"Plans have changed… I need to think of a way to escape now!" Esdeath's thoughts raced as she struggled to stand.
The battle arena was in chaos, the air thick with dust and the lingering shockwaves of Ujjain's attacks. Esdeath knew her situation was dire. The only person who could endure Ujjain's devastating punch was Maruti, but she was already lying unconscious on the ground.
Her hands trembled a little as she wiped away blood that wasn't even visible to her anymore. Both of her eyes were gone, leaving her completely blind. The darkness was suffocating, and her senses were only just enough to vaguely comprehend where she stood. Her breaths came in short, sharp bursts, and her body ached with every movement.
At this point, there was no more room for bravery or strategies. Survival was the only thing that mattered now. "I have to get out of here… somehow." The thought repeated like a desperate mantra in her mind.
---
High above the arena, sitting on a throne-like chair carved from stone, Mourya observed everything. His usual calm and composed demeanor was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his face was twisted into a complicated mix of emotions—stunned disbelief, confusion, and even a hint of sadness.
His gaze wasn't focused on the battle itself, nor on Ujjain, who was dominating the arena. Instead, his eyes were locked on Maruti.
Maruti, his younger daughter. She had always been prideful, lazy, selfish, and demanding. Traits that, strangely enough, Mourya had found endearing. He had always enjoyed the fiery temper she carried, even if it often led to arguments. But now… the sight before him was one he couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams.
When Ujjain unleashed his ultimate move, one that guaranteed Esdeath's death, Mourya had thought it was the end for her. But then, in an act so selfless it bordered on madness, Maruti had thrown herself into the path of the attack. She had taken the blow head-on, shielding Esdeath from certain death.
It was a miracle that Maruti was even alive. Mourya's heart tightened at the thought. If it hadn't been for the essence stones enhancing her body, and the strength she inherited from him through his genes, she would undoubtedly be dead. Even now, she lay unconscious, her body bruised and battered from the sheer force of the attack.
Mourya leaned forward, his fists clenched as his thoughts swirled. "Did you really do this because of love?" he murmured, his voice low and full of disbelief. His piercing eyes stayed on Maruti's still form.
"Do you really love her so much that you've changed this much?" Mourya's mind replayed the scene over and over. The daughter he knew—so selfish and demanding—had made the ultimate sacrifice. Was this love truly powerful enough to transform her so completely?
For the first time in years, Mourya found himself unable to understand his daughter.
Mourya let out a long, weary sigh, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on his chest. After much thought, he had finally made up his mind.
He was going to cancel this battle.
Even though he had promised his daughter's hand in marriage and breaking that promise would tarnish his reputation built over years of unyielding honor, Mourya was willing to endure that shame. After all, what was reputation compared to his daughter's desperation? Truthfully, he had never cared much for what others thought of him.
With slow and deliberate movements, Mourya rose from his stone throne. His imposing figure, though worn by years, still radiated authority. He prepared to call Rowan and put an end to this madness. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, his sharp eyes caught something unusual.
Blood.
A dark red liquid was seeping from the corner of the large briefcase Rowan had been holding tightly. Mourya frowned, his sharp gaze narrowing as unease crept into his heart. Rowan had previously mentioned that the briefcase contained a gift for Mourya, but now Mourya's instincts screamed that something was wrong.
"Why is there blood dripping from your briefcase?" Mourya's voice was deep and steady, yet it carried a razor-sharp edge that demanded an answer.
Rowan, who had been watching the battle in the arena with an eerily calm expression, flinched slightly at Mourya's words. His focus broke, and his eyes darted to the briefcase in his hand. For a brief moment, he seemed surprised, but then he slapped his forehead with a small chuckle.
"Oh… I was planning to show this to you at the end," Rowan said with a sly grin, his voice unnervingly casual. "But I guess now is as good a time as any. Everything is about to end, after all!"
He stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, as if savoring the moment. His eyes locked with Mourya's, and there was a spark of malice in them that sent a chill through the air.
"Behold, my precious gift!" Rowan declared, his voice dripping with mockery.
He bent down and lowered the briefcase to the ground. Mourya's heart clenched as Rowan unlatched it and opened the lid with deliberate slowness.
One by one, with small thuds, severed heads rolled out of the briefcase onto the cold stone floor. The arena fell silent as if the world itself was holding its breath, All of the attention went from esdeath to mourya and Rowan.
There were three heads in total.
Mourya's chest tightened as he stared at them. These weren't just any heads—they belonged to his sons. His own flesh and blood.
For a moment, Mourya's expression faltered, his usually calm and controlled face showing a flicker of shock. But it was brief, almost imperceptible. He forced himself to remain stoic, his jaw tightening as he lowered his gaze to the ground.
Rowan's laughter broke the silence, sharp and cruel.
"Hehehe… They didn't even put up a fight," Rowan sneered, his tone oozing with sadistic glee. "They barely screamed when I killed them. Forget about struggling—they were nothing more than ants under my feet! That's the difference between an awakened being like me and mere mortals like them."
Rowan's eyes gleamed with twisted pride as he looked at Mourya, waiting to see the cracks in the unshakable man.
Mourya had three sons and two daughters. Despite his large family, none of his sons had awakened, a critical requirement to lead the tribe. According to the tribe's ancient rules, only a son could inherit the position of the tribe's head. Daughters, no matter how capable, were excluded from such a role. This tradition had long been a source of unease among the people.
Whispers of doubt about the tribe's future had spread like wildfire. How could they secure their survival if the next generation of leaders lacked the strength and power required to protect them?
But Mourya knew one thing for certain—his sons, no matter their shortcomings, were his blood. To have them killed without his knowledge meant one undeniable truth: there were traitors within the tribe.
The realization hit Mourya hard, like a crushing weight on his shoulders. This wasn't just an act of betrayal. This was the beginning of a power struggle, a fight for control of the tribe. He knew, deep down, that Rowan's influence had spread like a silent poison.
If he was right, more than half of the tribe's soldiers had already aligned themselves with Rowan. They likely believed that with Ujjain's talent—Rowan's son—the future of the tribe would be secure under his rule.
Despite knowing the extent of the treachery surrounding him, Mourya remained calm.
His expression was unreadable, his eyes sharp and calculating as he sat there, bloodied heads of his sons still on the ground before him.
Rowan's brow furrowed as he watched Mourya's stoic demeanor. The calmness was unnerving.
"Huh? You're not angry?" Rowan asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
Mourya looked at him, his gaze steady but devoid of any emotion. "Why should I be angry at you?" His voice was low and expressionless, yet it carried a strange weight.
"It's my fault," Mourya continued with a soft sigh. "I failed to act when I should have. I let this happen because I was blind to the signs. This is the price of my negligence."
Rowan tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. He had expected rage, defiance, perhaps even despair. But this… this was not what he had prepared for.
Suddenly, the air was split by the sharp sound of a sword slicing through it.
Before Mourya could react, a long blade pierced through his chest, the steel gleaming under the dim light. Blood surged from the wound, staining his robes a dark crimson.
Mourya's body stiffened as his hands instinctively went to the sword's hilt. Pain radiated through him, but his mind raced faster than the agony. Slowly, he turned his head to see the one who had attacked him.
Standing behind him was an elderly man, his face lined with deep wrinkles, his hunched form clad in a white robe. Mourya's eyes widened slightly in recognition.
"The old adviser…?" Mourya's voice was barely above a whisper, his strength rapidly fading.
The man, once respected for his wisdom and guidance, now stood as a symbol of betrayal. His grip on the sword was steady, but his face was marked by sorrow.
"Forgive me, my liege," the adviser said, his voice heavy with regret. "But this is the only way. After your death, there will be no one left to lead the tribe. Without a leader, our people will descend into chaos. They will fight amongst themselves until there is nothing left. The history of the Vanara tribe will be erased, swallowed by time and bloodshed. I cannot allow that to happen."
He paused, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It is better… better to have an outsider like Rowan take over than to let everything we've built crumble to dust."
Mourya coughed, blood spilling from his mouth as he looked at the man who had once been his trusted adviser. His voice, though weak, carried the weight of his disappointment.
"I'm disappointed in you, old adviser," Mourya said, his gaze unwavering despite the pain that wracked his body.
The adviser closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to block out the words. "I'm disappointed in myself too, my liege," he replied with a heavy sigh. "But look at yourself—you've grown old. So old that you didn't even notice my presence. I didn't even try to hide it, yet you couldn't dodge my blade."
Mourya's hand reached for the hilt of the sword lodged deep in his chest. His movements were unhurried, almost casual, as though the blade piercing his body was no more than a minor inconvenience. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the old adviser, his sharp eyes gleaming under the dim light.
There was no rage in his expression, no sorrow or pain. What radiated from Mourya was something far more unsettling—pity.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he spoke, his voice low and deliberate, cutting through the tense silence like a blade. "I'm disappointed in you, old man. Not because you betrayed me. No, that's expected from pests like you and Rowan." He paused, his tone turning sharper, colder. "I'm disappointed because you thought *this*—" he gestured toward the sword protruding from his chest, "—could stop me."
His smirk deepened, a chilling edge creeping into his words. "Did you really believe I needed to dodge something so… insignificant? You couldn't even bring something more powerful, Are you fucking kidding me?.....You underestimated me. All of you have. And for that, I pity you."
The weight of his voice made the old adviser's hands tremble against the hilt of the sword, his face pale with fear. Rowan, standing nearby, felt his throat tighten, his confidence crumbling under Mourya's unflinching gaze.
It was at this moment, Old adviser knew he fucked up.