happened?"



His answer was a whisper, ragged and hollow—



"After all these years, Amma..." The ghost of a smile, bitter and broken, touched his lips.



"After all these years..." His voice faltered, shattered on the truth— "...my brother is finally avenged."



Vasusena heard it—the sharp, trembling inhale his mother took. Fear. She had already understood. The one who had wronged Shon—the cause of his death—was a Purohit. A Brahmin. And in their world, raising voice or hand against a Brahmin was a death sentence. By law, and by something far worse—society. Her breath grew shallow, laced with dread.



However between his sobs... Vasusena showed what happened in the court.



The mist curled and parted, revealing the court—its walls heavy with judgment, its air thick with lies. She saw everything. She saw and heard Suyodhana's words. She saw the judgement of both the Princes and the wrath of Suryadeva.



And when it ended— Radhamma collapsed.



Her body crumpled to the earth, but Vasusena saw it was her soul that had been struck. Wrath, raw and blazing, for the injustice that stole her child. But beneath it—beneath the fury—was something else.



Fear. Fear for the son before her. The son who was breaking—and she didn't know why.



In the end, her love for him won out. Always.



Her voice, hoarse and trembling, clawed its way through the silence. "Then why—" Her eyes burned, her body shaking from the echoes of the past. "Why are you grieving, Vasusena? That bastard got what he deserved. So why—"



Her voice cracked.



"Why are you crying?"



And Vasusena broke.



"I'm not crying for that Purohit, Amma," he rasped, his voice thick, his eyes shining with unshed pain. "I don't care what happened to him."



His breath hitched, his body taut with something that felt like agony—felt like loss.



"I did it," he said, the words like glass on his tongue. "I—I did this to him. I tore him down for Shon. For justice. For—"



He choked on the air, on the truth. "But Amma—" His fists clenched, trembling. His voice, when it came, was soft—too soft—carved from the marrow of his grief. "I don't recognize myself anymore."



"That child, Amma..." His voice broke, raw and trembling, as tears slipped down his cheeks. "He—he held my hand... and asked me how he could be like me." His body shook with the weight of his confession. "The foolish child... he didn't know. He didn't know that I—" His breath hitched, a sob catching in his throat. "I used him. Like a pawn. A tool—for my vendetta against the Purohit."



Radhamma's eyes flashed, and her voice, though gentle, was firm with reproach. "Vasu... be reasonable." Her words were soft, but they struck with the force of a plea. "You are not Brahma himself. You didn't make that child walk into the Purohit's house. You—"



She stopped.



Because he was silent.



Too silent.



And then—something—shifted in his eyes. Something terrible.



Her breath faltered. Fear crept into her gaze, sharp and cold. "What did you do, Vasu?"



The air felt thicker—heavier—as he spoke. His voice, low and distant, was like a whisper from the heart of the storm.



"The universe, Amma..." he began, each word slow, careful, laced with something ancient and unyielding, "...is a string of pearls. Everything is connected. Every action, every choice—" His eyes, deep pools of sorrow and something darker, met hers. "Every tug on the thread leaves a mark."



His voice grew softer, but it carried the weight of the cosmos. "From the moments of planets... to the fire beneath the oceans—" He exhaled, the sound more shadow than breath. "All are connected. One tug—" His fingers curled as if he were holding that invisible thread, "—the entire strand moves."



Then—



His pupils ignited. A burning, otherworldly red—his boon manifesting, swirling like blood and prophecy in his eyes. The power he never showed to her.



"And this, Amma—" he said, his voice soft, and yet the world shivered beneath it, "—this allows me to see." The scarlet glow reflected in his mother's wide, terrified eyes. "This allows me to see the threads. To see which one to pull—" His voice turned colder, more certain, "—to make the universe dance to my will."



The silence between them crackled, electric and dangerous.



"I need only pull a single strand, make a small change—" His fingers made the smallest motion, a gesture so slight, so devastatingly effortless. "And unless one of the Devas themselves intervenes..." His smile—thin, bitter—cut deeper than any blade. "A war could erupt on the other side of the world if I wished to."



Radhamma felt the cold seep into her bones, and for a fleeting, chilling moment—she wondered if she truly knew her son.



But Vasusena felt it too. The fear.



The old him—with all his power, with all his knowledge—would be both horrified and terrified to see what he turned into.



Because who wouldn't be afraid—of what he was capable of? Who would dare challenge him, unless they were a god themselves? He had become something beyond human limits, a force so absolute that free will meant nothing before him. If he wished, every action, every decision, every life in this kingdom could be bent to his will.



You could never truly know—which choices were yours and which ones he had forced upon you. Every step, every decision, every path you walked—was it yours, or had Vasusena cornered you into it without you ever realizing?



And that was the most terrifying part. He never wished to be this way.



Because he knew the agony of being a puppet. He had lived it. He had felt the chains tighten around him, had struggled against the invisible hands pulling his strings—Krishna, Sage Parashurama, fate itself.



He knew what it was to be controlled.



Now, he stood before a grand chessboard, pieces scattered across its surface. The board stretched into the distance, an endless battlefield of choices—his, theirs, fate's. But whose hand had moved first? Was it ever truly his? Or had he simply learned to become the hand that moved others?



Sunlight flickered against the polished board, and in its glow, the shadows stretched long and thin—like strings tethering the pieces to unseen hands. His hands.



Choice. Autonomy. Fate. They were all illusions in his hands if he wished to.



And for a man who had lived for free will, who had tried to defy fate itself, who had spent lifetimes raging against the strings that bound him—this power was the greatest of ironies.



Because now, he was the puppeteer.



He, who had loathed the idea of being controlled. He, who had sworn to never let himself be a pawn.

He, who had fought and bled and burned to carve his own path—



Had lived long enough to become the very thing he despised.



The ultimate mockery of fate.



"I ensured..." He paused, as if the words themselves cut him from the inside. "I was the one who ensured that the child lost his necklace... in Purohit's garden, Amma."



A silence. Long. Endless.



"Why?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She didn't know if she was asking him—or begging.



With a snap of his fingers the mist returned—soft, curling—before solidifying into another window. Another memory. And he showed her.



The conversation between him, Arjuna and Kripacharya leaving out the parts regarding the future. After the entire conversation...



"Because even if a single thread had been missing... that Purohit would have escaped punishment." His voice was steady, but there was no victory in it—only exhaustion. He smiled bitterly, as if mocking his own genius.



"Even if a single court member had been absent today... he would have made them dance to his whims."



Radhamma's breath hitched. "But if you had never made that child lose his chain in the Purohit's garden... he would not have sinned today, Vasu."



Her voice was sharp, raw with disbelief and grief. "Why? Why did you do this, Vasu? Why?"



Vasusena's lips trembled, and for a moment, he couldn't answer for a few moments.



"Because that monster killed my brother, Amma! He killed my Shon!" His voice cracked, shattering under the weight of his pain. "My sweet little Shon."



A sob tore from him, his body trembling as if the very memory was trying to consume him whole.



"My little Shon, who was innocent. Who loved me more than anyone in the world. Who clung to my hand like I was his entire world."



His breaths came in short, uneven gasps. "And that man—he killed him. Not because my brother wronged him. He killed him just because he was offended."



His fingers dug into his palms, his nails biting into flesh. "Tell me, Amma... is my brother's life worth only that much?"



Radhamma looked at him, startled, as if the question itself had struck her. His voice rose, hoarse with agony. "Tell me, Amma! Is my little Shon's life worth just a moment of a man's anger? How is it fair, amma? How is it fair?"



Tears slipped down Radhamma's cheeks, silent and unbidden.



"So I made this possible." His voice dropped, quiet but no less anguished. "I pulled the strings. I shaped the board. I ensured that the path led to this outcome. I made justice happen. I destroyed that monster."



His breath was shallow, his hands shaking at his sides.



"But Amma..." His lips parted, but the words faltered. His voice trembled, heavy with something deeper than grief, heavier than rage.



"When that child touched my hand—" His fingers curled, as if still feeling the warmth of the boy's small, trusting grasp. "When he placed his hand in mine... and asked how he could become like me—"



His voice broke. Splintering. Crumbling. His breath hitched violently, a single tear slipping down his cheek, hot and unbidden.



"In that moment... all my hatred— all my hollowness— all my cold, careful calculations—disappeared."



His body shook, his vision blurred, his hands gripping at nothing.



"And what replaced them..." His voice was barely a whisper now, shaking under the weight of a realization that had come too late. "Was shame."



His breath hitched violently, his fingers curling as if still feeling the warmth of Sadava's small, trusting hand. "Because he too... was just a child. Just like my Shon."



His voice broke, raw and agonized.



"And just like that Purohit used my little Shon to serve his own twisted purpose..." He choked back a sob, his entire body trembling. "...I used Sadava to obtain my revenge."



His shoulders hunched, his breath ragged, as though the weight of his own actions was pressing him into the ground.



He lifted his head, his eyes shining with grief, with disgust, with self-hatred.



His hands clenched tightly, the nails biting into his palms as though pain could make the guilt easier to bear. His chest heaved, his voice raw and cracking as he continued,



"An innocent... Sadava is innocent. And I—" The word caught, and he choked on it, as if confessing it aloud made the sin more real, more monstrous. "I used him. A child—an innocent child—and I turned him into a pawn. A tool. A weapon—for my vendetta." His voice fractured entirely, his body trembling with a grief too large for his frame, his shame carving him hollow from the inside out.



"Vasu..." Radhamma's voice was soft, tender, but laced with the sharp edge of a mother's worry, her heart breaking for her child's unseen wounds.



But he pushed forward, the confession pouring from him in a jagged, unstoppable torrent. "I told Prince Arjuna—" his voice, tight with agony, twisted and cracked—"that vengeance is the purest emotion a man could have for another. I told him that in love... a man blinds himself to his sins and still dares to call himself pure."



His lips curled bitterly, and his voice, weighted with self-loathing, fell softer but struck harder. "Today just as it was true for Prince Arjuna... it was also true for me. Because in my love for my brother...I—I didn't care, Amma. I didn't care that I gambled a child's life—for my vengeance. It was adharma. I know it was adharma. But I didn't care. And I called it right amma."



And it was the same in his old life. He did several adharma for the love he had for Suyodhana. He knew he was doing adharma and yet for the love he had for his friend... he did several adharma. The only difference between him and his uterine brothers is that he never called it dharma.



His eyes, wet and blazing with raw sorrow, met hers—pleading, exposed, and utterly broken.



"But what did Sadava—" his voice trembled, splintering under the ache, "—what did Sadava ever do to me... that I nearly had him killed?" His throat clenched, strangling his voice, and the next words fell like shattered glass from his lips.



"I—I ensured that he would never be harmed... I swear it. I did everything—everything I could—to shield him." His voice collapsed into a hoarse whisper, thin and trembling under the crushing weight of guilt.



"But... but he would never have been in danger..." his voice broke, breathless and raw, as his tears fell freely, unrestrained, and his body shuddered under the agony of truth— "...if not for me."



"All these years..." His voice was low, weighed down by something raw and hollow. "All these years, I used this power—" his gaze fell to his hands, fingers trembling as though the weight of every choice, every consequence, was carved into his skin—"so that no child, no innocent, would wander into those bastards' homes and lose their lives to the hypocrisy of this society."



His voice cracked, not with rage, but something colder—something that had burned so long it had turned to ash. "From the moment I received this gift... I swore—no life would be crushed under their double standards. No one would be condemned to death for breaking rules that were never made for them to survive." His fists closed tight, and his breath came sharp and uneven. "Every time—I stopped it. Every time."



His body trembled. His voice broke.



"But this once..." He exhaled, and it was jagged, a sound more wound than breath. "This once— even though it was not supposed to happen... I ensured it would happen."



"What's the difference between me and that monster, Amma?" His voice cracked, shattering. He sobbed. "In the path to get justice for my brother... when did I too become a monster amma?"



Tears burned down his cheeks, but he did not wipe them away. He did not deserve to. He had avenged his brother, but in doing so, he had become the very thing he swore to destroy.



And that truth was more unbearable than any punishment the world could give him



Radhamma's voice, sharp and stricken, broke through the storm of his grief. "This—" Her eyes, wide with disbelief, searched his face. "This is not just revenge isn't it, Vasu? This is your warning to our society?" Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the terrible, dawning understanding. "A reminder—to the Brahmins—that the laws they hide behind—" Her voice rose, raw and sharp with horror, "—will turn on them with the same cruelty they use to destroy us?"



His answer—soft, heavy, and cold—fell like a final blow.



"Yes."



And the silence that followed— Burned.



"Vasu... your fight today was for the society." She spoke even as her voice broke in fear. "How many children in the future your actions would save? This one gamble... you have ensured for at least a few generations... no one would suffer. Your actions might be horrifying Vasu... but you acted for greater good."



"Greater Good?" He smiled softly. "I hated that phrase. It's just a better way of saying that we are choosing Lesser Evil.



In the name of Greater Good... do you know how many lives have been lost?" His mother looked at him in concern. "In all my other lives... I hated Greater Good amma. I died in the name of Greater Good. And I swore to myself that I would never play with the lives of others in the name of Greater Good.



And now look at me. I became everything I loathed. I became what I hated in my opponents. Fate is a funny thing amma. It really is."



Is this what Krishna felt... every time he played with their lives?



The thought slithered through Vasusena's mind, cold and relentless. The dark-skinned lord, smiling even as he wove destinies with his hands, watching them dance to a tune only he could hear. Despite loving the Pandavas above all, he had never truly favored them. He made sure that even they got their punishments.



But Vasusena was not Krishna.



And the weight on his shoulders—this unbearable, suffocating weight—was not even a fraction of what Krishna carried. And yet... it was crushing him.



Krishna had told Arjuna once—Do not think of rewards. Do not think of consequences. Do only your duty.



Vasusena wished he could be that way. To be blind. To be unfeeling. To be a soldier, an instrument of fate, moving forward without hesitation, without regret, without guilt. To see only the path ahead and never turn back.



But he couldn't. Not anymore.



The man he had been—the war-monger, the butcher, the force that razed cities and shattered empires—had never hesitated. Never once had he thought of the faces behind the numbers, the voices lost in the destruction he left behind. He had done his duty.



And now, Fate, in its cruel, mocking amusement, had shown him the cost of his righteousness.



How much had he changed?



Once, he had stood over the corpses of thousands, millions—unmoved, uncaring. Once, he had walked through the ruins of the world without a single glance back. Once, he had believed his path was just.



And now—



Now, he was weeping over the suffering of one child.



What a twisted, vicious thing Fate was. And he is thankful for it. Because it changed him. Is it for better or worse... only time will answer that question.



"If you feel you have sinned, Vasusena..." His mother's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him from the depths of his torment. Her tone was neither scolding nor absolving—only steady, only knowing. "...Then make amends, my child."



His breath hitched. "Amma..." He spoke softly, almost pleadingly, but she did not let him retreat into silence.



"Do you remember Vinay and Varadha, Vasu?" She spoke over him, her voice firm, relentless. He looked at her wearily.



"When I first heard that my son had killed two men simply for not heeding orders... I was afraid of you. I thought—" she took a shuddering breath, her fingers clenching as if the memory itself still haunted her, "—I thought you had forgotten the life you once had. That you had become a cruel tyrant."



His face twisted, shame burning across his skin like a brand.



Her voice softened.



"And yet... behind their families' backs, you ensured that every one of their needs was fulfilled."



She watched him, watched the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath caught—silent, but telling. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, trembling with the force of restraint, as though he could will himself into denying her words. But she would not let him.



"You arranged dowry for Varadha's sister, made certain that no one—not even she—ever knew whose hands had paved her path. You secured good positions for all of Vinay's brothers in Hastinapura, ensuring their futures before they even realized they needed one. You have given them everything, unseen, unthanked."



She exhaled slowly with sorrow in her eyes



"I know," she whispered. "I know your actions do not erase what you have done. I know that no kindness will ever wash away the blood on your hands. That even the gods themselves, should they descend from the heavens, may never call you sinless."



She reached for him, her hand trembling with something tender, something agonizingly gentle, as if he were something fragile—something breakable despite the steel of his being.



"But my child..." her voice broke, not from weakness, but from the unbearable truth of it all. "Their families... you have treated like our own. Even when you owed them nothing. Even when they cursed your name. Even when their eyes burned with hatred for you, you still gave."



Her fingers rested against his cheek, her touch warm, grounding, pulling him back from the abyss he refused to name.



"And till the end of your life, you will continue to care for them. Every breath you take, every moment you live, you will try to make amends—even when what you did was lawful. Even when you stood by justice."



A pause, and then—softer, yet searing:



"Others would not have cared. But you, Vasu..." She swallowed, her voice thick with something nameless. "You bear the guilt, even when you are right. Others would have just killed them and wouldn't even care for the consequences. You cared and that's enough for me."



He could not speak. Could not breathe.



He had never known. Never once suspected that his mother had seen through him.



She smiled then, softly, as though she could see through him—past the masks, past the armor, past the weight of his sins. "You are my son, Vasusena." Her voice was a whisper, but it filled the space between them with something vast and unshakable. "To the world, you might be cruel. Cold-blooded. Contemptible. But I know my son."



Her fingers brushed against his cheek, and he felt himself tremble beneath her touch. The warmth of it seeped into his very bones, chasing away the shadows that clung to his soul.



"I know," she whispered, her voice gentle, unwavering, filled with a love that had never faltered. "No matter how many masks you wear, no matter how many names you take—beneath them all... lies a heart that still loves deeply."



A shuddering breath left his lips, and fresh tears spilled down his face, unbidden, unstoppable. He looked at her—at the mother who had never once turned away from him. There was fear in her eyes, yes—how could there not be? He was not blind to what he had become. But beneath that fear, beneath the trembling uncertainty, lay something far greater, far stronger.



Love.



Undying. Unshaken. Unconditional.



He swallowed, his throat aching with the weight of emotions he could barely contain. "Do you know, Amma..." His voice came soft, raw, breaking at the edges. "In most of the futures I have seen... I was always angry at my biological mother." His lips curled, bitter, as he let the truth slip free. "I hated her. I loathed her for abandoning me. For throwing me away like I was nothing. For stealing from me—my name, my rights."



Radhamma's eyes filled with tears, but she did not interrupt. She let him speak, let him pour out the agony he had buried for lifetimes.



"But..." His breath hitched, and he gave a hollow, trembling laugh. "In search of gold, I had always—I always took the diamond I already held in my hands for granted."



His hands reached for hers, rough calluses meeting soft warmth, and he held on—held on—as though anchoring himself to the only truth that mattered.



"If my biological mother ever dares to stand before me..." His voice, quiet but resolute, carried the weight of his soul. "I will thank her, Amma." His lips trembled, his fingers clutching hers tightly. "I will thank her for abandoning me."



Radhamma let out a small, broken gasp, her tears spilling over, but he did not stop.



"Because if she hadn't..." He exhaled shakily, eyes brimming with emotions too vast to contain. "I would have never known your love. I would have never belonged to you."



His voice cracked, the words nearly swallowed by the ache in his chest.



"Thank you for loving me, Amma." His tears fell freely now, unrestrained, his grip on her hands tightening as if afraid she would slip away. "Thank you... for everything."



And for a man who was hated by the world... Radhamma's love is more than enough.



"Then will you listen to this mother, Radheya?" Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of something undeniable.



He lifted his gaze to meet hers, his breath still uneven, his heart still raw.



"Your amends for that child..." she whispered, "...lie within your own power."



Her fingers tightened around him, grounding him, steadying him. "That child—Sadava—he wished to be like you, Vasusena. When he grows up, he wants to be like you." Her eyes burned with something fierce, something unshakable. "Then make him into whatever he chooses to be."



She saw the flicker in his eyes—the doubt, the pain, the unspoken question of how? But she did not let him retreat into uncertainty.



"Prince Suyodhana was right," she continued, her voice steady, unwavering. "The upper castes have stolen our lives, stripped away our choices, decided who we could be before we even had a chance to choose for ourselves. You fought against it all your life and gained what you wished for. Now..." Her hands cupped his face, her touch warm, resolute. "Now you can give others what you have gained, Vasusena. Give them the freedom of choice. Give him a choice to be whatever he wishes to be."



She searched his eyes, holding him in place with the sheer force of her love. "You turned a child they called Kul Nashak into someone even I would gladly give my life for, Vasusena. You are a capable teacher."



Tears welled in her eyes, but her conviction did not waver. "You told Sadava to be better than you." She smiled, soft and knowing, as she whispered the words that would shape his path.



"So teach him to be better."



"No child should ever have to beg for education like you did, Vasusena." Radhamma's voice, though soft, carried the weight of generations of suffering, of injustice so deep it had become the very foundation of their world. "No child should be killed for hypocrisy, like my Swarnajeet.



No children should suffer like mine did."



Her hands trembled, but her eyes burned with something fierce, something unbreakable. "You said... that unless a Deva intervened, you could start a war with the slightest shift." She took a breath, steadying herself as she looked into his eyes, as if daring him to deny the truth of his own words. "Parameshwara gave you that power for a reason."



She exhaled, slow and heavy, each word striking like a hammer against iron. "How you use it... that is what will define you."



Her fingers curled around his, her grip tight, demanding.



"Use it well, Vasusena." Her voice did not waver—it commanded. "Use your power to tear down the hypocrisy of this world. Use it to destroy the chains that have bound us for lifetimes. Use it—" she breathed, her eyes fierce, unyielding—"to end this curse."



Her tears fell freely now, not out of sorrow, but from the sheer, overwhelming truth of her words. "Give our children the choice to be whatever they wish to be, Vasu." Her voice cracked, but she did not falter.



"I—" Her hands trembled as she gripped his shoulders, grounding herself, grounding him. "I'm sorry, my child. I'm sorry that I never supported your ambitions. I'm sorry that when you reached for more, I hesitated. We were taught to fear power."



Her breath shuddered, as if the confession itself had shattered something inside her. "We were taught to fear strength, to fear those who wield it, and in that fear—I never supported you wholeheartedly. I hesitated—because 'Power begets Tragedy.' And even now, I am afraid, Vasu. I am afraid of what power does. I am afraid of what it turns people into." Her voice dropped to a whisper, thick with anguish. "And I hate that I am scared."



"Power begets tragedy, Amma," he murmured. "But without power... one cannot resist a tragedy."



Radhamma's lips parted, her breath catching. The simple statement is what differentiates her from himself.



"But still... for you, Amma..." His voice was raw, trembling with something too deep to name. He took a slow breath, steadying himself. And then he swore.



"From this moment forward... I will wield this power only to protect the people I love." His words hung heavy in the air, an oath carved into the very fabric of his being. His hands curled into fists, as if trying to restrain the storm within him. "This is the last time I will use it for revenge. The last time I will let hatred guide me."



His chest rose and fell, his breath uneven. This power had already cost him too much. His mother's fear is right.



And now, before his mother, before the gods who had cursed and blessed him in equal measure—he set his burden down.



No more blood for vengeance. No more destruction for the sake of hatred.

Not anymore.



"Then teach them, Vasusena." Her voice did not tremble this time. It commanded. It was demanding. "Teach the children to be powerful. And teach them to be kind and loving.



This cycle of oppression, of fear—let it die with us. The ones who are willing to learn... the ones who desire more... they should never suffer like we did ."



Her gaze burned into his, fierce and unyielding.



"Beginning of this curse's end... should start with you Vasusena. I know you cannot destroy the generations of oppression in your lifetime... but this change should start now. You already started this change with your brothers... Now this should continue with Sadava."



"Thank you amma." And he was thankful for her perspective.



Half-an-hour later



"Father will be healed by tomorrow or the next day, Amma," Vasusena spoke softly, his voice carrying the weight of long nights without rest. "He should be able to walk within a week, and in a few months, he'll be fit to resume his duties. I'm thinking of handing him my position as the Head Charioteer of the Samudra Division once he's ready."



Radhamma exhaled slowly, relief settling into her features before her gaze sharpened with curiosity. "And what about you, Vasu?"



A small, tired smile flickered across his lips. "Mahaamahim Bhishma and the others... Well, I terrified them. They'll be relieved to have one less headache to deal with." His voice was tinged with amusement, but there was something hollow underneath.



"However I will miss leading the Samudra Division. I trained them well, but they aren't capable of handling Rakshasas. If they ever get requests for those missions, I just hope father rejects them. He's sensible, so I'm not too worried." He leaned back slightly, as if letting go of something unseen. "I suppose it's back to the army reserves for me."



Radhamma frowned. "You could work under your father, couldn't you, Vasu?"



He shook his head. "Not really." His fingers idly traced patterns on the wooden surface beside him, his tone turning almost clinical.



"I became the Head Charioteer because the court wanted to break my spirit the same way they did to my father. They thought it would crush me, humiliate me. Now?" A short, sharp laugh escaped him. "Now they fear me more than anyone else in this kingdom. They wouldn't dare keep me in a position of power if they have even a sliver of sense left." He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the irony of it all.



"It would make sense for me to work under father. But each division has a fixed number of positions—no more, no less. And right now, there are no openings in the army." He exhaled slowly, his voice laced with something unreadable. "With my experience, I should be leading a division. That's the logical choice. But they'll never allow it."



His gaze softened, a flicker of something warm surfacing beneath the exhaustion. "Still... I think I'm looking forward to being in reserves. I'll have more time with you and my brothers." His smile dimmed, and his next words came quieter, almost as if spoken more to himself.



"And... it's tiring, Amma. Tiring to act like a monster all the time. It has served me well, but it's exhausting. And these days..." He hesitated, voice tightening ever so slightly. "I'm scared it will stop being an act. That it will turn into my real nature instead of just a mask."



A beat of silence. Radhamma's hand twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for him.



"Did you really have to scare people this much, Agrajah?" Vrikartha asked, his tone filled with curiosity rather than judgment.



"Sometimes, yes." Vasusena's reply was calm, matter-of-fact. "If we wish to change the world, we need power. To be powerful... We need knowledge and wisdom. But power over others comes only through fear or love, Vrikartha. Personally, I prefer a combination of both."



His younger brother frowned, deep in thought. "Fear and love?"



Vasusena's lips curled into a smirk, but his eyes held no amusement. No warmth. No mercy.



"If they don't love you, make them fear you. If they don't fear you, make them love you. As long as you hold one or the other, you will always have power."



He paused for a moment, letting the words settle, then added, "But if you wish to change the world... you must be both loved and feared."



His voice was calm, measured, but beneath it lay an edge sharper than any blade, a truth that had been carved into the very bones of the world.



"The entire palace trembles at the mere sight of me. They do not dare fight me. They do not dare challenge me." His fingers tapped idly —a calculated rhythm, measured and deliberate. Nothing about him was ever idle. "But they know that I am dutiful, that I love the Kingdom more than they ever could and they know I cared for everyone under my command."



"And Prince Suyodhana..." A glint of something unreadable flickered in his eyes. "Prince Suyodhana loves me. He trusts me more than his own blood. He listens to me above all others. But deep down—he is terrified of what I am capable of."



He exhaled slowly, tilting his head. "Tell me, Vrikartha—what does that tell you about the world?"



A beat of silence. His brothers looked at one another, uncertain.



But Vasusena already knew the answer.



The world did not listen to the weak. It did not care for kindness unless it came from someone strong enough to enforce it. A man incapable of war had no right to ask for peace.



Fear or love alone were not enough.



Too much fear, and you became a tyrant. Too much love, and you became a puppet.



Balance was the key.



When he was young, he had thought that if he proved his worth, if he trained harder than anyone, if he bled and fought and became strength itself, then the world would embrace him. That they would look beyond his birth and see him.



That had been his first mistake. The world had no love for men like him. Men who were born into the dirt but dared to reach for the stars.



No, they did not love him.



They feared him as the mad dog of Suyodhana. And that fear... was the only thing that had ever kept him safe initially. But fear alone would have made him loathed.



If not for his generosity, if not for the wealth he gave away so freely, if not for the protection he offered even to those who despised him, they would have never stopped fearing him long enough to see the man beneath the bloodshed.



He did not give to be loved... but it worked in his favor.



The people knew he was a war-monger, a man drenched in blood and fire, but they also knew that he gave back. That was why they loved him. And when fear sits in the backseat, love drives the heart.



"I wish to be loved more than feared, Agrajah," Vipatha said softly.



Vasusena turned his gaze toward him, unreadable.



"And what happens when love is not enough?"



His brothers glanced at one another in confusion, but no one had an answer. Except Vipatha.



"You say the world does not listen to the weak," Vipatha said, voice steady, his hands clenched into fists. "But does it listen to the heartless?"



Vasusena raised a brow, smiling softly. "Go on."



"If a man rules only by fear, his power will last as long as his strength holds," Vipatha continued. "But the moment his hands grow weak, the moment his blade dulls, his people will tear him down. Fear never lasts."



Sangramjit shook his head at Vipatha's words. "No, if a man rules only by love, he risks being taken advantage of. He risks his kindness being turned against him."



Vasusena smirked. "You two are proving my point, not challenging it."



Silence. "You are right, Agrajah." He smiled and ruffled his brother's hair. "Still think that the only way to change the world is by love."



"And I think that the only way to change the world is by forced." Sangramjit argued.



'Well... I suppose that is my fault,' he thought, a quiet sorrow settling in his chest. 'They have been sheltered for almost four years—isolated, untouched by the horrors of the world. It is no wonder they still see it through rose-tinted glasses. Or through cruelty.' He thought looking at Sangramjit and Vipatha.



He had failed to prepare them. Failed to teach them the nature of men, the weight of power, the cruelty that thrived in the cracks of idealism. But there was still time. Still time before their minds solidified, before their beliefs became unshakable.



Being idealistic was not wrong. But it made one easy to break. Easy to be used. And it's his duty to prepare them.



"Mahaamahim Bhishma was considered to be the best ruler despite never sitting on the throne of Hastinapura. Why?"



"Because he fought for the welfare of the Kingdom," Vipatha answered immediately. "Because he loved this Kingdom very much and in turn he was loved by the people." Sangramjit stated a moment later.



(In his previous life, Bhishma's love for the Pandavas had made him a fool—blinded, bound, and broken by his devotion. He had clung to them so desperately that even Suyodhana, despite his respect for the elder, had grown vexed.



And in his frustration, he had stripped Bhishma of his power, reducing him to nothing more than a spectator—a relic of a warrior who could do nothing but watch and wish for his princes to perish so that his beloved grandchildren could seize the throne.



But this life was not the same.)



Vasusena nodded. "He loved the Kingdom very much and yet... Why did no one ever dared to take advantage of his love for Hastinapura. People who loved something deeply could be easily manipulated by that love and yet no one ever dared to take advantage of it. Why do you think that is?"



His brothers exchanged uncertain glances, until finally, Sangramjit spoke. "Because they fear his strength."



Vasusena's smile widened. "That's what makes Mahaamahim Bhishma so untouchable."



He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "They love him... and they fear him in equal measure. Mahaamahim is not a boot-licker. He does not care to please everyone. He stands firm in his principles and never wavers for anyone or anything. He favors Brahmins, yes... but that's because he was raised that way.



But no one ever did manage to make him into their puppet at least not completely.



He is the ruler of Hastinapur despite never sitting on the throne, and even the kings who came after his father, those who resented his power—they could do nothing. Why do you think that is so?"



Silence. So he answered his own question. "Because he is loved too much to remove. And feared too much to even think of doing so."



He leaned forward slightly, gaze glinting in the dim light. "That is what makes a man untouchable."



Vipatha exhaled slowly. His voice was quiet, "But is that truly a life worth living?"



Vasusena's smirk didn't fade, but something in his gaze sharpened.



"For a man who lives to make a mark on the world... living a thousand years will not give him satisfaction." His voice was measured, steady—unshaken.



"What gives him that satisfaction is seeing the change he envisioned brought into reality. If it happens—even if he lives for just a single day—he will die happy. So yes it is a life worth living."



He smiled, thinking of how Mahaamahim Bhishma had died happily. Yes, he had suffered. Yes, his final moments had been filled with pain. But in the end—he was at peace.



Because he had lived long enough to see his dream fulfilled. Because he had shaped the future with his own hands. Because he had made Yudhishthira the King of Hastinapura. So despite his horrifying death... he died with peace in his heart.



And now... he too had a dream.



A dream to take his mother's wish—her impossible, fragile hope—and forge it into reality.



Vipatha's voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.



"You said you are happy, Agrajah." His gaze was unwavering, searching, as if trying to peel back the layers of truth hidden beneath Vasusena's smile. "Then why did you cry? Why did you hate your actions today?"



Vasusena smiled wanly, but there was no warmth in it—just something brittle, something worn. "Because I hated making people fear me."



Silence. His brothers stiffened, confusion flickering across their faces. The contradiction was glaring.



Fear was his weapon. Fear was his shield.

Fear was the very foundation of everything he had built.



Had he not just told them that power lay in fear or love? Had he not shaped his entire existence around that very truth?



Sangramjit frowned. "But Agrajah... that doesn't make sense."



Vasusena let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly. "I know. It sounds odd, doesn't it?"



None of his brothers looked away. "So why?"



Vasusena exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Because hating something doesn't mean it isn't necessary."



He leaned back, gaze dark, lost in thought. "Because I know what it is like to be afraid." His voice was lower now, the weight of something old and painful pressing against it. "I know what it is like to be powerless. To be cast aside. To be mocked, humiliated, broken."



His fingers clenched into fists. "To walk into a world knowing that no one accepts you. To know that no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you bleed, how deep you love, the world will never love you back."



His brothers said nothing. They had never seen him like this—not truly. "I know what it is like to look into a man's eyes and see only his disgust. To hear my name whispered like a curse. To watch doors close before I can even knock. To be a scapegoat just because they have power to make me so."



His voice turned hollow, his eyes distant. "I know what it is like to be hated, Vipatha. And hatred and rejection is all I know and received from the world. So I made them fear me."



Vipatha's fingers curled into fists. "That doesn't sound... fair."



Vasusena chuckled, but it was low, quiet—more weary than amused. "The world isn't fair." His voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with something undeniable, unshakable. "It never was. It never will be."



"Vasu..." Radhamma chided, her tone carrying both exhaustion and sadness. "Do not fill their minds with your cynical nature. You are already enough of a headache for me. Don't turn your brothers into one too."



"Well, I'm only teaching him the ways of the world, Amma," he said in defense, tilting his head slightly. "Don't scold me for speaking the truth. Blame the world for being this way."



Vrikartha grinned kindly behind their mother's back, and Vasusena gave him a subtle nod, sharing an unspoken understanding.



Radhamma sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. Decades of living under oppression and molding her mindset to survive it... it's no wonder she finds having a son like him difficult. He was an iconoclast, a force that broke traditions instead of bending to them. And yet, she didn't scold him as much as she once would have. She was trying to change.



Then—



A commotion erupted outside. Shrill voices, indignant shouts. The sound of feet shuffling, fists pounding against walls.



"Asura Maya!"

"Rakshasa!"

"Shapagrasta!"



Vasusena let out a slow, measured breath. Ah. The Brahmins had finally arrived.



It was almost amusing. The cowards had never dared to come near him before—and for good reason. But now that Purohit Paramsukh had been sentenced, they had found their courage.



They could not blame the Suyodhana—it's nothing less than a death sentence for them. They could not blame the court—the verdict had been lawful.



So instead, they had come here. Looking for a scapegoat.



Him.



Vasusena clicked his tongue. Fools.



They had braved the pain of the traps he had set around his house just to stand outside and scream? He never thought them capable of such recklessness. But then again—anger dulls intelligence.



And nothing terrifies the powerful more than seeing one of their own fall.



That was what this was.



They weren't truly here for Paramsukh. They were here because if a Brahmin could be punished and that horrifyingly, then none of them were safe anymore.



He almost wanted to laugh.



They thought they could do something by standing outside and shouting curses? By calling him an Asura, a Rakshasa, a demon? None of them could cross the Lakshmana Rekha outside his house unless he allowed it.



And yet, there they stood—thinking he was using maya to keep them out. One of the purest forms of protection in the universe and they thought it to be asura maya.



His mother's grip on his shoulder was tight, trembling. A silent plea. A mother's fear.



He turned to her, and for a moment, he remembered his promise. A slow breath. A flicker of power. His pupils burned red. Then—the fire dimmed. Not extinguished. Controlled.



A cold, cruel smile stretched across his face. "Amma..." His voice was soft, almost amused, but his eyes—they were fixed on the gates.



On the Brahmins clamoring for his blood.



Mockery danced in his gaze as he watched them. The men who had held power for centuries. Who had dictated the lives of others under the guise of divine will. Who had whispered laws into existence only to ensure their own supremacy. He exhaled slowly, the weight of generations pressing against him.



"You once told me that I cannot destroy centuries of oppression in your lifetime."



His smile widened—terrible, knowing. "Then watch closely, Amma." His voice dropped to a whisper. A promise. "I won't even say a single word in my defence. I will warn them beforehand... it's fair to warn them.



If they don't listen today..." He smirked. "...the foundations of their adharmic discrimination will rattle. Today will mark the beginning of the end for our curse. I'm letting go of the strings today amma. Their very future depends on their choices today."



"However, Amma... I'm sorry." His voice was barely a whisper, so that only she could hear his words. "I'm sorry for what I am going to do today. I hope you forgive me."



He did not wait for her response.



He stepped out and walked towards the fools who sought their own destruction today.





(Sangramjit's POV)



He stood closest to them. Close enough to hear the words exchanged between their mother and Agrajah And yet, he did not understand.



Why?



Why did his brother state that he would not speak not even a single word in his defense? Not a single argument, not even the slightest attempt to fight the accusations?



What the hell is he thinking?



This wasn't like him.



Their Agrajah's power did not just lie in his strength. His greatest weapon was his mind, his oration, his ability to turn words into weapons sharper than any blade. And now... he was leaving his greatest weapon behind when he needed it most?



Is he mad?



Sangramjit's chest tightened.



Maybe... maybe it wouldn't be that bad. Maybe the Brahmins wouldn't dare do anything extreme. Maybe they'd just publicly reprimand him. Humiliate him. Make a grand show of their power before letting him walk away—damaged, but alive.



Or—



Would they exile him? The thought struck suddenly, violently.



And for a brief, fleeting moment—hope bloomed.



Exile.



The very thing that should have filled him with rage, with shame... felt like an escape. Would it be so bad? Would it not, in fact, be the best thing to happen to them?



Leaving this hellhole of a city. Escaping the suffocating chains of its hypocrisy.



He swallowed, fists clenching. His Agrajah was changing. Staying in this wretched place, surrounded by enemies, by snakes who waited for any excuse to strike, was twisting him.



And not caring of the dangers in surrounding hin...he was turning soft. He was losing himself.



Maybe this was what their mother meant when she spoke of a curse.



They had no friends. No place in this city. No allies, only empty smiles and whispering crowds. They were isolated. Hated. Shunned. And exile—exile could be freedom.



They could go somewhere else. Somewhere their brother would not have to be this ruthless, this cold, this merciless.



A place where their Agrajah could finally live without fear and can fight freely. Where he could be happy. Sangramjit breathed in sharply, the thought taking root before he could shove it away.



And true to his words... Vasusena did not even speak a single word when he was spit on his face by a Brahmin. He let himself be dragged away without a single word. Blood boiled fiercely in his veins but he held himself back.



Leaving Vrikartha had been left behind with the children...he, Vipatha, and their mother raced through the streets, their breaths coming fast, but the city—the city was suffocating.



The Brahmins had summoned the entire Vaishya and Shudra communities—not as mere spectators, but as witnesses.



No. Not even as witnesses. Not even as subjects. As slaves.



This was not just about punishing Vasusena.



This was about power. A pulse of unease slithered through the streets, winding around temples and courtyards, seeping into doorways and whispered conversations. The air was thick, suffocating.



The kind of silence that came before a storm.



And at the center of it all Agrajah Vasusena stood tall. Untouched. Unbowed. Despite the chains binding him... he looked peaceful.



"Please don't do this, Oh Brahmins." His voice was steady. Unshaken. The first words he had spoken since this mockery of a trial had begun. "If you value your lives... please don't do this."



A warning. No—a promise. And the most horrifying part? He was smiling.



Not the sharp, cruel smirk Sangramjit had seen him use to taunt his enemies. Not the bitter, weary curl of his lips when he spoke of fate.



But a peaceful smile. A smile that no one had ever seen before.

A smile that sent a violent shiver down Sangramjit's spine.

Because it was not the smile of a man standing trial.

It was not the smile of a man awaiting judgment.

It was the smile of a man who had already won.



And suddenly, Sangramjit knew. Agrajah has lost his mind.



The thought came fast, sharp, and cruelly wrong. Because no. Vasusena had not lost his mind. Sangramjit had.



Because it took him this long to realize what was happening.



Then—a thought struck him like lightning. And the blood in his veins turned to ice.



Agrajah Vasusena loved Bhrata Shon.



He loved him beyond reason, beyond sense.



A love so deep, that it bordered on madness.



Their mother had spoken of it often, telling stories of how Vasusena shielded their brother from the world, how he would hold him as he slept, how he nearly destroyed himself when he died.



Today... he burnt down the world just to get justice for him.



And Justice had been served.



The one who wronged Bhrata Shon was dead. His vengeance was complete.



And suddenly, Sangramjit knew why Vasusena was smiling.



He's willing to die. His brother's own words echoed in his skull, spoken barely an hour ago—words he had ignored.



For a man who lives to make a mark on the world... living a thousand years will not give him satisfaction.What gives him that satisfaction is seeing the change he envisioned brought into reality. If it happens—even if he lives for just a single day—he will die happy.



Sangramjit felt like he couldn't breathe.



Agrajah Vasusena had spent his whole life fighting.



Not for respect, Not for admiration. Hell not even for fear.



He fought all his life for the love he had for his brothers. He changed when Bhrata Shon died. He challenged the very foundations of the society to avenge Bhrata Shon's unlawful death



And he won.



Is Agrajah Vasusena willing to die happily now?



NO.



No. No. NO.



Sangramjit's breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. This cannot happen.



They already lost Bhrata Shon. Losing Agrajah Vasusena would destroy their mother.



It would destroy all of them.



It would tear apart the fragile strings that held their family together.



It would leave behind nothing but ruin.



And worst of all—



Agrajah would go willingly.



He would die smiling.



He would leave them without hesitation.



Sangramjit saw it now.



That was why he had said nothing in his defense.



That was why he had let them do this.



Because in his mind, it was already over.



This was his ending.



Sangramjit clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.



The Brahmins' words sliced through the murmuring crowd.



"He spoke against a Brahmin."

"He convicted a Brahmin of crime."

"He forgot his place."



Sangramjit's stomach twisted violently.



He wanted to scream.

He wanted to rage.



But when he looked at Agrajah Vasusena—standing still as a mountain, unflinching, unbowed— he felt helpless.



And the fears that plagued him turned true. Agrajah had already accepted his death just as he feared.



WHY?



Fear clawed at his throat.



Bhrata Shon was not the only brother Agrajah Vasusena had.



He had Sangramjit. He had Vipatha. He had Vrikartha. Shatrunjaya, Prabhakara, Baby Chitrasena.



Why was he not fighting to live for them?



Then—the judgment. "For this crime, Vasusena, son of Radha, shall have boiling oil poured into his ears."



Sangramjit felt his knees go weak. The cauldron bubbled fiercely. The stench of scalding oil filled the air.



They had already decided. Before even stepping foot here, they had already chosen to kill his brother.



They did not even give him a chance to defend himself. This was not justice. This was murder.



A Brahmin turned toward a figure in the crowd. "You."



Sangramjit's breath caught as his eyes landed on the man.



Uncle Dwipatha. His father's old friend.



He remembered him—vaguely. He used to play with Uncle Dwipatha's son, cry-baby Amitha, before their family had been cast out of society. Before everything changed.



His father had once said—of all the men who had turned their backs on them, Uncle Dwipatha had been one of the worst.



And now—he was being ordered to execute Vasusena.



The Brahmin handed him a ladle. "Pour this oil in his ear."



Uncle Dwipatha hesitated. His fingers hovered over the ladle, trembling. His gaze flickered to the bubbling cauldron. Then—to Vasusena. To his peaceful, untroubled face.



Sangramjit felt his breath catch in his throat. WHY WAS NO ONE STOPPING THIS?



Why were they all just watching?



His heart pounded. Someone—anyone—should step forward. Someone should say something.



The crowd shifted, uneasy. Some averted their gazes. Others watched in tense anticipation, waiting, as if a silent force had gripped them all, rooting them in place.



Uncle Dwipatha's fingers curled around the ladle—then stopped.



A slow exhale. And then—he placed it down and stepped back.



Sangramjit's pulse thundered in his ears. He could scarcely believe his own eyes.



The Brahmin's face twisted in rage. "What are you doing?!"



Uncle Dwipatha did not turn back.



"Pour the oil, Suta!"



A beat of silence. Then—



"No."



The world stilled.



The murmurs in the crowd faltered. Shock rippled through the people like the first crack in a dam.



No one had ever said no.



The Brahmins froze. Eyes locked onto the man who had spent a lifetime bowing to them.



Sangramjit's throat felt dry. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might break free from his chest.



"Did you forget your place, Suta?" An older Brahmin sneered, trying to regain control. "Following the orders of your betters is your duty in this world. By obeying us, you gain punya. If your punya is enough, you may be reborn as a higher caste in your next life."



Sangramjit clenched his fists.



They truly believed this. They believed killing his brother was righteous.



Uncle Dwipatha did not even look at them. He tilted his head back, staring at the sky.



And then, softly— "What punya?" He asked



His voice was steady. "What need do I have for a punya that demands I kill an innocent child?"



A single breath.



Then—"If I only get punya by killing a child who saved the Kingdom from a horrible sin... I don't want such punya, Brahmandev."



And he walked away.



The silence that followed was unbearable. The Brahmins faltered. The crowd—once hesitant, once wavering—stiffened.



Sangramjit's pulse roared in his ears. The people who had come here to witness this execution now looked at the Brahmins with something... different.



Not fear.

Not reverence.

Something colder.

Something dangerously close to contempt.



The Brahmins had summoned them to bear witness to their power. But now—these same people bore witness to their shame.



The oldest Brahmin's face twisted. His hands clenched into fists. His lips curled back like a cornered animal. "Wretched filth," he spat. Then, with barely contained fury, he turned back to Uncle Dwipatha. "I ought to curse you for—"



"Curse me for what?"



The sharpness of his voice cut through the air like a blade. For the first time—Uncle Dwipatha faced them directly.



A man who had spent his entire life bowing.



A man who had never once spoken against them.

A man who had never dared raise his voice before.



But now—he looked them in the eyes. And they looked away first.



"You came here to defend a man branded as a blasphemer by Surya Narayana himself," Uncle Dwipatha said, voice cold. "A man who would have tainted this kingdom with Sishuhatya. A man who is a disgrace to the very name of Brahmins."



His eyes burned. "And yet, instead of commending the boy who stopped him—you came to kill him?"



The Brahmins stiffened. Uncle Dwipatha was supposed to be on their side.



But he wasn't. Not anymore.



He took a single step forward. "If you want him dead—" His lips curled in disgust. "Do it with your own hands."



The words hit like a hammer.



The crowd held its breath.



His voice rang through the night, louder than it had ever been. "Do not try to sully our hands just to keep yours clean."



A murmur spread through the gathered people. A shifting, like wind rustling through dry leaves. A few heads nodded. A few shoulders straightened.



The Brahmins stiffened. Their power had always rested on others obeying without question. And now—someone had questioned.



Uncle Dwipatha turned. "Amitha." His voice was sharp. "Go to the palace. Notify them of what is happening here."



The boy hesitated. His eyes darted between his father and the sea of unmoving faces.



Then—he turned and ran.



The moment shattered.



One of the Brahmins snarled. "Well, if none of you are willing to do it—" his voice was like gravel, rough with rage. "Then I will."



The crowd stilled.



Sangramjit's breath hitched as the Brahmin grabbed a ladle full of boiling oil.



And then—he moved. Each step deliberate. Unwavering. Closer. A single footstep. Then another. Then another.



No one stopped him. By the rules of their world no one can.



The entire world seemed to slow and Sangramjit's mind went blank.



His heart was pounding—loud. Deafening. Drowning everything else. The Brahmin raised the ladle.

Sangramjit thought his brother was safe. This trial was illegal. Executions must go through the court of Hastinapur.



He thought that the Brahmins would not sully their hands with such a sin.



Would they?



"Stop..." He begged softly. "Please stop."



The Brahmin turned toward him with a cruel smile. "Why? Do you wish to pour this oil into your brother's ear yourself?" He recoiled at the very thought.



"It seems none of you can perform your dharma today. So shut up or you too will receive the same punishment. And unlike the filth who should have died today... you are not less than three and ten years old.



No law or Manu Smriti will protect you. By the law... you are an adult and can be punished as such."



Sangramjit trembled.



"Without court martial... you cannot kill anyone." He begged. "What you are doing is unlawful."



The Brahmin's face darkened. "After I execute this filth... you will be next."



"And do you really think the court will do anything against us? We are following Manu Smriti. And seeing how much your brother is hated... they might even reward us."



And something inside Sangramjit broke.



The world blurred. A storm rose inside him. Only thing he could see was the Brahmin and his Agrajah. His mind shut down for the next few seconds.



And by the time he returned to his senses—



The positions of his and the Brahmin with respect to his brother were reversed.



His breath came in harsh, ragged bursts.



His sword—unsheathed. His stance—defensive.

His back—towards his Agrajah. And before him—



The Brahmin, screaming in pain. The ladle—spilled. Scalding oil burning his own skin.



And on his chest—



A boot print. His boot print.



Sangramjit's foot was still lifted.



For a moment, he barely recognized himself.



The Brahmins recoiled. The crowd whispered. The people who had always bowed their heads... watched.



"You raise your hands against my brother and you speak of dharma?" His voice cracked, raw with fury. "I will carve your throats open before you lay a hand on him."



He meant it. Every word.



Something dark and unfamiliar pounded in his chest. Something vicious. Something unspeakable.



According to Vedas... raising hand against a Brahmin is a sin. Using bad language against them is a sin.



Then why— Why did his rage, when his Agrajah was threatened, not feel like a sin?



Why did striking a Brahmin—an act condemned by the very scriptures he was raised to honor— not feel like a sin?



His breath came sharp, uneven, as he turned toward his Agrajah, still chained. But something was different.

The peaceful smile his Agrajah had worn since the start of this mockery had shifted.



Not into fear. Not into pain.



But into something else entirely. A quiet, knowing smile.



A smile that stirred something deep in his memory—



The same smile his father once wore when he or his brothers had done something right.



His throat tightened. His pulse roared in his ears.



Why? Why was he smiling this way?



The Brahmins only laughed.



"Foolish boy."



One of them stepped forward, his smile slow, cruel. "One of you ran to the palace, crying for aid. Do you know what that means?"



The silence stretched.



His voice turned softer—mocking. "It means your fate is sealed."



The weight of it was suffocating.



A hush fell over the crowd. Sangramjit felt his pulse hammering against his ribs.



The Brahmin tilted his head, watching him like a man indulging a child's tantrum. "By our laws..." He gestured at the fallen man still writhing from the burn. "By the Vedas themselves... no one is allowed to raise a hand against a Brahmin."



The words struck like a whip. The gathered people inhaled sharply. A few took cautious steps back. Others turned away.



And Sangramjit—



For the first time, he felt it.



Fear.



Not for himself. But for what this meant.



He had raised a hand against a Brahmin. He had broken the laws.



It didn't matter that they were the ones who had tried to murder his brother. It didn't matter that what they were doing was wrong. It didn't matter that even the lowest creatures knew justice better than these men who draped themselves in silk and holiness.



All that mattered—was the law.



And by that law... His life was already forfeit. Well if his life was already forfiet... he'll take down as many of these bastards with him as possible.



And then— A voice. Not loud, not desperate. But cold. Steady. Unshakable.



"All humans are born as Shudras." The world seemed to stop.



Sangramjit turned sharply.



Vipatha... Their quiet, soft-spoken Vipatha.



He stood with his chin raised, eyes gleaming with something sharp. Something dangerous. "The Rig Veda states it clearly." His voice did not waver. "No man is born pure. All are Shudras at birth."



A tremor passed through the air at those words.



"By samskara and vidhya—one becomes a Brahmin, a Kshatriya, a Vaishya, or a Shudra."



The Brahmins' faces darkened. Their anger turned to something else—something venomous, something that reeked of fear.



"No Suta has the right to speak of the Vedas!" one spat. "You should be put to death for even knowing them!"



Vipatha stepped forward. Not toward them. No—he turned his back on them, his voice ringing over the gathered community.



"Do you know," he said softly, "that not a single king who rules this land is of true Kshatriya blood?"



A stunned silence.



Uncle Dwipatha's voice trembled. "What are you saying, child?"



Vipatha sneered. "Use your brains. Sage Parashurama annihilated the Kshatriya lineages twenty-one times before his wrath was sated.



If all the Kshatriya men were slaughtered—where did the new kings come from? How did their lineage continue?"



Sangramjit barely breathed. Was this—was this Vipatha speaking? Their quiet, idealistic Vipatha?



Vipatha did not stop. His voice rang with something sharp, something unrelenting.



"After the slaughter, the Kshatriya women performed Niyoga with Brahmin men, birthing a new generation of kings." His eyes burned. "If a Murdhavshakti—a man born of a Brahmin father and a Kshatriya mother—can sit on the throne and be revered, then why are we—born of a Kshatriya father and a Brahmin mother—reviled?"



He exhaled, a short, sharp sound.



"What hypocrites you are."



A sneer curled his lips. "Even Shri Ramachandra was born of the Murdhavshakti lineage."



The Brahmins only smiled. Unbothered.



"Say what you will," one chuckled. "It does not change the fact that your brother struck his betters. That you stole knowledge forbidden to you."



"Oh, please." Vipatha's smile took on a cruel edge.



"However I gained the knowledge, I gained it. Before I turned three and ten, I knew the Vedas by heart. I can recite every passage from memory alone. By that alone, I have claimed samskara. All my brothers have."



The Brahmins' smiles vanished. Their laughter stilled.



Fear slithered into their eyes.



"And what I wish to do with my knowledge—" Vipatha stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. "—defines me."



They shrank back.



And then—Vipatha smiled.



Not in amusement.



Not in kindness.



But in something cold.



Something calculating.



Sangramjit's breath caught. Everyone in their family knew that Agrajah Vasusena was not their biological brother. He himself had said so. And he had always felt that the blood in his veins gave their Agrajah that ferocity, that wrath, that courage to fight against the world. He had always felt a bit sad that he could not be like his brother.



But in this moment... in this moment, Vipatha looked like Agrajah Vasusena.



Unconsciously, he smiled—pride swelling in his chest at his Vipatha's words.



Vipatha, the gentlest among them, was fighting—not with fists, but with words. Just like Agrajah Vasu...



Sangramjit's breath hitched. His eyes widened. This was all a bloody test. A test crafted by Agrajah Vasusena.



A test to see if they would stay down when the ones they loved were threatened before their very eyes.



A test to see if they would bow to the dogma they had been force-fed since birth.



And not just a test—a lesson. A brutal, unforgiving lesson.



A lesson that the world was not a place where the righteous triumphed and the wicked fell. That justice was not guaranteed, and goodness and strength alone would never be enough.



A lesson that shattered their illusions.



Sangramjit's hands clenched into fists. His pulse hammered in his ears.



After this—after all of this—he would strangle Agrajah Vasusena with his own hands. Damn the society, damn the respect he had for his brother. He will strangle him.



No wonder the world called him cruel.



Who else would be willing to die in front of his own brothers—just to make them understand the truth?



Vipatha looked over the entire community, calm rage burning in his gaze. "A few pests came into our land. They tried to take away my brother's life. A life that was not theirs to take."



"With my knowledge," Vipatha said, "With my will to protect my land and the people in it... I chose to be a Kshatriya." Slowly turning towards the Brahmins, who had begun invoking astras to kill them, he laughed.



His fingers curled around a spear he pulled from the guards. Energy crackled around it.



"Do you know, Brahmanadevas..." His voice rang through the air, low and unyielding. "Killing a Brahmin who chose war... killing a Brahmin who chose adharma... is not Brahmahatya."



And with those words, he hurled the spear.



The sky itself seemed to shudder.



For a fleeting moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Then—



The Brahmins scoffed. A few even chuckled, the beginnings of smug laughter curling at their lips— their astras going brighter enough to be released.



Until the first hiss filled the air.



Then another.



And another.



The laughter died in their throats.



From the earth, from the very air itself, they emerged—serpents, a tide of slithering bodies, twisting, writhing, baring fangs that gleamed like polished steel.



Vipatha used Naagaastra.



Unlike other astras, this was not merely steel and energy—it was terror made manifest. A weapon of the mind as much as the body, designed to unnerve, to break a warrior before a single blow landed.



Humankind had always feared the serpent. It was buried deep in their blood, in their bones. Even the mightiest war veterans had faltered before it.



And this astra... summons thousands of serpents to fight on their side.



And these Brahmins—who never faced a single war... forgot their astras in terror. Some of them pissed themselves in fear.



How could they focus on mantras when the ground beneath them twisted and writhed, when fangs waited at every turn, when a single misstep meant death?



They were surrounded.



And the crowd—the people they had tormented—did not move to help. They only watched. Some with grim satisfaction, others with quiet, vengeful pleasure.

But not a single serpent struck.



By a silent command of Vipatha, they only coiled, waiting—waiting for a word that would never come.



Sangramjit smiled. So fear was Vipatha's game now.



Well then—fight fire with fire. They came to inject fear into their hearts.



If intimidation was the game—



Let them learn what real fear looks like.



Just snakes are not enough. It is an astra that can be used by Ardharathis and above. No, they need something that they will never forget.



Power surged in his hands, a raw, crackling force, swirling into a terrible, blinding light. The heavens themselves seemed to recoil. Thunder rumbled, not in the skies but in the very bones of those who dared to stand against them.



And then—



It manifested.



A towering, three-headed figure. Nine burning eyes, unblinking and merciless. Six arms wreathed in serpents, moving like rivers of flame. His hair was a roaring inferno, swallowing the air itself, and his presence—



His presence was the breath of destruction.



Roudrastra.



The embodiment of Maheshwara himself.



The Brahmins fell.



Some staggered, some collapsed entirely, their breath turning ragged, their limbs trembling beyond control. Their lips moved, forming silent prayers, begging—pleading—for mercy from a god who would not listen.



At that moment... Vipatha let go of the Naagastra in shock. Because he knew Agrajah Vasusena had never taught them this weapon.



Because none of them are still powerful enough to use this weapon.



What no one knew is that he had not used Roudrastra.



He had used Mohiniastra.



An astra of illusion. A deception.



Yet fear was a weapon as sharp as any steel.



Let the fools think he could wield it.



A man incapable of war has no right to ask for peace. These were Agrajah Vasusena's words.



Let everyone in this Kingdom learn that sons of Radha and Adhiratha are capable of war. Love will have to be gained later. Let them fear them first.



Then— A voice.



Calm. Unshaken. Absolute.



"Stop."



Their heads turned.



Agrajah Vasusena stood there, arms loose at his sides.



The broken chains lay at his feet.



Iron chains. His Agrajah snapped iron chains as if they were nothing more than brittle twigs crushed underfoot.



He had shattered them casually.



Which meant—



He could have broken them at any time.



He could have ended this at any moment.



Yet he had stayed his hand. Watched. Waited. Endured.



Sangramjit's breath came sharp and uneven. His fists trembled—not with fear, but with something raw, something furious.



Had he cared?



Had he cared about the fear that had burned in Vipatha's eyes? The terror that had frozen their mother's very breath in her throat? Had he cared about the moment Sangramjit thought he would watch his brother burn before his very eyes?



Had he cared about the trauma he had carved into his heart—all in the name of this lesson?



"Call back your astras. All of you."



Sangramjit's breath came hard and fast.



But he obeyed.



He forced the power to fade.





Agrajah Vasusena walked forward, each step calm and unhurried. The Brahmins shivered, their bodies betraying the terror they refused to voice.



"I begged you not to do this if you value your lives." His voice was quiet, almost tender, but it cut through the air like a blade. "I warned you that this path leads to ruin. Why didn't you listen?"



A Brahmin, still desperate to mask his fear with arrogance, scoffed. "Oh Rathis..." He sneered, though his voice wavered. "You have higher education than this suta. You are more powerful than this suta. Why do you behave like dogs before him? Despite your strength, why do you bow?



You fancied yourself to be a Kshatriya... however no true Kshatriya bows to a Shudra."



Laughter burst from him and Vipatha before the man could even finish speaking—a cold, mocking sound that sent a shudder through the crowd. But it was their Agrajah's reaction that silenced the air. He did not laugh. He only looked at them with a mixture of pity and amusement.



"Whom do you think taught them all of this?" His smile was filled with pride for him and Vipatha.



A terrible realization settled in the air. The Brahmins stiffened, their fear shifting into something deeper—something that clawed at their very souls.



Sangramjit could see it in their faces. If the student is this terrifying... their minds whispered. What must the teacher be?



"Now..." Their Agrajah rose to his full height, and the air itself seemed to shift. A slow, shuddering breath passed through the gathered crowd. He wore power as a cloak and it clung to him, invisible yet suffocating, wrapping around his form like a storm waiting to break.



At that moment he did not look like their kind Agrajah who put weapons in their hands and guided them lovingly. He looked like a God who walked among humans.



"Tell me—what should we do with them?" He asked the gathered members.



The hush stretched, thick with unspoken rage, until at last, a frail, weathered voice broke it.



"Kill those bastards, Radheya."



The words belonged to an old woman, her face lined with grief, her eyes burning with an agony long buried. Her son—stolen by the same cruelty, the same arrogance. She trembled, but her voice did not waver.



"Kill them." She sobbed. "Like they killed my Ajaya."



"Killing them is a mercy." Uncle Dwipatha's voice turned wrathful. His fists clenched. "And we are not beasts. But trash them—break them—so that even their descendants remember."



Murmurs swelled into voices, voices into cries, cries into a storm. The voices of those who had been trampled, who had lived in the shadows of a world that deemed them unworthy. Fear had left them. In its place—wrath.



Seeing this the Brahmins tried to flee. However, with a swift movement, he struck. A single invocation of Nagapasha—serpents of energy coiled and struck like lightning, binding the Brahmins where they stood.



The crowd surged forward.



But before the reckoning could begin— The sound of hooves. The glint of steel.



A platoon of soldiers thundered into the square, halting only when their leader stepped forward. The air grew colder, sharper, as the emblem of the palace gleamed in the torchlight.



Kripacharya had arrived.



He took one long look at the scene before him—the bound Brahmins, the simmering fury in the air, the gathered crowd ready to erupt—and exhaled sharply.



Then, with all the weariness of a man who had long given up expecting peace, he dragged a hand down his face and muttered,



"Just today. Just today, I wished for some peace." His gaze flickered to Vasusena, narrowing as he let out an exasperated sigh. "Why, Vasusena? Why is it that with you, everything is always a headache? And if you wish to give me more headaches can't you wait at least a day or two before giving me a new one?"



Before any of them could answer, Kripacharya waved a tired hand at the soldiers behind him.



"Just throw these idiots into the dungeons..." He rubbed his face again, as if physically trying to knead the irritation out of his skull.



Silence.



One of the soldiers hesitated before asking, "Whom all should we arrest, Acharya?" His wary eyes flickered between the bound Brahmins and the furious crowd. Sangramjit tightened his grip on his spear. If they were about to take arms against them, he was not going down without a fight.



Kripacharya let out a sharp breath, eyes snapping open with the full force of his ire.



"Do you not see the fools tied in the center?" he snapped irritably. "Arrest them."



What?



The sheer disbelief rippled through the crowd. They were not being arrested? Kripacharya—the Kulguru of Hastinapur—was taking their side and arresting the Brahmins? Why?



Even the soldier who had questioned him seemed thrown.



"Acharya..." he began hesitantly, as if questioning the very fabric of reality. "Are you sure?"



"Look, Venu," Kripacharya growled, clearly at the end of his patience. "These days, I just wish for the world to make some sense. I am too vexed and too tired to care about whatever your problem is. Just arrest these Brahmins so I can have some rest."



"Acharya, we don't even know what happened here." Venu pressed on, his voice laced with uncertainty. "How can we leave these Sutas without understanding the truth?"



Kripacharya let out an exasperated breath. "Do you wish to wager against Vasusena, Venu?" His tone was sharp, cutting. "Because I will not. I learnt my lesson today. So under any circumstances... I wouldn't bet against him." His gaze was unwavering, as if daring the younger man to challenge him.



The sheer absurdity of it all struck Sangramjit like a blow. Kripacharya wished for the world to make sense while he himself was making no sense at all.



Kripacharya turned to Vasusena then, surveying him with a sharp, assessing gaze before exhaling heavily.



"Thank the gods nothing happened to you," he muttered, as if to himself.



Then, as if realizing the irony of his own words, he snorted. "Who am I trying to convince? You'd be fine. Even if you started an apocalypse, you'd still be fine."



Sangramjit blinked. Was it just him, or was there—affection—shining in Kripacharya's eyes as he looked at his Agrajah?



He glanced around, searching for confirmation, and found it mirrored in the stunned expressions of those around him. So it's not just him.



The only consolation was that even Agrajah Vasusena himself looked just as flabbergasted as they did.



Kripacharya's gaze remained steady as he asked, "So tell me, Radheya... What punishment are you going to give to these Brahmins?" His voice was soft, almost unreadable.



For a moment, Vasusena said nothing. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something colder, heavier. Then, with a slow exhale, he spoke.



"Release them, Acharya."



Silence.



Kripacharya did not even blink. Without a moment's pause, he turned to his soldiers and ordered, "Release them."



The Brahmins, still trembling, were freed. One of them—perhaps emboldened by his sudden reprieve—glared at the Head Priest of Hastinapura. But the moment Kripacharya's gaze flickered toward him, all courage drained from his face. He looked away hastily and ran away.



Sangramjit stared, his mind reeling. He pinched himself, half-convinced he was dreaming. Why?



Why was Kripacharya—one of the staunchest upholders of the caste order—listening to his Agrajah?



As if sensing his thoughts, Kripacharya turned to him with a knowing look.



"I promised myself just today... that I would never question your brother on his choices again," he said, almost wearily. "There's a part of me that wishes to know why he allowed them to be released. But I value my peace of mind right now more than any curiosity."



There was something almost resigned in his tone. As if he had accepted that trying to make sense of their Agrajah's mind was an exercise in futility.



Then, his sharp gaze flickered with curiosity. "What's your name, by the way? I know all the names of Adhiratha's children but not their faces."



"Sangramjit, Acharya," Agrajah answered before he could even open his mouth. He pulled Vipatha to him. "And this is Vipatha."



Kripacharya exhaled, rubbing his temple before glancing at Sangramjit and Vipatha with an almost amused expression.



"Hope you two won't cause me too many problems like your brother if you ever decided to join the army." His voice was laced with dry humor, but his smile was kind. "Still... something tells me that's a vain hope."



Sangramjit wasn't sure if he should feel honored or insulted.



Kripacharya turned back to Vasusena, his expression shifting into something unreadable. "Anyway... I will come for you tomorrow, Vasusena."



Then, without another word, he turned on his horse and rode away, his soldiers falling into step behind him.



"Why did you let them go, Radheya?" Uncle Dwipatha's voice was sharp, edged with disbelief.



Vasusena turned to him, the remnants of a smile still lingering on his lips. "Because you were the one who said death is nothing but a mercy, Dwipatha."



A hush fell over the crowd as Vasusena's gaze swept over them, steady and unyielding. "Today, they faced something worse than death." His voice was quiet, yet it carried to every ear. "We did not strike them down—we stripped them bare. And now, all of Aryavarta will know."



His fingers curled at his sides, a slow breath leaving him. "I want them to live, Dwipatha. I want them to wake up everyday knowing that their fall was witnessed. That their humiliation is now a story whispered in the corners of this land."



The smile was gone now. His eyes gleamed like tempered steel, cold and unrelenting.



"I learned cruelty from them," he murmured. "And tonight, they will learn what it means to be on the other side of it. They will carry this shame to their graves, not as martyrs, but as men broken in full view of the world. "



A silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating.



"And for men who lived and thrived through fear..." He let the words hang, his eyes dark with something unreadable. "They lost everything they spent centuries trying to build."



A slow exhale.



"And losing that fear and power was the greatest punishment they could ever have."



He exhaled, long and slow, before sinking to his knees. The weight of it all—of exhaustion, of fury—pressed upon his shoulders, and for the first time, he allowed it.



From the crowd, a figure moved. Aunt Mangala, her steps hesitant, as if the truth had unsettled even the ground beneath her feet. Her voice, when it came, was almost a whisper.



"Is it true, Vasusena?" she asked. "Did we live in chains, though we had the power to break them? Did Prince Suyodhana and your brothers speak the truth today?"



"Yes."



A single word. No embellishment. No explanation. Just the undeniable, inescapable truth.



A sharp breath was drawn from Uncle Dwipatha. "How... How did you learn the Vedas?" His voice trembled, thick with something unspoken. "Did your knowledge make you this way? This man we barely recognize? Are we the ones in the wrong, Radheya?"



Vasusena's eyes swept over them all. Cold. Unyielding.



"The problem with our world," he murmured, voice low but cutting, "is that we do not see men as men. We raise them onto pedestals, call them gods, and blind ourselves to their sins."



His breath was steady, but something darker curled beneath his words.



"Did any of you know what happened between me and Sage Parashurama?" His voice was quiet, but the silence that followed was deafening. "Did any of you know?"



The crowd shrank. No one spoke. No one even breathed.



His lips twisted. "Of course, you didn't. Just as you never knew—never cared—that my mother and I went hungry because of your blind faith in Mahaamahim Bhishma." His voice grew sharper, like steel against stone. "That man tried to kill me. Unprovoked. And yet, it was not he who suffered. Not you. But me. My family."



His gaze snapped like a whip to a man in the crowd.



"Suvarma." The name left his lips like venom. "When I came to your house, begging—pleading—for herbs to save my father, you shut the door in my face.



You. A healer. A man who took sacred vows to save lives." His voice dropped, soft and lethal. "Tell me, Suvarma, how does it feel to betray your oaths just because of your useless devotion to a man who doesn't even know your name?"



The man flinched, but Vasusena had already moved on.



"Jala." His voice was quiet, but the air around them seemed to freeze. Vasusena's gaze burned as it settled on the next traitor.



"You spied on me for Mahaamahim Bhishma."



Jala flinched, his face twisting with guilt. He did not deny it. He could not.



Vasusena took a step closer, his presence suffocating, his words cutting like a blade.



"In our missions for our kingdom... How many times have I protected you?" His voice was sharp, measured, each word carrying the weight of betrayal. "How many times have I taken wounds that should have been yours? How many times—despite not even participating in those missions—did I still share the coin I earned from the kingdom with you and our division?"



Jala's breath shuddered. The gathered crowd stood silent, trapped in the storm of Vasusena's fury.



"And tell me, Jala..." His voice dropped lower, colder. "What did it take for you to betray me? To spy on me?"



"A word." His eyes glinted with something dangerous, something ruthless. "A single word from Mahaamahim Bhishma—that I was an adharmi. That is all it took.



Even cruel beasts and Daanavas are more loyal than you."



He did not wait for an answer. The man looked down at his feet, shame filling his face.



"Sundari."



Her name left his lips like a blade drawn across rusted iron, scraping raw against the silence.



"You quadrupled the prices on your vegetables," he said, voice sharp as flint, "and still—still—you handed us rotten scraps. As if we were lesser beings. As if we deserved less than dirt."



The woman trembled under the weight of his words. But Vasusena did not stop. His rage had been silent for too long.



"Did you not know me?" His voice cracked like thunder. "I used to call you Sundaramma, remember? Did you not know my nature?"



His breath came heavy, his chest rising and falling with the force of his fury.



"Did I not consider you—respect you—as equal to my Radhamma?" His hands clenched at his sides. "Where did all of that go?"



The silence that followed was deafening.



But Vasusena was not done.



His head snapped toward another figure, eyes gleaming like a blade catching the light.



"Dwipatha." The name was spoken like a curse. Uncle stiffened, unable to meet their Agrajah's gaze.



"You—" He spat, his voice a blade honed by grief and fury, "—and your ilk tormented my father until he could no longer stand. Until the man who once carried me on his shoulders could barely lift his own head. Until my mother had to watch the man she loved waste away under the weight of your cruelty."



Dwipatha's breath hitched, his face paling as the words lashed against him.



"Did you not once wish for me to be your son-in-law?" Vasusena demanded, his voice turning hoarse with disbelief. "Did you not speak of it as though it was a certainty? My father and you—were you not the closest of friends?"



He took a step forward, eyes burning. "And Padma—" He exhaled sharply, as if the name itself pained him. "Radhamma loved your daughter Padma as her own. She had no daughters of her own, so she cherished yours in a way none of us brothers could ever understand."



He paused, his voice sinking into something raw, something jagged.



"Where did all of that go?"



The air itself felt heavier, suffocating, as if the weight of all their sins had finally come crashing down.



Sangramjit felt his chest tighten. He and Vipatha had never known. Never imagined that their Agrajah and mother had borne such cruelty in silence, had fed them with hands scarred from battle against the world.



He had thought his Agrajah was cruel. A monster, even.



Who else would stand silent, unflinching, as death reached for him—just to teach a lesson? Who else would gamble with his own life, with their fear, their helplessness, their rage, as if they were nothing more than pieces on a board?



But now...



Now, as he stood there, breath ragged, hands trembling, heart pounding like a war drum, he understood.



What his mother and Agrajah had suffered was something else. They took pain onto themselves so none of the others in their family would be hurt.



He was cruel, because in his eyes, their foolishness, their naivety, was a weakness that could no longer be afforded.



He broke them to remake them.



It was cruelty. Undeniable.



But it was not wrong.



Sangramjit's nails dug into his palms, blood welling at his fingertips.



He did not forgive him.



But he understood. And somehow, that was worse.



Radhamma's body shook, crying uncontrollably. He and Vipatha held her by her shoulders.



"What sin did we commit that you made us suffer so?" Their Agrajah's voice cracked. "Even against all odds stacked against me... I proved my innocence. And you still called me guilty. Even when I did no wrong, you made all of us bear the punishment."



Then Vasusena turned his head, slow and deliberate.



"Sugandha." A woman stiffened. "What did you whisper into Prince Arjuna's ear about me?" His voice was like a death knell—low, resounding, inevitable. "What was it you said?"



No answer. Only the pounding of a hundred hearts.



"That I am a cold-blooded monster?" His lips curled into something that was not a smile. "That my mother birthed me from rakshasas?"



Silence.



A hundred heads bowed in shame, in fear, in the weight of their own sins.



Vasusena exhaled, slow, final. His voice, when it came, was quiet.



"Even if I am a cold-blooded rakshasa..." he laughed freely, "I will not apologize for it." His smile was so broken that it hurt Sangramjit's heart. "The world did not apologize for turning me into this."



"You asked me, Mangala." His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, like a storm brewing in the distance. "You asked me if all of you lived in chains, though you had the power to break them."



His lips curled, breath sharp with contempt. "No. You lived in chains because you are sheep. All of you are."



The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating.

"I was different from you because I refused to be one. I refused to stay as a sheep



When your children were killed, you wept, and then you moved on. You did not care to question whether the punishment was just or not. You did not care to ask if it was deserved." His voice turned mocking, his fingers curling into fists. "A Brahmin said it was right—so it must be right."



A sharp, humorless laugh tore from his throat.



"Foolish little sheep, all of you." His Agrajah spat, teeth bared in disgust. "And now, when the truth is laid before you, you shrink from it. Just as you always have."



Uncle Dwipatha's voice trembled. "But... but our society—our laws—say that Brahmins are the foundation of the world. From them, we learn dharma." He hesitated, voice hushed as if he feared the answer. "That they are Parabrahmaswaroopa."



"They are still men. Not Parabrahma, you—" Vasusena cut himself off, swallowing the molten fury in his throat.



He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.



"Can I tell you a story?" Their Agrajah's voice was cold, each syllable precise, deliberate. The sudden change of topic gave all of them a whiplash.



"Once upon a time... there lived two students. Both were intelligent, both were dedicated—both thirsted for knowledge like no other."



His gaze swept over them, unyielding.



"They studied under the same Guru, but one of them was the Guru's own son."



The murmurs began, a ripple of unease spreading through the gathered crowd.



"The other student, however, was the brighter of the two. His mind surpassed his peer's in depth and understanding. The issue here is that—" he exhaled slowly, his voice sharpening, "—both were trained for a position of great honor: a place in the royal court, to serve as the King's guide."



The silence stretched, suffocating.



"The Guru knew the truth. He knew his son was the lesser among the two. But when the time came to choose, he cast aside merit, set aside fairness, and gave the position to his own blood."



Vasusena stood up looking at all of them, his eyes piercing their very souls.



"And in his wrath, the slighted student turned away. He abandoned the land that had rejected him and swore allegiance to the enemy. He became their preceptor, their guide, their greatest strength."



His voice dropped, carrying a lethal finality.



"Do you know the names of the teacher and the students?"



A hush fell, the tension suffocating. Something in Vasusena's voice coiled tight around their throats, a noose of revelation ready to snap.



"The teacher's name—" he paused, letting the moment stretch unbearably, "—was Sage Angirasa."



Shivers rippled through the crowd. It was the name of a Saptarishi. A Saptarishi did this?



"His son—" the words came slowly, measured, "was none other than Devaguru Brihaspati."



Vasusena smiled, but there was no warmth in it.



"And the other student?"



His eyes gleamed, dark and unrelenting, like embers smoldering beneath ash. "His name was Kavya Ushanas."



The crowd looked at each other in uncertainty. It was not a name any of them knew. So who was this person who was lost in the pages of history? And what happened to him?



Vasusena let the moment stretch, the silence curling like a snake around their throats.



"You may know him by another name."



The confusion shattered like glass beneath his next words.



"Asuraguru Shukracharya."



A collective gasp—low, disbelieving, horrified.



That name carried the weight of rebellion, of defiance against the very heavens. It was the name that made even the Devas bow their heads in wary respect.



A name that stood unyielding in the face of gods, that wielded wisdom and power to match them.



A name that chose the side of Chaos and Destruction—yet was still revered in all three worlds for his wisdom.



The name that was supposed to fade in the margins of history...



Yet it was a name that set the entire history on fire.



And none of them had known.



None of them had known that Shukracharya, the teacher of the Asuras, the counterpart of the Brihaspati, had not chosen his path out of mere defiance or darkness in his heart.



He had chosen the Asuras because a father had shown partiality toward his own son.



None of them knew the reason why Asuras had gained this much power in previous Yugas because a teacher, a Saptarishi who was a mediator between Gods and men, threw away his principles and fairness just for partiality towards his son.



"When even the greatest of sages choose blood over merit, when even divine wisdom bends to the whims of partiality—" Vasusena's voice cut through the air like tempered steel, "—then why would mere Brahmins be any different?"



The words settled over them like an unbearable weight, forcing them to confront the unthinkable.



Their Agrajah watched them, his gaze cold, unyielding. "Despite knowing the Vedas... I never shared them with any of you." His lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. "Why do you think that is?"



A hesitant answer came. "Because... because of your anger at us..."



Vasusena exhaled. "No... because I am partial towards the people I love." He admitted bluntly.



Their Agrajah smiled, a soft thing—too soft for the fire in his eyes. "And do you know, according to the Vedas, what I actually am?"



Silence.



"Even before I started my education... I made an oath...



That Maamsam will never pass through my lips. That Sura will never dull my mind. My hands will never raise without cause." His voice was smooth, even, but every syllable carried the weight of a blade pressed to flesh. "All my free time... I spent it in devotion chanting the name of my Istadeva. And the knowledge I gained, I shared freely—with my brothers."



His voice softened



"When asked, I taught Prince Suyodhana to the best of my ability. He learnt Nyaya Shastra, Danda Neeti, Rajaneeti, and many other arts on my knee."



The air thickened, suffocating.



"So tell me, between my station, my deeds and my nature," his voice dropped to a whisper, lethal in its quietness, "what does that make me in the eyes of the Vedas?"



Uncle Dwipatha's breath hitched. "You are a Brahmakshatriya."



A sharp gasp rippled through the crowd. Horror flickered in their eyes as they looked upon their Agrajah.



A Brahmakshatriya. The same nature as Sage Parashurama. A Brahmana who walked the path of Kshatriya. Who embodied the best of both natures.



Vasusena tilted his head.



"And yet," he mused, his voice eerily calm, "I am spiteful, cruel, and vicious beyond measure." A smile ghosted his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. "Tell me—do any of those traits belong to a Brahmana?"



A murmur ran through the crowd, but one voice rose above the rest, hesitant and accusatory.



"You... you must have stolen the Vedas— So you don't have real Bhramagya..."



"I never needed to." The reply was smooth, cutting. "I received Brahmagyana from the greatest of all beings."



His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering within them. "I will not say his name. But he knew what I was. He knew my parents. He knew my wrath, my sorrow, my ambition." A shadow passed over his face. "I never hid anything about myself from him and cannot do so even if I wished to."



His voice dropped to a murmur. "It was at his request—despite knowing rejection awaited him in Hastinapura—that Sage Parashurama came to take me as his disciple."



The words landed like a hammer-blow. A sharp, resounding crack that fractured the very foundation of their beliefs.



Vasusena had learned from someone as powerful as the Saptarishis themselves—perhaps even one of the Gods. Or maybe even Asuraguru himself.



And if such a person had decreed that teaching a Suta was right... Then who were these foolish Brahmins to say otherwise?



"Brahmins are not gods." His voice was cold, final. "Even Mahaamahim Bhishma—born to a divine being... Mata Jahnavi—is not a god."



He turned, his gaze a burning pyre. "And yet you prostrate before them. Blind." He snarled. "Unquestioning. And in doing so, you have damned yourselves."



A trembling voice rose in protest. "But... the Vedas say that we must obey orders from—"



"Then why did Brahmadeva create something between your ears?" Vasusena growled, eyes flashing. "If you were meant to follow blindly, why did he give you a mind?" His voice dropped, soft but razor-sharp. "Was it not to discern right from wrong?"



The silence was deafening.



"The King of Lanka," he continued, voice low, "Ravanasura—great-grandson of Brahmadeva himself—was a Brahmin both by the merit of knowledge and his birth." His lips curled. "Would you obey him too?"



No one spoke.



"The orders Shudras are meant to follow," Vasusena said at last, "are the ones that should benefit the society—not the ones that keep them bound like cattle."



He stepped forward, his very presence suffocating.



"You lived in chains not because you were too afraid to break them. You lived in chains because it was easy for you to do so. You liked those chains because you are not required to use your brain." His voice softened, but the cruelty in it remained. "And when I shattered mine, you called me a monster."



Looking away from all of them, Vasusena turned to Radhamma. His voice, low and weary, cut through the silence.



"It's past the children's bedtime. They must be waiting for us. Let's go, Amma."



They had barely taken a few steps when he paused.



"Sadava..."



The name was spoken softly. A small, mousy-haired boy of nine stepped forward hesitantly, his wide eyes searching Vasusena's face.



"You said you wished to be like me when you grew up." Vasusena's gaze bore into the child's, unreadable, unrelenting. "After all this... do you still wish to be like me?"



Sadava turned to his parents, seeking their permission. When they gave him a gentle nod, he lifted his chin and faced Vasusena once more. His voice, though young, was steady.



"Yes."



For the first time that night, Vasusena's expression softened.



"Alright then." He crouched slightly so that the boy did not have to crane his neck to meet his eyes. "My brother Prabhakara will begin his education under me in three months. If you still wish to learn... you are welcome to sit in his lessons."



He straightened, his gaze sweeping over the silent crowd, his voice cutting through the air like the edge of a blade.



"Whoever seeks knowledge—come. I do this on my mother's will. Know this—I will teach each of you without bias, without hesitation. That is my promise."



The weight of his words crashed down on them. One by one, they dropped to their knees as he and his brothers turned away, the ground beneath them trembling.



They walked in silence until the path home stretched before them. Only then did he stop, turning to face their mother.



"Amma... you and Vipatha go ahead." His voice was steady, but the undercurrent beneath it was a quiet storm. "We will no longer live as outcasts. Sangramjit and I will begin dismantling the traps. This place will no longer be a prison."



"The beginning of the end starts now, Amma."



His mother, unshaken, smiled as if she had known this moment would come all along and perhaps she did... Their Agrajah promised her before all this started. "Alright, Vasu. Finish your work and return quickly."



As soon as she disappeared into the distance, Sangramjit turned. His fist struck without hesitation, cracking against his Agrajah's jaw. But what sent ice crawling up his spine was the way his brother took the hit—unflinching, silent, as if it was expected. As if he welcomed it.



"You heartless monster..." Sangramjit's voice shook with fury. "What would you have done if Vipatha and I hadn't spoken for you? Would you really have let our mother watch you die—just to prove a damned point?"



"I would have done nothing." His Agrajah's voice was quiet, almost gentle—too gentle for the storm raging between them. "Because I knew you two would stand by me."



Sangramjit's fury only burned hotter. "What makes you so sure?" His breath was ragged, his fists still clenched. "What if we didn't come to your defense?"



His Agrajah smiled then—soft, fleeting, a ghost of warmth that did nothing to dull the sharp edges of the moment. "Because even if blood had never bound us, love did. We learned love from our parents." His voice was steady, unwavering. "I learned how to love from Radhamma, Sangramjit."



Sangramjit's breath caught, his anger faltering for just a moment.



"All of us did," his Agrajah continued. "And that love gave me the strength to stand against the entire world for you."



Sangramjit's hands trembled at his sides. "Dying in front of us is not the same as fighting for us, agrajah," he spat. "Would you have done the same to Bhrata Shon?"



The answer came without hesitation.



"Yes."



Sangramjit froze. "What?"



"I said yes." His Agrajah's gaze was steady, unreadable. "If Shon were still alive... I would have done the same to him too—if he had your mindset."



The air between them grew heavy, suffocating. "You are a cruel man, Agrajah."



"Yes, I am." The exhaustion in his voice was deeper than Sangramjit had ever heard before. "Because you and Vipatha need to learn this lesson—sooner or later."



"What's so wrong with my mindset?" Sangramjit growled, his voice thick with barely restrained fury. "And what's so wrong with Vipatha's?"



His Agrajah exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if speaking to a particularly stubborn child that refused to be calmed.



"You were closest to Swarnajeet in age. You were his shadow, his confidant. When he died, you shattered—you became reckless, impulsive, a wildfire with no direction."



His voice was steady, but each word landed like a blade. "Did you think you were the only one who loved Shon that deeply? You forget, Sangramjit—I may be older, but my love for him ran far deeper. Deeper than you could ever imagine."



Sangramjit flinched, but his brother did not stop.



"The only reason you are less destructive is because you lived in society for twelve years before we were cast out. You had time to absorb its rules, its reverence for caste. Without that? You'd be worse than you are now."



Sangramjit bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself not to react. But his brother had already seen the crack in his resolve.



"And more than anything—you never cared for your studies. To you, fear is enough. When you raised your blade against the Brahmin, you didn't think. You've been this way ever since Shon died. This—" his voice turned razor-sharp "—this is how you mourn him."



Sangramjit's fists clenched.



"But any man with a shred of cunning—just the smallest bit of patience—can turn you into a puppet."



"Just like you did." The words tore from his throat, a snarl laced with helplessness. But deep inside, he was barely holding himself together.



His Agrajah only smiled—soft, fleeting, maddening. "I taught you the Vedas and the Manu Smriti before anything else. And yet, the moment you lifted your sword against that Brahmin... all your education unraveled.



That moment you turned angry, you lost all of your senses. You forgot your samskara. You could have used them and fought... But you forgot your samskara and vidhya."



Sangramjit couldn't stop the memory from surfacing—the force with which he had kicked the Brahmin's chest, the blind rage that drowned out the consequences. And then the terror that followed, when the Brahmins had thrown the wrong laws at them. He had frozen. He had feared. Not for himself—but for his family.



"But am I wrong?" Sangramjit demanded, his voice rough with anger, the injustice of the Brahmins burning fresh in his mind.



His Agrajah did not hesitate. "You are not wrong."



The bluntness of it caught him off guard. He had braced himself for an argument, for resistance—for anything but agreement.



"But you are not dignified, Sangramjit. You forgot your vidhya." he snarled. "The first weapon I put in your hands is education Sangramjit... and you forgot it in your wrath."



"You never win through violence," his Agrajah continued, voice low but unwavering. "You only win when you hold your dignity. The world does not listen or respect hot-headed idiots. It slows down only when dignified people speaks. There is a reason why the words of a drunkard or a fool is not respected.



Dignity always prevails."



The words cut deeper than any blade.



Sangramjit's hands trembled at his sides, but there was nothing left to say. Slowly, shame curling around his ribs like iron chains, he bowed his head.



"I understand my flaws, Agrajah." Sangramjit's voice was small, hoarse. "But what sin did Vipatha and Amma commit to deserve this?"



Vasusena exhaled, slow and measured, before the corners of his lips curved—just slightly. Not into warmth. Not into kindness. But into something far more terrifying.



"Vipatha..." His voice was almost fond. "The idealistic fool."



"Agrajah!" Sangramjit exploded, his fury turning into wildfire.



But Vasusena only scoffed, unshaken.



"What?" he said, utterly unimpressed. "I only speak the truth. Ever since I taught him the Vedas and scriptures," Vasusena continued, "he placed the Brahmins on a pedestal. More than you ever did."



And Sangramjit—despite his rage, despite the burning in his chest—could not refute those words.



"Vipatha lived in this society for eleven years before we were cast out." Vasusena's tone was sharp, cutting. "You absorbed its rules. Its reverence for caste. But him?"



A pause.



Then, Vasusena let out a cold, bitter laugh.



"He worshipped them."



Sangramjit clenched his fists. "He's a child."



"Is Vrikartha not a child too, then?" Vasusena's voice turned to steel, eyes narrowing like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "He was a year younger than Vipatha. And he was never that foolish."



Sangramjit could not answer.



"Out of all my brothers," Vasusena continued, voice like a winter wind, "I would trust Vrikartha to survive alone." He gave Sangramjit a long, measured look. "You and Vipatha, however? Immature little idiots."



Sangramjit flinched at the words.



"Vipatha has more knowledge than both me and Vrikartha combined, Agrajah," he forced out.



Vasusena laughed again, but this time, there was no amusement.



"Knowledge?" he echoed. "Knowledge is worthless if you look at the world through the eyes of a dreamer. It is worthless if you deny the truth happening before your eyes in hope of an illusion."



Sangramjit could feel it now—the shift in the room. The realization that Vasusena was not speaking in anger.



No.



He was speaking in calculated disappointment.



"I am to blame for this," Vasusena murmured, almost to himself. "Even though I gave you the right education... both of you still turned out this way.



A brash fool who thought who could change the world with the edge of his blade.

A naive boy who froze when reality shattered his illusions."



Sangramjit's stomach twisted.



"Vipatha—" Vasusena's voice dropped lower, sharper, quieter. " the idiot broke when he faced reality."



Sangramjit felt his breath leave him.



"He stood frozen. Eyes glassy. Helpless." Vasusena's gaze bore into him. "All it took was one moment—one moment where his precious ideals crumbled. And he was almost useless when there is a war going on around him."





Sangramjit's mind reeled back to the trial. Vipatha had frozen till he raised the sword against the Brahmins.



He had stood there, unmoving, while the weight of reality crashed down on him.



A man who freezes in battle is as good as dead.



"How many times did I tell him about Shon?" Vasusena's voice was like the crack of thunder. "How many cases have I discussed with you? How many injustices have I given as examples?"



Sangramjit had no answer.



"Even you hesitated in the beginning." Vasusena's voice was softer now—but somehow, it cut even deeper. "And yet, at the crucial moment—you rose."



Vipatha, however?



"He did not—until it was almost too late." He scoffed. "If men will manipulate your brashness, Sangramjit, then anyone with half a brain will destroy Vipatha's naive heart."



Sangramjit swallowed hard. "Still... must it be this way?"



Vasusena let out a sharp breath. "Until now, every injustice he heard was just a story to him." His gaze darkened. "An intellectual debate. A problem that belonged to someone else."



A pause.



"Until now... it was never personal. And because it never affected him... he never learned. Moreover he was proud of his so-called high-ground over me. If left alone he'd put himself into greater danger than anyone in this world."



Sangramjit hated how right he was. But still he tried to hold on to his anger.



"And Amma?" Sangramjit whispered, pleading now. "She never deserved this."



For the first time, Vasusena looked at him in pity. "Amma never feared for my life. Not even for a second."



Sangramjit felt his blood run cold. "What are you saying?"



"She was not like you or Vipatha, Sangramjit. She was worried for a few moments, yes." Vasusena's expression was unreadable. "But she knew I would pull through."



Sangramjit stared at him, his mind racing.



"She was worried," Vasusena clarified, voice sharper now. "But she was never afraid." His expression did not waver. "Because she had faith in me."



Sangramjit's chest ached with something he could not name. "Are you out of your mind?"



Agrajah only laughed.



"Amma may look meek to the world," he said, "but she was the one who raised me this way."



Sangramjit's breath caught.



"She knew you two would protect me." Vasusena's gaze bore into him. "And if push came to shove... she knew I would protect myself."



Sangramjit shook his head, his world spinning. "You're speaking as if Amma—"



"When you looked at me today," Vasusena interrupted, "you saw a man who had given up after he achieved what he wished to.



You saw my capacity to love as a weakness. You thought I was giving up my life because I avenged Swarnajeet."



His next words sent chills racing down Sangramjit's spine.



"But when Amma looked at me?" The room felt unbearably still. "Do you know what she saw?"



"She saw her child. The child she raised. The one she knew would never allow his inaction to hurt her—or any of her children. She saw a man with a plan. She did not see my love for you as weakness. She knew that it's my greatest strength."



Sangramjit's mind reeled. Did his brother know how to read minds?



"Sangramjit... At any point during the trial, did Amma speak up? Did you see her cry?"



Sangramjit's mind raced, sifting through the memories, searching for the fear—searching for the grief—



But there was none.



Vipatha had been frozen in shock. He had been burning in rage.



But Amma?



She had been calm. Her eyes had never once left their Agrajah during the entire trial.



Not in fear. Not in grief.



But in something far, far more terrifying. Certainty.



What the hell?



"Why are you two so certain we could protect you?" Sangramjit's voice was low, raw with something he refused to name. "What if we never managed to acquit you today? What if we failed."



His Agrajah simply looked at him. Not with doubt. Not with hesitation. But with an eerie, unshakable calm.



Then—slowly—his lips curved, his serene smile twisting into something unreadable. And then, to Sangramjit's utter disbelief—



He laughed.



It was not a scoff. Not a bitter, mocking chuckle. It was laughter, rich and full, ringing in the air.



Sangramjit felt something cold settle in his bones.



His Agrajah was laughing.



Not with joy. Not with arrogance.



But with the kind of certainty that left no room for doubt.As if the very idea of their loss was not just impossible—but unthinkable.



As if it had never even been an option.



"Give a man a righteous cause—one he truly believes in—and you will see him fight like a Demigod." The words left his lips like prophecy. Like something already written, something already decided.



But then—his laughter faded. His voice dropped. Cold. Deep. Unforgiving."But threaten what a man loves purely... when his fight is just—"



The air turned suffocating. "-you will see him not just fight the false Gods."

His smile was gone. His eyes—dark. All-consuming. Unreadable.



"He will not rest until he breaks them with his own hands." Sangramjit's breath hitched."He will do everything in his strength to drag them from their thrones. And he will not hesitate to make them kneel.



Touch something a man loves purely... you'll see hell on earth."



And in the silence that followed, realization struck like lightning. Two moments of today flashed before his eyes.



Two paths. Two different attitudes towards the fight today.



Uncle Dwipatha.



He had fought. Fiercely. Desperately. He had turned his back on everything he once held sacred. He had shattered his own faith, burned his past obedience to cinders.



He had fought like a Demigod—because he believed.



He fought because believed Agrajah was right. He believed this fight was just.He believed they deserved to be free.



But when the Brahmins—the so-called Gods of this world—began to twist dharma itself, even when their injustice came out of the shadows into stark daylight—



Uncle Dwipatha stood silent. Just like everybody else.



Because even as he fought, even as he rebelled, some part of him still believed. Some part of him still worshipped.



But he and Vipatha... They had done something far greater.

Something far more terrible.

They had destroyed the Brahmins.

Not just fought them. Not just defied them.

They had annihilated them.



The so-called Gods—the men who wrapped themselves in divinity, who demanded obedience with every law, every scripture, every breath—



They had dragged them from their pedestals. They had shattered the illusion of their power. They had thrown them into the dirt, made them taste the dust beneath their feet.

They had burned their heaven— and replaced it with hell of their own making.



And worst of all? And the cruelest truth of all?



They had not done it for justice. They had not done it for a cause .

They had not even done it because they agreed with Vasusena.



No.



They had done it for him. Because they loved their Agrajah.

And Agrajah Vasusena knew it.



He smiled—softly. "I placed weapons in your hands, Sangramjit." His voice was quieter now. "My education—the knowledge those Brahmins used as oppression—was a weapon I placed in your hands."



The weight of those words settled deep. A chill ran through Sangramjit's spine.



"So yes—between the love you have for me and the knowledge I poured into you..."



He tilted his head slightly. "...I always knew you'd win. Without question." The laughter faded, leaving only a silence heavier than stone.



And then—his Agrajah spoke again.



"I did not bet on your brashness, Sangramjit." His voice was quiet now "I did not bet on Vipatha's so called knowledge."



His gaze bore into Sangramjit's very soul. Unyielding. Inescapable.



"I bet on the knowledge I taught you." His voice dipped lower, each word cutting deep. "And I bet on your love for me."