In the dim glow of the council chamber, away from prying eyes, the nobles gathered in hushed urgency. The air was thick with tension—each man and woman aware that the kingdom's future was slipping beyond their grasp. Devavrata's rise had been swift, his presence in the court undeniable. He did not wield a sword on the battlefield, but his mind cut deeper than any blade. It was that very intellect that unsettled the ministers, for it could not be opposed through brute force or typical courtly maneuvering.
Vatsaraja, a veteran minister whose ambitions had long been stalled, leaned forward, voice low but firm. "The war was won, yes. But not by steel. Devavrata outwitted the enemy, shattered alliances before the first arrow flew. The king trusts him implicitly, and so do the people. Our chances diminish with every passing day."
Chandrika, her eyes gleaming with cold calculation, nodded in agreement. "That is precisely what frightens me. The people see him as a savior, untarnished by bloodshed. And the king… the king believes he holds the future in his hands. But a crown is not won by cleverness alone. There are shadows in every mind—shadows we can exploit. We must find Devavrata's weaknesses and pry them open."
Raghunath, older and more measured, stroked his beard thoughtfully. "We cannot match his intellect head-on. None of us can. But the mind can be fractured by doubt. If we can seed enough suspicion—if we can convince the king that Devavrata's ambitions are more dangerous than they appear—the foundation of his influence will crumble."
"Indeed," Vatsaraja interjected, a grim smile touching his lips. "His very confidence will be his downfall. He is too perfect, too certain. It is unnatural. What if we suggest to the king that Devavrata leaves no room for counsel, that he is a shadow king poised to usurp power in silence?"
Chandrika's lips curled into a sly smile. "I have already spoken to the younger nobles—those sidelined by his ascent. They fear being eclipsed, and their resentment is ripe for manipulation. If we ignite their jealousy, let them whisper and conspire, the court will fracture from within."
Raghunath's voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "We wait for the day the king openly discusses succession. That moment when the line of heirs is debated, when loyalty is questioned. We strike then, not with swords but with words—words sharp enough to poison even the strongest bond."
Vatsaraja's eyes glinted with ruthless intent. "If we succeed, the kingdom will descend into chaos and we may carve out power amidst the ruin. If we fail, Devavrata will become an unbreakable force. That, I will not allow. We will go to any lengths—bribery, blackmail, even… darker means. Nothing is off the table."
Chandrika leaned closer, her voice a dangerous whisper. "We must act before Devavrata's unknown cultivation power reveals itself. He is a mystery, and the people do not understand the strength beneath his calm. If that power surfaces, no plot will withstand him."
Raghunath's eyes hardened. "Then let the court become a battlefield of minds. Let intrigue, suspicion, and betrayal weave the web that ensnares the prince. We will strike where he least expects, and when the moment is right, the breaking point will come."
They exchanged grim, determined glances, their ambitions flaring like wildfire in the darkness. None among them truly understood the depths of Devavrata's cultivation—his quiet mastery of forces unseen and untouchable. But they were willing to gamble everything to shatter his rise, even if it meant plunging the empire into turmoil.
The ministers murmured in approval, but in their hearts, the unease never faded.
Devavrata was not just clever. He was growing indispensable.
And with every passing month, it became clearer: Devavrata was no longer merely a prince returned. He was acting as a Crown Prince in all but the title. The Emperor had not named him such, but the flow of power—steady, confident, unchallenged—seemed to carve the path ahead without needing words.
Some ministers, particularly those who had long nursed ambitions of regency or influence over a weaker heir, began to murmur among themselves.
"He is too perfect," one said. "Too certain."
"If the Emperor names him Crown Prince," whispered another, "we will have no foothold left. His cultivation is unspoken. What if it is lesser than we assume?"
"We must humble him. Remind him that he is still young. Still vulnerable to court"
So they watched him closely. Tested him in small ways—ambiguous petitions, veiled insults, obscure procedural traps. Each time, Devavrata answered with calm precision, untangling complexity with the same grace he applied to swordplay. He never raised his voice. He never stumbled. And still, that only fed their resentment. Their challenge had not cracked him—it had polished him further.
Then came the confrontation.
The court gathered to debate the appointment of a new regional governor in Gandhara...
The court was filled with gold-threaded silence.
The air of Hastinapura's royal hall shimmered faintly with residual qi. Devavrata sat unmoved, his posture perfect, hands folded before him, as if born not of flesh but carved from still water.
But beneath that surface, his divine sense swept through the chamber like a deep tide—quiet, unnoticed, thorough.
Cultivation levels whispered their truths to him.
The elder ministers hovered mostly at the late Foundation Establishment, a few brushing Core Formation. The generals were stronger—battle-hardened mid to late Core Formation cultivators, seasoned but narrow in path. The head priest, old yet sharp, was Nascent Soul, like Shantanu.
But none touched Soul Formation. None even dared to imagine it.
Except one. Lord Vatsaraja.
Even across the polished expanse of the royal dais, Devavrata could feel the subtle pulse of Vatsaraja's qi. It was a heavy, slow-burning pressure—like coals banked beneath silk. Early Nascent Soul. He masked it well beneath courtly poise, but Devavrata knew the signs: the faint shimmer in his voice, the sluggish flow of spiritual winds in his wake. This was no petty noble—this was a predator cloaked in honeyed words.
Proud, cunning, and too accustomed to being the strongest man in any room—until now. And he was losing patience.
Vatsaraja, though outwardly courteous, watched Devavrata with the gleam of a serpent sizing up its prey.
The old fox rose from his ceremonial cushion, hands tucked inside sleeves of midnight-blue silk laced with sigils of the Bhrigu line.
When Vatsaraja stood in court that morning, it was not merely his pride speaking. It was the sharpened will of a threatened faction. They had grown used to testing Devavrata in whispers, in half-measures cloaked as decorum. But they had come to believe his strength was ceremony, not substance—that beneath his composure, he could still be bent. Or broken.
The court had gathered to debate the appointment of a new regional governor in Gandhara. The great hall, with its columns etched in lapis and jade, was hushed—ministers seated in crescent formation, scribes poised, incense curling lazily in the air. Outside, the midday sun had turned the marble floors to mirrors of light.
Clad in dark indigo silks that shimmered like the edge of a storm, he moved with feline grace. His robe bore no heraldry—only a single obsidian clasp at the throat, gleaming like a hidden blade. His eyes, half-lidded and gleaming with dry amusement, swept the chamber before settling on Devavrata with calculated indifference.
"Honored council," he began, his tone a model of courteous disinterest, "we all understand the strategic importance of Gandhara. Bordering fractious tribes and home to volatile trade routes, it requires more than charisma. It demands... maturity."
A ripple passed through the chamber. The implication hung unspoken—but thick.
"May I suggest," Vatsaraja continued, "that we defer such appointments until we have better assessed long-term stability—until cooler heads, seasoned by time and experience, can make such choices without haste."
He turned slightly, not toward Devavrata, but away from him—yet the effect was the same. A dismissal dressed in silk.
Devavrata stood slowly.
He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"When the river floods, one does not wait for the perfect dam to be built. One diverts. One acts. Or else the valley drowns."
His words rippled through the qi-soaked silence, sharp and precise.
He took a single step forward, hands still folded. "Gandhara's instability is not new. It festers because of inaction disguised as caution. The tribes stir not from hunger, but from neglect. The merchants pay bribes not from greed, but from survival. Delay is not wisdom—it is rot."
Vatsaraja's smile thinned, but his voice remained polished. "And you would resolve it by naming a governor in haste? You mistake decisiveness for foresight, young prince."
"In that case, My Emperor," he continued, voice smooth, each syllable lined with a silver sheen of qi. " If it is the young prince's intention to appoint a governor in haste, It is my humble belief that governance of Gandhara should fall to a seasoned statesman. Perhaps Lord Marut, whose lineage ties closely to the late governor's house."
Marut, a bloated, half-sleeping minister, blinked in confusion. "I—I would serve, of course," he muttered.
Devavrata's eyes did not leave Vatsaraja. "Lord Marut has never set foot in Gandhara."
A ripple stirred through the court.
Vatsaraja inclined his head. "Which is why he would offer impartial guidance."
"Which is why he would be ignorant of local cultivation zones, clan disputes, and spiritual topography," Devavrata replied, voice calm as winter water. "I propose Shira Devi instead. She served the southern passes during the Salwa incursion. Her formations held for thirteen days under siege. The border folk trust her."
"She is a cultivator of no house," Vatsaraja said. "A lone root in a storm."
"A storm she has already weathered," Devavrata said evenly.
A beat of silence. Qi stirred, invisible yet palpable. The court was no longer breathing.
Vatsaraja's lips curved. "Is that a command, Prince? Or a suggestion cloaked in silk?"
Devavrata stepped forward.
Not far. Just a half-pace. But in that gesture was a shift—as though the air between them condensed. His eyes met Vatsaraja's, and for the first time, the old minister saw not the courteous prince, but the unblinking depth of the river behind him.
"I do not command. I guide," Devavrata said. "But when the Empire's breath trembles, I do not wait for permission to shield it."
"Shield it," Vatsaraja echoed, his voice sharpening. "Or smother it in control?"
Devavrata said nothing.
Instead, his cultivation surged—gentle but undeniable. Behind him, a subtle shimmer like cold moonlight rippled through the air, barely perceptible yet profound, as if the very currents of reality bent toward his presence. The ministers shifted uneasily in their seats, an unfamiliar chill creeping into their bones. They felt suddenly small, their own cores flickering faintly compared to the steady pulse emanating from Devavrata.
Vatsaraja's once confident smile cracked, revealing brittle doubt.
He stepped forward, his spiritual pressure unfurling deliberately like a velvet noose tightening with patience and menace. Dark qi, swirling in shades of black and gold, spilled from his sleeves—thick with centuries of power and layered intent. The court held its breath as the invisible forces rippled through the air.
"Power untempered by age often mistakes confidence for wisdom."
"And power clinging to age forgets that stagnation is not legacy," Devavrata replied.