The murmurs had barely died down when Mahādev Varma, the patriarch of the Varma clan, rose to his full imposing height atop the stone dais. His robes, woven from the sacred silk of the fire-kissed silkworms of Vindhya Valley, rippled in the heated wind. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's and old as mountain roots, bore into Shiv like smoldering embers.
His voice rang out, cold and commanding.
"So, Shiv Verma… you wish to make noise after one blow. Then prove yourself — not to me, but to every soul present here."
He took a single step forward, and though no aura flared, the air grew heavier.
"The third round begins soon — battle against your blood brothers, your peers. Win there… and then I will acknowledge you."
A sharp grin twisted his lips. "But until then, your strength is nothing more than smoke."
Before Shiv could respond, one of the onlookers — a young cousin with more pride than sense — scoffed loudly.
"Hah! 'Acknowledge you,' he says. You should be grateful the Head even speaks to you. Don't push your luck, waste."
A chorus of agreement followed — some mocking, some dismissive.
Shiv, however, did not flinch. His eyes remained locked on Mahādev's.
And then, with an edge like tempered steel, he spoke.
"Just his acknowledgment?" Shiv asked, voice cool, unwavering. "That's not enough."
Gasps rang out through the courtyard like arrows loosed.
Mahādev's smile faded. The air between them turned razor-sharp.
"Oh?" he asked, voice dangerously quiet. "Then what more would you ask, boy?"
Shiv took a step forward, the fire of conviction burning in his gaze.
"If I win this tournament…" he said slowly, "I want the title of the next heir to the Varma Clan."
Silence fell like a hammer on glass.
And then — uproar.
"Absurd!"
"Blasphemous!"
"That title isn't a reward for a single tournament!"
"He dares compare himself to Arjun and Devraj?!"
Some elders rose to their feet, faces red with fury. Others muttered to each other, gauging the weight of Shiv's words. The crowd boiled in disbelief and protest.
Devraj's fist clenched tightly.
Arjun's lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing slightly.
Shiv stood alone amidst the storm — but he did not waver.
"The heir position," he said clearly over the noise, "is meant for the strongest of the younger generation. And this tournament — designed to test strength, spirit, and will — is the battleground that proves it."
One elder bellowed, "You're strong, yes — but strength without tradition is just violence!"
Another shouted, "The heir must be chosen with wisdom, not impulsive glory!"
Still, Mahādev raised his hand — and once again, silence obeyed him.
He studied Shiv for a long moment. A long breath passed. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"So be it."
His words cut through the tension like a sword.
"If you win this tournament — if you defeat Arjun, Devraj, and every other chosen warrior of this clan — then the title of heir shall be yours."
More murmurs followed, but Mahādev's voice silenced them again.
"But understand this, Shiv Verma."
His tone turned colder, sterner — like iron dipped in night.
"The title of heir is not a crown. It holds no real power — not until the Clan Head steps down. And until that day, it may be taken from you… stripped, shattered, erased… should someone stronger or more worthy rise."
He leaned slightly forward.
"This title is a path, not a throne. It is earned not once, but every day until your breath runs dry. Do you still want it?"
Shiv met his gaze and said, without hesitation:
"I do. Because I won't stop at heir. One day, I'll be more."
For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered in Mahādev's ancient eyes — curiosity, perhaps… or the ghost of approval.
"Then prepare," he said, turning away. "The third round begins at dusk."
As the crowd dispersed in murmuring waves, Shiv stood alone again — but no longer unnoticed.
He was no longer the forgotten son.
He was the fire beneath the ash — and the storm was just beginning.
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