Their auras touched.
Their auras collided—not a roaring clash but a slow, inexorable folding of two immense storms, drawing inward, coiling like silent tempests. The marble floor beneath them trembled, unseen but deeply felt. The flames in the braziers flickered and dipped, shadows stretching like living things. From the farthest corridors, a sudden wind moaned through sealed halls, a whisper of unrest stirring.
The nobles exchanged startled, wide-eyed glances. Some fingers twitched, unsure whether to draw weapons or bow.
Shantanu gripped the arms of his throne.
"That is enough," he said—not loud, but firm.
The auras receded. Vatsaraja bowed stiffly, eyes flickering with reluctant respect mixed with resentment.
The court was left in stunned silence, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air: Devavrata was no longer a prince to be underestimated. He was a force unto himself, a presence that could stand toe-to-toe with the most seasoned cultivators.
Whispers spread like wildfire—had they been wrong to dismiss him as merely clever? Had they mistaken restraint for weakness?
And now, with that quiet revelation, the game had changed. The nobles' ambitions would need new strategies—or face ruin.
The silence that followed Devavrata's quiet display of power was heavy and electric. The nobles' murmurs filled the air, their thoughts a tangle of awe and fear. But among them, Vatsaraja's mind churned faster than any.
He was the first to recover, his sharp eyes narrowing. He had tasted Devavrata's strength—subtle but overwhelming—and realized that a direct clash of cultivation was folly. Yet, power alone did not guarantee victory in the court. The minds, the emotions, the politics—they were Vatsaraja's true weapons.
"If he cannot be bested by force," Vatsaraja mused silently, "then I will drag him into the realm where he is weakest: pride and temper."
Vatsaraja's plan was simple in its cruel elegance. He would provoke Devavrata—needle him publicly—bait him into a loss of composure. Once Devavrata showed even a hint of wrath or arrogance, the king's trust could be shaken. The nobles, ever eager for a chink in the prince's armor, would pounce.
Vatsaraja then continued "Of course, my Emperor. My only wish is to ensure that policy is not left to youthful impulse."
Devavrata bowed too, a fraction deeper. "And mine, to ensure it is not drowned in ancestral inertia."
"Unless, of course, there are... other concerns."
The bait shimmered beneath calm waters.But, knowing this, Vatsaraja still took it.
"Concerns, yes. About how swiftly decisions are made without the depth of court consultation. About how one voice, though elegant, begins to echo too loudly."
A sharp ripple spread through the chamber. Ministers exchanged uneasy glances.
Devavrata's gaze hardened—not angry, but unyielding. "Then let that echo resound. For silence has done little to heal what festers."
And there it was—the clash, quiet but seismic. A war waged with tone and presence, not steel. Yet in the heart of every listener, something shifted.
Even those who had hoped to humble him now saw it: Vatsaraja had pressed, and the river had not bent. It had spoken.
And the tide was rising.
"My prince," the old fox began, stepping forward with a bow just deep enough to observe protocol—no more. His voice dripped with honeyed reverence, but there was steel beneath it, sharpened for courtly duel. "We are grateful, of course, to the river for returning her son to us."
"But surely, a river must learn to bend before it can carve stone."
"Experience," he added with a thin smile, "is a teacher not even the brightest can outpace. Let us not burden the prince with matters too weighty, too soon. Let him first watch, and grow."
"And if he is truly meant to lead," another chimed in, voice smooth, "he will rise when the time demands it. Not before."
A murmur of agreement rolled across the chamber—measured, controlled, but intentional.
The test had begun.
He lingered on the river deliberately. Not a goddess. Not a mother. Just a body of water.
"Rivers, for all their majesty, are capricious. Unstable. They change course with the seasons. They are... transient. Kings, on the other hand, must be constant."
The chamber murmured faintly. Shantanu, seated on his throne, smiled faintly. "Poetic," he mused aloud.
But Devavrata saw the barbs.
You are a child of change. Of instability.
Not a king. A current. A passing force.
He offered no visible reaction—only turned his head slightly toward the old fox, his voice calm and even.
"A river's path may change," Devavrata replied, "but it always reaches the ocean. Unlike certain men who wander endlessly… yet arrive nowhere."
A few eyebrows rose. The tone was respectful. The insult beneath it—razor sharp.
The old fox smiled tightly. "Ah. You speak well, my prince. The river's education was not wasted. Though, of course," he added with a gentle shrug, "we in the court are trained not just in speech, but in the rhythms of governance. Hierarchy. Balance. These things are not taught by waves or wind."
You were raised in wilderness, not in dharma.
You do not understand order.
You do not belong.
Devavrata tilted his head. "Is that so? I was taught balance from the mountains, hierarchy from the stars, and dharma from the silence between breaths. What I did not learn… were the masks of men who mistake cowardice for diplomacy."
The court shifted. That landed.
The old fox pressed on, this time addressing Shantanu directly, still using Devavrata as the blade's edge. "Still, Your Majesty, one must ask—can a child raised among spirits and winds know the burdens of lineage? Of royal duty? It is one thing to wield a sword in mist-covered valleys. Another to bear an Empire."
He is a warrior, not a prince.
A myth, not a man.
Unfit to rule.
Before Shantanu could speak, Devavrata answered.
"True," he said. "It is no small burden to carry an Empire. But harder still to walk the path knowing your every step is watched, measured, doubted—by those who have never set foot outside these scented halls."
The silence deepened.
Devavrata inhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to the ancient marble floor beneath his feet. Each insult from Vatsaraja had felt like a pebble dropped in the deep lake of his discipline—ripples that had grown over months. He had mastered divine breathing under moonless skies, stilled his spirit before the whirlwinds of the heavens. But now, here, in his father's court, the restraint felt less like control and more like a collar choking the river of his will. How many more moments could he bear?
The old fox gave a theatrical sigh. "You are eloquent, truly. But forgive me if I still place greater trust in the wisdom of our queenly mothers. After all, a Emperor is shaped by his mother, is he not?"
Devavrata's spine straightened. The wind shifted.
And then it came:
"And yours…" the old fox said softly, " was a river. Beautiful, yes. But water is not a lineage. Water has no crown. Water bends to stone. And in time… evaporates."
There it was.
This is Vatsaraja's masterstroke—laying bare his intent to dismantle Devavrata's legitimacy by attacking his origin and heritage, undermining his place in the royal line. It's the verbal gauntlet thrown down, the breaking point where court intrigue turns into open conflict.
The insult that broke the sky.
Devavrata's eyes did not change—but the temperature of the room dropped as if the sun itself had paused.
Then, calmly, with no trace of visible anger, he spoke.
"My mother," he said, " "She is not just the river.
She is the Divine River—the first breath of life that flowed before kings had names.
She does not need a crown—she is the font from which crowns are forged.
She does not bend to stone—she softens it, carves it, teaches it to remember movement.
And as for evaporation…"
He took a single step forward. The air quivered.
"…even when she vanishes, she rises—becoming mist, becoming sky, becoming storm.
She does not die.
She ascends.
And when she returns—she comes as rain that humbles mountains and drowns empires."
A wind howled through the palace though no doors had opened.
Chandeliers flickered. The tapestries trembled.
The marble beneath his feet shimmered faintly, as if trying to reflect something not of this world.
His cultivation surged—Mid-stage Soul Formation—but it felt deeper, older, like it had been whispered into him by the stars themselves.
"You insult her name," he said, gaze locked on the trembling courtier, "yet your blood has not even brushed the outer gates of heaven. You speak of lineage. I was cradled in the arms of eternity. Your tongue wags in dust. Mine was tempered in the celestial stream."
"You may question my path," he finished, voice gentle but unyielding. "But speak ill of my mother again—and not even the gods will find your soul's ashes."
And then—it broke.
Not with noise, but with stillness too deep to be natural.
The braziers in the hall extinguished themselves one by one, not with a hiss, but with an intake of breath, as though the fire was retreating in awe.
In the court, wind stirred though there were no windows open.
Ink spilled from inkwells. Candles flared blue. Jade ornaments cracked.
Even Shantanu's qi flickered, eyes widening as he instinctively raised a defensive seal—and still felt like a reed in the current.
The sky above Hastinapura turned ashen, the sun dimmed, as if clouded by an invisible force.
He opened his divine sense further—far further.
Not just the court.
Not just the palace.
The entire capital.
Then the entire Kuru Kingdom.
Across deserts, mountains, ashrams, demon-infested forests. Across ancient temples glowing with seal formations. Across islands hidden in mist.
Every cultivator above Core Formation paused.
Monks in distant monasteries dropped their prayer wheels.
Sword saints halfway through duels suddenly froze.
A rishi deep in samadhi opened his third eye in awe.
And from the direction of the northern forests, birds took flight in terror, whole flocks shrieking into the air as beasts fled caves and groves. In temples, bells rang without hands. Rivers briefly reversed course. Time itself seemed to hesitate.
In the heavens, cultivators meditating atop distant peaks opened their eyes.
Stars pulsed.
Qi bent.
A dragon stirring in a far realm lifted its head.
The world noticed.
Inside the hall, several Core cultivators fell to one knee, instinctively, their hearts hammering as if in the presence of a Celestial.
Lord Vatsaraja stumbled.
Devavrata did not touch him. Did not strike him. He merely looked at him.
The noble's knees buckled.
Qi circuits in his body spasmed. His own cultivation, once proud, now felt like stale incense before a divine storm.
"You wanted to see what I am," Devavrata said. "Now the world sees with you."