Chapter 195: Chapter 193: Vikrama Varman... Unjust Prince... Betrayal Through The Blood...

(A/N):

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Vikrama Varman continued staring at the letter in his hand.

A faint smile remained on his lips.

"...."

To anyone walking into the tent at that moment, he would have appeared pleased, perhaps even amused by whatever message had arrived.

Only he knew the truth.

Behind that calm smile, his mind was seething with rage.

The veins on the hand holding the letter slowly became visible as his grip tightened. The parchment crumpled slightly beneath his fingers before he forced himself to loosen them.

He slowly raised his head.

"Guards."

The two soldiers standing outside immediately entered and bowed.

"My Lord."

Vikrama’s voice was calm, almost indifferent.

"I wish to be alone for a while."

"Do not allow anyone to disturb me."

"If someone comes looking for me, tell them I am reviewing confidential state matters."

The guards did not question the order.

"As you command, Mahamantri."

After offering another respectful bow, both soldiers stepped outside, pulling the heavy cloth entrance shut behind them.

A few moments later, Vikrama listened carefully.

He heard their footsteps grow distant until they resumed their positions several yards away from the tent.

Only after making absolutely certain no one remained nearby did his expression finally collapse.

The smile vanished.

In its place appeared a face twisted by barely restrained fury.

Without warning, he slammed the rolled message onto the wooden table.

"Damn it!"

His voice echoed through the empty tent.

He began pacing back and forth.

Every step carried years of suppressed frustration.

Finally, he stopped before the fire pit burning near the center of the tent.

The flames danced quietly, casting long shadows across the walls.

Beside the fire rested his personal sword.

Vikrama picked it up.

The polished steel reflected the firelight as he slowly drew the blade from its scabbard.

For a long moment he simply stared at his own reflection upon the metal.

Then...

With a sudden movement, he thrust the sword into the burning firewood.

The flames wrapped around the blade.

He stood there silently, watching the steel gradually heat.

His breathing became heavier.

"How..."

he muttered through clenched teeth.

"...how could someone destroy an entire Legion?"

His voice gradually rose.

"Those creatures have served Lord Pushpasura for generations."

"They have slaughtered villages."

"They have wiped out armed patrols."

"They were never meant to lose."

His grip tightened around the sword’s hilt.

"So tell me..."

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Was the Legion truly that weak..."

"...or..."

"...is the human simply that powerful?"

The silence inside the tent answered him.

Vikrama already knew the truth.

The reports had been too detailed to dismiss.

Every cultist sent to perform the ritual had failed.

The summoned Legion had been annihilated.

Even the Legion Commander...

Destroyed.

He slowly closed his eyes.

"So..."

he whispered in low voice.

"The prophecy has begun moving. A bloody war is about to happen."

The corners of his lips curled into a cold smile.

Devara’s suspicion... Had been correct all along.

The mole hidden close to the royal family...

The man secretly feeding information to Pushpasura’s followers...

The one ensuring their plans continued unnoticed...

Was none other than Vikrama Varman himself.

The king’s younger brother.

The kingdom’s Mahamantri.

The person whom King Padmanabha Varman trusted more than almost anyone else.

Anyone discovering that truth would ask the same question.

’Why?...’

’Why would a man betray his own blood?’

’Why betray his own kingdom?’

The answer wasn’t born yesterday.

It had taken root decades ago.

Vikrama slowly removed the sword from the fire.

The blade glowed faintly red near its edge.

His thoughts drifted back to his childhood.

He and Padmanabha had been separated by barely a year.

From the outside, they appeared inseparable.

Princes of the same royal blood.

Raised by the same parents.

Taught by the same gurus.

Fed from the same royal kitchens.

But only Vikrama knew how different they truly were.

Padmanabha had always been gifted with extraordinary physical talent.

The sword came naturally to him.

Archery.

Horse riding.

Wrestling.

Every martial discipline seemed eager to welcome him.

Wherever the princes trained, the instructors praised Padmanabha first.

The soldiers admired him.

The generals respected him.

Meanwhile...

Vikrama excelled elsewhere.

He found joy in studying administration.

Economics.

Diplomacy.

Military logistics.

Taxation.

Trade routes.

He could spend entire nights discussing political strategy with the kingdom’s ministers while his brother preferred practicing swordsmanship until sunset.

Whenever disputes arose between nobles, it was often Vikrama who quietly proposed solutions.

Even senior ministers occasionally sought his opinion despite his young age.

Deep inside...

He truly believed he possessed the qualities of a better ruler.

’A kingdom isn’t governed by muscles... It is governed by wisdom.’

That belief only grew stronger as the years passed.

Eventually came the day that decided everything.

The official announcement of succession.

Their aging father had summoned the royal court.

Nobles.

Generals.

Priests.

Ministers.

Everyone gathered inside the great assembly hall.

Vikrama still remembered standing there with hope burning inside his heart.

Surely...

This would be decided fairly.

Surely both princes would be evaluated equally.

Instead...

Before anyone could even suggest another candidate...

His father announced Padmanabha Varman as the Crown Prince.

Just like that.

No discussion. No comparison.

No consideration.

Nothing.

Vikrama had stepped forward that day.

For the first time in his life...

He openly questioned his father.

"If the throne is to be decided ...should not both princes be tested?"

The old king had looked at him for a long moment.

"...."

Then nodded.

"A fair request."

Hope had returned.

Until the king continued.

"The victor shall be decided through a duel."

A duel.

Not debate. Not governance.

Not administration. Not diplomacy.

A duel with swords.

Vikrama could still remember the disbelief that had washed over him.

He hadn’t objected because he feared defeat.

He objected because the contest itself was unfair.

"My lord..."

he had said that day,

"...if the kingdom is to be ruled, should we not compare our understanding of ruling it?"

"Our knowledge of politics."

"Our ability to govern."

"Our understanding of law."

Instead...

His father had simply shaken his head.

"A king who cannot defend his kingdom with his own strength. ...does not deserve to sit upon its throne."

Those words had shattered something inside him.

Still...

He accepted in anger. He fought.

And exactly as everyone expected... He lost.

Padmanabha defeated him before the entire royal court.

The cheers that followed...

The applause. The celebrations.

Every sound still echoed inside Vikrama’s memories.

His humiliation had become entertainment for the kingdom.

Even now, years later, he could remember the pity in some ministers’ eyes.

The sympathy. The disappointment.

None of them saw his intelligence.

None of them acknowledged his accomplishments.

To them...

He was simply the younger prince who wasn’t strong enough.

Vikrama slowly looked into the dancing flames.

"I never lost because I was unworthy..."

he murmured quietly.

"I lost because they forced me to fight on his battlefield."

"If the contest had been one of governance..."

"Of diplomacy..."

"Of politics..."

"I would have defeated him."

His voice grew colder.

"But Father never gave me that chance."

"He had already chosen his successor long before that duel."

"The fight ...was merely a performance."

The flames reflected within his eyes.

From that day onward...

The love of a younger brother slowly gave way to something far darker.

Something that had patiently waited for the perfect opportunity to bloom.

Vikrama slowly lowered himself into his chair.

The fire continued burning quietly before him, but his mind had already wandered far into the past.

There had been a time...

When he had not yet chosen the path of betrayal.

Back then, he still served the kingdom faithfully.

Even after losing the succession, King Padmanabha Varman had refused to cast his younger brother aside.

Instead, he had personally appointed Vikrama as the Mahamantri of the kingdom.

Many had questioned the decision.

Some nobles believed it was dangerous to place a prince who had once contested the throne in such an influential position.

But Padmanabha had silenced every objection with a single sentence.

"My younger brother is the wisest man in this kingdom."

"If I cannot trust my own brother with the affairs of my court..."

"...then I do not deserve to be called a king."

Those words had surprised everyone.

Even Vikrama himself.

For a brief period...

He almost believed things could return to normal.

Years passed.

He devoted himself to the administration of the kingdom, solving disputes, negotiating trade agreements, and advising the king during times of crisis.

Then...

Everything changed during a royal hunting expedition.

The hunting grounds stretched across a vast forest several days away from the capital.

The king had remained with the main hunting party, while Vikrama had chosen to explore another section of the forest accompanied by only a handful of soldiers.

It was supposed to be a peaceful excursion.

Instead...

Disaster struck.

The forest suddenly erupted with the deafening roar of an enraged bear.

Before anyone could react, the enormous beast burst through the bushes.

It wasn’t frightened.

It wasn’t trying to escape.

It charged directly toward Vikrama.

His horse panicked immediately.

The frightened animal threw him violently onto the ground before bolting into the forest.

By the time Vikrama regained his footing, the bear was already upon him.

He barely managed to draw his sword before the beast’s massive paw struck him across the chest.

The force sent him crashing into a nearby tree.

His sword flew from his hand.

Pain exploded throughout his body.

Before he could recover...

The bear was standing over him.

Its enormous jaws opened wide.

Its hot breath washed across his face.

He could already see the rows of sharp teeth prepared to tear him apart.

"So... this is how I die..."

The thought had barely crossed his mind.

Suddenly...

Thud!

A long spear shot through the air with terrifying force.

It entered through the bear’s open mouth and pierced straight through the back of its neck.

The beast froze.

Its massive body trembled once.

Then collapsed lifelessly only inches away from Vikrama.

He vaguely remembered hearing hurried footsteps.

"...."

Several unfamiliar voices.

Then...

Darkness.

When consciousness finally returned...

The first thing Vikrama noticed was the unfamiliar ceiling above him.

It wasn’t made of carved wood like the royal palace.

Instead, woven branches and animal hides formed the roof.

Beneath him lay a surprisingly comfortable bed stuffed with feathers instead of cotton.

The scent of medicinal herbs lingered throughout the tent.

His entire body ached.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright.

Bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulders.

Every movement reminded him of the injuries left by the bear.

"You’re awake."

The voice came from the entrance.

The tent flap was pushed aside.

An elderly man stepped inside.

Despite his age, he carried himself with remarkable confidence.

His broad shoulders hinted that he had once been a formidable warrior.

A deep scar ran across one side of his face, while numerous old wounds marked his arms.

Unlike ordinary tribal elders, he carried himself with the quiet dignity of a leader.

The old man smiled faintly.

"It seems your spirit refused to leave your body."

Vikrama looked at him cautiously.

"...Where am I?"

"Our village."

The elder answered simply.

"I am Rudraka..."

"...chief of this tribe."

He walked closer before offering Vikrama a wooden bowl filled with herbal medicine.

"Our hunters found you."

"They saw a bear chasing you through the forest."

"Fortunately..."

He chuckled softly.

"...one of our spear throwers possesses excellent aim."

"You were unconscious when we brought you here."

"Our healers have been treating your wounds for the past three days."

Vikrama accepted the bowl.

"...You saved my life."

The old chief nodded.

"No life should be thrown away so easily."

During the following weeks...

Vikrama remained with the tribe while his wounds gradually healed.

At first, he intended to leave as soon as he could walk properly.

Instead...

Curiosity slowly kept him there.

The tribe was unlike any he had encountered before.

They lived deep within the forest, avoiding contact with the outside world.

Their customs were strange.

Their rituals even stranger.

Most surprising of all...

They did not worship any of the gods.

No shrines to Shiva.

No temples dedicated to Vishnu.

No offerings to Devi.

Instead...

Every prayer. Every ceremony. Every festival.

Centered around a single name.

Pushpasura.

The first time Vikrama learned of it, he frowned openly.

-Frown!

"An Asura?"

he asked the chief.

"You worship an Asura?"

The old chief showed no embarrassment.

"He is our Lord."

"Our protector."

"The one who answered us when the heavens remained silent."

Vikrama dismissed it as blind faith.

Surely they were merely attributing coincidence to divine intervention.

That opinion remained unchanged...

Until he witnessed the impossible.

One afternoon, a young child in the village developed a violent fever.

The tribe’s healers exhausted every herb they possessed.

Nothing worked.

The old chief quietly entered the shrine.

He knelt before the crude stone altar dedicated to Pushpasura.

Lighting a black incense stick, he whispered a prayer that Vikrama couldn’t fully hear.

When he emerged...

He instructed the healers to prepare a particular mixture of herbs.

By the following sunrise...

The child’s fever had completely disappeared.

Vikrama called it coincidence.

A few days later...

A severe drought threatened the tribe’s crops.

Once again, the chief disappeared into the shrine.

After another prayer...

Dark clouds gathered over the forest by evening.

Rain poured throughout the night.

Coincidence...

Again, Vikrama told himself.

Then came the third incident.

A hunting party returned empty-handed after three days.

Food supplies had begun running dangerously low.

The chief prayed once more.

The very next morning...

An enormous herd of wild deer wandered unusually close to the settlement.

Enough to feed the tribe for weeks.

This time...

Vikrama found himself unable to dismiss what he had seen.

Three impossible events.

All occurring shortly after prayers directed toward the same being.

His curiosity slowly transformed into something else.

Greed.

The old desire he had buried years ago quietly resurfaced.

One evening, while watching the chief place fresh offerings before the shrine, Vikrama finally asked the question that had been occupying his thoughts.

"...Chief."

The old man looked toward him.

"If someone..."

Vikrama hesitated briefly.

"...were to make a wish before your god..."

"...would he grant it?"

The old chief remained silent.

His single eye carefully studied Vikrama’s face.

"...."

He saw the curiosity. The ambition.

The hunger hidden beneath the younger man’s composed expression.

For several long moments...

Neither of them spoke.

Finally...

The old chief gave a slow nod.

"If Lord Pushpasura finds the wish worthy..."

"He answers."

The words were simple.

Yet the moment Vikrama heard them...

Something deep inside him awakened once again.

A dream he had convinced himself to abandon years ago.

The dream... Of wearing a crown.

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(Author note:)

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