King Vikram stood in the highest tower of the palace, a place known as the Sky-Gazer's Spire. It was his private sanctuary, a circular room with open arches offering a panoramic view of his entire kingdom. To the east, the sun rose over the vast Kshira Sagar, the Sea of Milk, from which the kingdom took its name. To the west, the fertile plains stretched towards the distant, hazy peaks of the Vindhya Mountains. From here, the King could feel the pulse of his domain—the flow of trade, the rhythm of the seasons, the collective spirit of his people.
For twenty years, this view had brought him a sense of pride and control. Today, it brought him only anxiety.
His gaze was not on the horizon, but on the Royal Gardens directly below. He watched a solitary figure, a tiny speck of black against the vibrant green, moving with an impossible grace. He watched as his third son, Amrit, vanished from one spot and reappeared in another, leaving no trace of his passage.
The King's hands, clasped behind his back, were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. His Spirit Sea, usually a calm and deep reservoir of power, was churning with turmoil. Every instinct he possessed, honed by decades of rule and cultivation, was screaming at him.
He had witnessed the confrontation in the training yard. He had seen Arjun, his proud and powerful heir, disarmed with contemptuous ease. He had felt the tremor when the granite dummy was cleaved in two, and had later seen the impossibly smooth cut for himself. Now, he was watching a boy who had never been taught a single movement technique practice a legendary, incomplete art as if he had been born to it.
The official story, the one he himself had endorsed, was one of a near-death enlightenment. A miracle. But King Vikram was no fool. He had risen to power not through miracles, but through shrewd calculation, ruthless ambition, and a deep understanding of human nature. Miracles were stories told to the common folk. For men like him, there was only power, and the price paid to acquire it.
What price did you pay, my son? the King thought, his eyes narrowing. What dark pact did you make in the moments between one life and the next?
He had ruled out a demonic pact. Demonic Prana was chaotic, corrupting, and instantly recognizable. Amrit's energy, which he had felt when he probed the boy's meridians, was the opposite—it was impossibly pure, more so than even his own. A divine intervention? Perhaps. But the Devas were arrogant and prideful beings. If they had bestowed such a gift, they would have announced it from the heavens, claiming Amrit as their chosen champion. They would not have worked in secret.
This left only one possibility, one that was both terrifying and tantalizing: the power was Amrit's own. It had been unlocked from some hidden depth within him, a treasure chest buried in his soul to which he had just found the key.
This realization changed the entire political calculus of the kingdom. Arjun was no longer the heir apparent. He was a placeholder. Bhim, for all his strength, lacked the cunning to rule. Amrit, this strange, new son, had become the single most valuable—and most dangerous—asset in Kshirapura.
A heavy footstep on the stairs announced an arrival. The King did not turn. "What is it, Bhim?"
The second prince entered the spire, his massive frame seeming to shrink the room. He looked shaken, his usual stoicism replaced by a deep-seated unease. He walked to the balustrade and looked down at the gardens, at the ghostly figure of his younger brother.
"Father… I saw what he did," Bhim rumbled, his voice strained. "The sword… it was a training blade. I saw him pick it up. Then it… changed. And the cut…" He shook his head, unable to properly articulate the impossibility. "My Mountain-Cleaving Art… it is a child's tantrum compared to that."
The King remained silent, his scrutiny fixed on Amrit. He noted not just the impossible movement, but the state of being. Amrit was not practicing with frantic effort. He was playing. There was an ease, a casual mastery that spoke of a level of comprehension that should have taken centuries to achieve.
"Power that is not understood is a threat," the King finally said, his voice cold. "He is a sword with no master. And a masterless sword is a danger to all, especially the one who tries to wield it."
"He is your son," Bhim stated, a hint of confusion in his tone.
"He was my son," the King corrected him sharply. "The boy I knew, the frail, quiet prince, is dead. The entity wearing his face is something else. A variable I cannot account for. A piece on the board that moves without my command."
Bhim frowned. "What will you do?"
The King's gaze hardened. "I will do what any good ruler does. I will test him. I will push him. I will place burdens upon him until he either breaks or reveals the true nature of his strength. The Sky-Piercing Academy is only the first trial. I will watch his every move, analyze his every choice. I must know if he is a shield for this kingdom… or a blade that will one day be pointed at its throat."
His scrutiny was absolute, the full weight of a king's suspicion and paranoia directed at his own child. He was not just a father watching a son; he was a spymaster observing a target. He had already given silent orders to his most trusted Royal Shadow Guards. They were to monitor Amrit's every move, document his every visitor, record his every request. He would dissect this new son of his piece by piece until he understood the machine within.
Down in the garden, Amrit suddenly stopped. He had been in the middle of teleporting a small cascade of cherry blossoms from a tree into a swirling pattern around his head. He looked up, his gaze seeming to pierce the hundreds of feet of distance and stone to meet the King's eyes in the spire.
The King felt a jolt, as if his soul had been touched by a shard of ice. Had he been noticed? Impossible. He was a Spirit Sea realm master, and his observation was veiled and subtle. The distance was too great.
Amrit's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. Then, in a final, breathtaking display, he took a single Ghost-Flash Step. He did not move thirty feet, or fifty. He vanished from the Royal Gardens entirely.
The King's Spirit Sea sense flared as he tried to track him. He felt the faintest distortion in space, a ripple that originated in the garden and terminated… inside the palace. Inside Amrit's own chambers. A distance of over half a mile, through stone walls and countless rooms, traversed in a single, instantaneous step.
King Vikram's breath hitched in his throat.
This was not a movement technique. This was a power that belonged to the legends of the Celestial Emperors. The ability to ignore physical barriers, to treat the world as one's personal domain.
The King turned away from the window, his face a mask of cold fury and dawning terror. The fear was not for his kingdom's enemies, but for his own terrifying, unknowable son. He had thought he was a spymaster observing a target. He now felt like a man in a locked room who had just realized he was trapped with a dragon that was pretending to be a lizard.
"Bhim," the King said, his voice dangerously soft.
"Father?"
"Go to your brother, Arjun. Tell him… tell him to swallow his pride. Tell him to go into seclusion and train. If he does not triple his strength by the time of the Academy selections, he will have no future left."
It was the harshest command he had ever given, an admission that his chosen heir was now so far behind he might never catch up.
As Bhim departed, the King walked to a large map of the Viraatkshetra continent that dominated one wall. He looked at the tiny, insignificant dot that represented Kshirapura. He had always dreamed of making that dot bigger, of carving out a legacy for his line. He had planned to do it with caution, with strategic alliances, with the slow and steady cultivation of his sons.
Now, a wildfire had been lit in his own backyard. It could either consume him and his kingdom whole, or it could be aimed, becoming a conflagration that would burn his enemies to ash and forge a new, terrifying empire from their remains.
The scrutiny had yielded its first result: Amrit was not a sword to be wielded. He was a natural disaster to be survived, and if possible, aimed. The King's game had just become infinitely more dangerous, and infinitely more rewarding.
He pressed a finger onto the map, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. The fear was still there, but it was being overshadowed by a familiar, all-consuming emotion.
Ambition.