TSS Chapter 1— Scene 4: vishwa's point of view part 2

TSS: Telugu Sāhitya Sārvabhauma

Chapter 1 — Scene 4: vishwa's point of view part 2

Year: 4999 CE

Location: Central Vijayapuri Area V Hospital, Floor 42 — Executive Washroom

The automated door glided shut behind Vishwanath, locking out the hollow, echoing accusations of the corridor.

Vishwa stepped directly over to the monolithic quartz basin. He slammed his palms onto the smooth, polished ledge and plunged his hands beneath the stream of cold water, scooping it up to violently splash his face. Water droplets cascaded down his sharp jawline. He raised his head, looking straight into the high-tech smart mirror that flickered to life with a soft, neon-blue ambient aura.

Through the clear liquid dripping down his face, his reflection stared back. His eyes were still flushed an unnatural, terrifying blood-red crimson—the physical manifestation of an untamed, ancient fury vibrating beneath his pristine exterior.

Slowly, Vishwa squeezed his eyes shut, cutting off the vision of his own rage.

But the moment the darkness took over, the silence of the room vanished. The synthetic walls around him seemed to dissolve as a deafening, thunderous roar erupted from the deep recesses of his memory, shaking the very foundations of his mind.

“VISHWA SĀRVABHAUMA! VISHWA SĀRVABHAUMA! VISHWA SĀRVABHAUMA!”

[Flashback Sequence: The Vijayapuri Grand Arena — 8 Years Ago]

He was only twenty years old.

The air inside the colossal, hovering dome was thick with the scent of ozone and raw adoration. Millions of spectators filled the gravity-defying stands, a sea of flashing digital screens and roaring voices. Vishwa stood at the absolute epicenter of the grand stage, his hands gripping the cold, solid, impossibly heavy golden trophy—the supreme award of the Telugu Sāhitya Sārvabhauma.

The moment he hoisted the golden prize toward the obsidian sky, the stadium fractured.

“VISHWA SĀRVABHAUMA! VISHWA SĀRVABHAUMA! VISHWA SĀRVABHAUMA!”

The sheer kinetic force of millions of people screaming his name in absolute, worshipful unison created a sonic shockwave. The heavy reinforced glass panels of the stadium cracked under the vibration. The windscreens of thousands of hovering luxury vehicles parked in the outer air-lanes shattered simultaneously into glittering dust. Digital display monitors across the arena glitched and split apart under the raw intensity of that singular moment.

It was the glorious dawn of his absolute reign. A day etched into the very marrow of his bones. A day he could never, and would never, forget.

[Scene Cut: Executive Washroom — Present Time]

Vishwa snapped his eyes open, tearing himself away from the memory. The crimson hue in his irises slowly receded, replaced by an icy, calculated focus.

He dried his face, adjusted his collar, and stepped back out of the washroom, walking down the private hallway into the VIP waiting lounge he had reserved. Inside, Mr. Guna was pacing the floor restlessly, clutching Vishwa's pristine obsidian jacket. The manager looked up, his face etched with absolute anxiety.

"Sir, I must tell you—" Guna began, taking a frantic step forward.

"Stop. Do not utter another syllable," Vishwa cut him off, his voice flat and sharper than a razor.

Vishwa walked over to the center of the room, his movements slow and deliberate. "Yes, Guna Garu. I despise Satya. I harbor a profound, unyielding wrath toward that man. But has my grand legacy descended to such a pathetic low that I would resort to primitive, unrefined murder to settle a score? Am I so bankrupt of intellect that I would orchestrate a cheap highway crash to silence a rival? No. Never."

Vishwa turned, his eyes locking onto Guna like cold iron. "Then tell me, by what right do these insects scream my name in accusation? What shred of evidence do they possess to drag my honor through their filth? A pathetic writer loses control of his vehicle, and suddenly I am the architect of his demise? It is absurd."

Vishwa threw himself onto the plush leather sofa, his long legs crossing as he leaned back, the aura of a cornered king radiating from his posture.

"For eight glorious years, my name has been a sacred temple in this nation. Eight years of absolute, unblemished dominance. I ruled as an uncontested emperor. And during those eight years, did a single soul—any soul in this entire metropolis—ever dare to utter a solitary word against me? Did anyone possess the unmitigated audacity to question my character, my integrity, or my crown? Not one."

Vishwa’s face contorted into a snarl of pure, aristocratic disgust. "But today, because of this one singular incident, every worthless, common parasite with a media channel thinks he has the right to judge me. Creatures whose entire existence isn't worth the price of the polished leather on my boots! No... their miserable, collective lives don't even match the value of the dirt clinging to the soles of my shoes! And yet, they bark at my heels. All because of him."

Vishwa’s fist slammed onto the armrest. "Months ago, Satya dared to launch his raw, traditional manuscripts against my empire, attempting to shatter the bronze citadel I spent nearly a decade constructing. He tried to tear down my sovereignty. And now, by incompetently crashing his own vehicle, he has dragged my flawless reputation into the mud of public suspicion! If that man dies today, this false accusation becomes an eternal, unerasable stain on my legacy for the rest of my life."

Vishwa stood up abruptly, the raw magnetism of his presence filling the room. He slowly rolled the sleeves of his white button-down shirt up to his forearms, the calculated movement leaking pure, unadulterated style and dominance.

"Therefore, Satya must live," Vishwa hissed. "He has no permission to die."

Guna swallowed hard, watching his master’s sharp movements. "Sir... where are you going?"

"To face the media," Vishwa replied coldly, extending his hand.

Guna’s eyes widened in sheer panic. He gripped the suit jacket tighter. "Wait, please, Sir! Do not go out there right now! The press is ravenous. They are waiting like starved wolves to pierce you with their venomous, trap-filled questions! They will tear your image apart!"

Vishwa snatched his obsidian jacket from Guna’s hands with an effortless, sweeping motion.

"Let them ask whatever filth their minds can manufacture. I do not care," Vishwa stated, his voice dropping into a legendary, unshakeable register. "But understand this, Guna Garu—far more precious than my life is the immaculate name and glory I have carved into this earth for the past eight years. I will not stand by and watch my empire crumble into the mud over a media charade."

Without looking back, Vishwa threw the jacket over his arm, turned on his heel, and strode out of the VIP lounge, his posture radiating the terrifying confidence of an iron dictator marching to war.

The doors chimed as they sealed shut behind him.

Left alone in the quiet luxury of the lounge, Mr. Guna completely lost his footing. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the sofa, exhaling a long, ragged breath that tore from his throat.

He ran his trembling fingers through his hair, aggressively pushing it back as sweat beaded along his forehead, right beneath his red Tilak. He leaned his head against the backrest, staring blankly at the ceiling in sheer terror.

In all his years of serving the literary titan, he had never—not once—seen Vishwa radiate such a volatile, catastrophic level of fury.

"Dear God..." Guna whispered into the empty room, his heart pounding against his ribs. "What is he about to do? What is about to happen now? May the gods protect us all."

[End of Chapter 1 — Scene 4]