"The Rajvansh Samrajya stood at a critical turning point. A storm was approaching."
"But with warriors like Rudrapratap Chauhan... and a prodigy who defied fate itself..."
"The empire would not fall."
As the court meeting progressed, whispers stirred among the royal nobles —rumors of the prodigy's feats: defeating demonic monsters, producing potions, and forging guiding weapons by innovations no scholar could explain.
"Samrat, forgive the interruption." said Samanta Ramachandra Mehta, stepping forward. His voice carried both doubt and disdain. "What bright future are we speaking of? What sort of child chooses a battlefield more hellish than Narak Lok over an academy classroom?"
"I've also heard," added Samanta Vishwanath Kala, supporting Mehta, "... that the prodigy abandoned his team in the mid-battle. Yet somehow, he returned alone — his black hair drenched in fresh blood, so red it earned him the name Kala-Kesari Raakshas[1]."
Then, Angadpratap Chauhan spoke, his voice sharp and sneering — a tone that could stir even the calmest to rage.
"Indeed. On the one hand, he had done great deeds. On the other, he's also infamous among the noble. He hides his face, avoids ceremonies, and even dares to ignore events held by the imperial family."
"They say he's so hideous that even children cry at the sight of his back. That's why he wears a mask."
"All these rumors swirl around the boy. Poor soul."
All eyes slowly turned toward Rudrapratap Chauhan.
But he didn't respond with rage. Instead, he stood calmly — stopped drinking the wine from the glass.
"Are you questioning that child's loyalty?" His icy gaze swept over the nobles like a chilling wind. "You've heard the story — but only halfway."
His voice rang clear and firm.
"He did not forsake his comrades amid the clash of steel, even as wounds covered their bodies like war-marks from the battle like divine blessings. He waited — for the rescue team, for a glimmer of hope."
Vishwanath felt his breath stilled for a moment as Rudrapratap stepped forward, each footfall drawing him closer. The air between them thickened — not with tension, but with truth.
"But fate faltered. The rescue team never came. And so, without delay, he bore upon himself the burden of a hundred broken warriors — bringing each one back from the jaws of death. The blood that soaked his armor was not of fallen allies, but of the demonic beasts he cut down along the way."
Instead Rudrapratap did not rise — remained in his seat.
He merely lowered his gaze for a moment, then calmly continued drinking his wine, as though nothing had happened.
His voice steady as he addressed the gathering — each word deliberate, every sentence a sword that cut through rumor and doubt.
"What you heard was not untrue — just incomplete." he said, his eyes scanning the court. The murmurs faded into silence.
Then, with a measured motion, Rudrapratap turned his head — his gaze now fixed on Ramachandra, who sat across the hall. His voice did not waver as he continued, speaking not just to the court, but to the one man who needed to hear it most.
"You call him the Kala-Kesari Raakshas, but at the borders, they call him the Kesari Rakshak[2]."
"He entered that cursed battlefield far too young — but if he hadn't, we'd be corpses by now without any proper preparations against the demonic monsters. Moral strength matters more than textbook teachings."
"He also required some real life experiences — they are the future generations of our Samrajya."
Rudrapratap glanced at Angadpratap, and his tone sharpened.
"He didn't want to be a sheep among sheeps — he chose to be a wolf of freedom."
"He's a workaholic — fighting, healing, inventing — sacrificing rest and dreams alike. And yet you scorn him for missing some banquets?"
Rudrapratap leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Are your brains damaged? Can you not connect the dots?"
His words struck like thunder.
The nobles fell silent, finally understanding — why the Samrat had remained silent.
Because he had granted the boy permission to stay away.
A faint smile curved the lips of Samrat Vikramaditya, pride flickering in his gaze.
"I've heard the stories too." he said. "How the boy healed soldiers suffering from wounds and rare diseases even our royal physicians couldn't cure. His skills are both brilliant — and mysterious."
Samrat Vikramaditya's pride in the young boy's unwavering loyalty to the people was evident — and as his words echoed through the chamber, Rudrapratap's anger quietly began to fade.
Pride filled his voice — yet, beneath that glow... a shadow.
Behind the smile, a hidden sorrow.
What burden does the Samrat carry? What happened during those years in the capital?
"The meeting is over." Samrat Vikramaditya declared. The nobles slowly dispersed.
"Samrat." Rudrapratap stepped forward. "May I speak with you?"
The Samrat hesitated, then nodded.
The royal mansion housed many palaces and garden pavilions — each distinct in design, purpose, and form.
They moved to a secluded garden palace — the White Flower Palace.
A maid served rose tea. At a wave of the Samrat's hand, she departed.
"Samrat, what burdens you?" Rudrapratap asked, his voice gentle but unwavering.
Though the Samrat's emotions had been concealed in court, Rudrapratap had noticed the change in his eyes.
He reached out, placing a hand over the Samrat's — he turned away.
Sigh "What happened, Vikram?"
Rudrapratap's tone was gentle, fatherly.
"I raised you, and the three Mahāsamantas, alongside my daughter. Do you really think I can't tell something's wrong?"
The Samrat remained quiet.
"Do you need my help?"
Moved by Rudrapratap's sincerity, Vikramaditya opened his mouth — but hesitated.
"Unc..." he began, but stopped himself out of respect for formality.
"Say it." Rudrapratap said quietly. "In whatever way feels right."
"... Uncle." Vikramaditya finally said. "My wife — the Mother of the Nation — had been unwell. Ever since you left for the border..."
His voice faded.
After a moment's pause, he added.
"Uncle... tell me everything about the young boy. Leave nothing out."
Samrat Vikramaditya was curious to know about the young boy's life for those past three years in the borders.
Rudrapratap recounted the journey of the young boy. His eyes softened.
"He, Dev Goenka..." he began. "... helps others without asking for anything in return. He has mastered every field — swordsmanship, potion-making, even constructing magical guidance devices. Whatever he touches, he excels in. He's earned real respect. From soldiers, villagers — even me."
Rudrapratap paused.
"He's the same age as my grandchild this year... my daughter's child."
A silence settled between them.
"I sense a deep emptiness within my heart... When he laughs with villagers but remains cold to nobles — and to me... I see myself in him. He cared for me when I was ill. He knows everything about me. And yet I..."
"... I don't even know where my own grandson is. I am... an incompetent grandfather." Rudrapratap looked away, his voice thick with emotion.
Vikramaditya listened, concern written across his face.
Rudrapratap looked away again, his voice barely a whisper.
"He is like a stranger... and yet, not entirely. For the past three years, there's been this quiet pull — a sense of familiarity I couldn't explain."
His gaze drifted, caught somewhere between memory and reality.
"Just like it was... ten years ago. Before everything changed."
A pause, heavy with unspoken emotion.
"It's as if he's come back."
Ten years ago — that incident.
I still remember that day — the day my grandchild was taken right before my eyes. He was only four. Innocent. Fragile. Unaware of the darkness that would rip him away.
They came dressed in black hooded, moving with precision. Two separate groups — one clashed with me and my knights, drawing our attention into battle, while the other... vanished with the boy.
We searched relentlessly through the night and beyond. And by the end of that grueling day, we had only one answer — where they took him.
But not why. Not who. Not what became of him.
After that day, everything fell silent. No ransom. No trail. It was as if the earth had swallowed him — or as if someone had carefully erased all traces.
Deliberate. Targeted. As though someone wanted to erase the future of the Chauhan house.
Even now, after all these years, questions still echo in my mind:
Who were those black-hooded men?
Why him? Why then?
What happened after they took him?
Why did they appear and disappear like shadows in the wind?
And the one question that haunts me the most —
Where is he now?
So many questions.
All tied to that one day.
And not a single answer.
"Uncle...!" Vikramaditya leaned forward across the table, his voice edged with worry. "Rudrapratap ji!"
He had called out to him several times, but Rudrapratap remained unresponsive — still as stone, his eyes unfocused, lost deep in thought.
Seeing no other way, Samrat Vikramaditya reached out and gently shook his shoulder.
"Uncle, are you with me?" he asked again, softer now.
At last, Rudrapratap stirred, blinking as if waking from a long, silent dream. His eyes slowly met Vikramaditya's, the weight of buried memories still lingering behind them.
"Haa... forgive me, Samrat. I'm not well. May I be excused?"
Without waiting, he rose and departed the garden palace.
Vikramaditya watched him go.
"... Uncle, why do you still carry the weight of the past?" he murmured to himself. "Can you not step forward... and embrace the present?"
He looked toward Rudrapratap's retreating figure — his shadow stretching long in the setting sun.
[1] Kala-Kesari Rakshas (काला-कैसरी राक्षस): Kala = Black, Kesari = Crimson/Saffron-like, Rakshas = Monster
[2] Rakshak (रक्षक): Rakshak = Guardian/Protector