Chapter - 1 Thorn of Triloka

Blood dripped down his sickle as the empire’s soldiers cowered. Gone were the days when his ears felt the symphony of love.

Thousands heads shall fall for one of ours

Those were the words that echoed in his ears as the sharp edge of his sickle etched to meet his enemies’ necks. They underestimated him at first - thought they could get away with it — but the illusion of his fragility drifted away at the moment of his retaliation. He killed them from the shadows, became one with them, creating a silent terror that threatened to envelop them like mist.

“Protect the superintendent,”

The policemen, wielding long divyalohini swords, found themselves in a difficult situation. They had been in the narrow hallway of the mansion, which made it impossible to overpower him. The first attacker began the dance by attempting a midsection cut, but the intruder skillfully moved out of range and delivered a cut to the back of his neck. As he fell, his blue turban slipped from his head, revealing his bald, light brown scalp.

The second attacker aimed a cut at his head — but the intruder swiftly dodged and countered with a sharp cut to his belly, slicing it open, causing his entrails to spill onto the ground.

Those who suffer to push the wheel of progress must answer violence with violence.

The intruder picked the soldier’s blue divyalohini sword and advanced - the remaining policemen desperately charged. Anger boiled within the intruder like a seething cauldron — his sword deftly moved by his hand, met the chest of his opponent, and the sickle met the hand of the last policeman.

The one that was stabbed by the sword had turned into an ice statue, while the other lost his hand to the sickle. The crippled man crawled on the floor, desperately reaching for his severed hand, attempting to reattach it to his arm. It didn’t work.

The intruder dropped the blue sword to pick up the crippled man’s red divyalohini sword. He sliced him across his back, setting his body ablaze, his screams of anguish echoed through the hallway. The intruder strode towards the room at the end of the hallway and swung the red divyalohini sword crosswise across the door, causing it to ignite in flames.

Despite the flames scorching his skin, he quickly took cover next to the door, paying no mind to the searing pain. Shots were fired and the bullets hit the walls. The ruins etched on those bullets made to only react to living things. Those divyalohini bullets would have mutilated the intruder’s body upon the impact, if he failed to dodge.

It took time for them to reload, with catlike grace, the intruder cut each of them down, painting the ornate room with entrails and ruby red.

The superintendent of police occupied a seat at his desk, accompanied by his daughter, who stood by his side feeling great distress.

The man that burned for me could never do it. It has to be misunderstanding.

The belief that it was a misunderstanding shattered by the sight of the bloodstained sickle in her lover’s hand. A sickening feeling formed in the pit of her stomach.

“Indra... why... why are you... holding that weapon?" She asked, uncertainly. Her once honey-hued visage drained of color, turning pale.

“Why do you think, deepali?” Indra asked. His voice was devoid of any feeling or emotion.

He used to sound so sweet, so gentle, like an autumn breeze. Why did it come to this?

“Spare her! You want me! I was the one responsible for the massacre,” her father intervened.

“What about my family, Veerendra? What about those children? Did you give them a chance? Did you?” Indra exclaimed, his voice seethed with rage.

"You don't do you? You could never understand! For you lives of sullied are worthless."

Indra shook his head, laughing, and then his eyes suddenly bore a wicked light. He strode towards his lover — the jewel of his enemy — and pointed his sword at her throat. Veerendra rose abruptly and fell on his knees, hands clasped together, begging for his daughter’s life.

"Now you can!"

"Not her!" Vereendra cried out.

"Why are you doing this? I....loved...you. You..... cannot do this. Please Indra" deepali said

“You viewed me as a forbidden object, craving a taste. I was merely your passing amusement, disposable once something else caught your eye,”

"It's not true. I didn't do it. I wanted a life with. Please, I... I can't... I can't believe this. I... I... I'm. I wanted... you.” Deepali said.

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head in disbelief.

This isn’t him. I never did that. I wanted a life with him.

"N-no, you're wrong. I... I never saw you like that. I loved you... for who you are."

Indra dismissed her with a wry chuckle, and then there was a state of stillness.

I don’t want to hurt her. It was not her fault.

Indra gritted his teeth, his trembling hands betraying his inner turmoil. Tears welled up in his eyes as doubt began to creep into his mind. Gently, Deepali turned, her fingers delicately traced the contours of Indra’s face

“You suffered enough. You don’t need to sully yourself with violence. My father would turn himself in. You need to spare him, for my sake.” She begged, eyes full of desperation.

You should sully yourself to their level for the sake of revolution.

Indra laughed at the nativity of the young highborn. He pushed her away and deepali fell to the ground with a yelp.

Say you will sacrifice everything for the sake of our brothers and sisters! Say it!

“I will,” the words slipped from Indra’s lips, their chilliness palpable.

Veerendra bolted for the gun, but before his hand could reach it, the sickle flew from indra’s hand and lodged in his head.

There was stillness. Followed by something primal. A piercing scream escaped from deepali’s lips, tearing through the air with anguish. The sound reverberated, echoing the depths of her shattered heart as she grappled with the devastating truth before her. The man she loved murdered her father and his face, once so pleasant, was bloodstained, a face of an asura.

Her body shook with violent sobs, her body instinctively backed into a corner. Deepali masked her face with her hands, trying to hide from the world around her.

“Help me, someone please help me,” she mumbled through her sobs.

Now you did it! You said the words, and you did the deed!

“Mother, please help me.” She rocked back and forth, muttering the same phrase repeatedly.

You are one of us now. A revolutionary. Throw away the mask and wear ours.

Indra left her alone and turned away from the mansion. He walked in the rain-soaked streets, his face bearing a stillness of a mannequin. The stillness passed with his sudden burst of laughter and it persisted, even as tears streamed down his face.

Through his tears and laughter, he said the words, “I killed him.” Followed by. “It is over.”

How can your vengeance end with the deaths of us?

A symphony of the voices echoed in his mind.

Embrace it. You made the promise.

They reminded him.

You are an asura. Accept it!

He controlled his emotions, still as a river, frozen in cruel winter. Coldness crept into his face.

“This isn’t enough. I want it all to crumble, the entire triloka empire.” He said, his anger palpable.

"I am an asura,"

You are now the embodiment of death, beacon of our holy war.

Six Years Later

An oppressive feeling hung in the air of Shantinivas Inn, a weight shared by all who dwelled there. It was the weight of bridled anger that hung heavy over every man that occupied the tables. The presence of sound was but a feeble mask for what lay beneath the surface. You could feel it in the subtle hints on their faces – faces that bore a hidden pain of frustration, resentment, and discontent towards the source of their misery. But honest words remained unspoken, for honesty would inflict more harm upon the sullied than any good. Instead, they complained about the pawns who danced to the tune of their masters, and all those suppressed emotions morphed into a dark shadow that dared not venture beyond the inn.

Amidst the deceitful symphony, an unnoticed presence carried an ominous silence. One that could be shattered by various triggers. An insult from a rough tongue, wielding the right words. The utterance of the name of the one who had taken his lover’s life. The piercing gaze of a guard, demanding fear within the eyes of the lesser whose eyes were disconcertingly calm, exceeding what was considered normal.

Beneath the veneer of silence, he harbored a feeling far greater and far more dangerous than any shared within the inn. It was a flame that defied soothing, fueled by a tragedy heavier than a mountain, yearning for a fate darker than the abyss. It was a death knell, destroyer of all that lived beyond a prison known only to him. Patiently, the man sat, awaiting the wise men to usher him into a dreamless slumber.

*****

It was the third day of imprisonment, and the traitor of the Triloka Empire waited for his chronicler. Sat in a dimly lit corner was him, strongly constrained, with his hands and legs shackled by divyaloha chains. The arcanist engravings on those chains prevented him from using his mana. His prison cell stood deep in the underground, away from the brushstrokes of ever-burning gold .

In the prison cell, the unbearable heat made him desire a shapeless kiss that could wipe away his perspiration, which sparkled like pearls under the waning light of a lone lamp. The doors to his prison creaked and groaned as the two guards, swathed in dark, flexible armors and bull masks, opened them. And a young woman walked in, swathed in a cotton saree with minimal patterns and motifs that added elegance without being gaudy.

She strode with a gait that had a predatory grace and, peculiarly, the elegance of a lady.

“You asked for me, and here I am,” the woman said. The rebel lifted his head and gave a smile that was both frail and smug.

“I half expected to be killed on sight by the wise men,” he said, dragging his index finger horizontally across his throat.

“Good morning, Indra, leader of the traitorous Asuras. My name is Arishia, the first sword of the empire, the shadow of the emperor, the silver of divinity that watches over the three realms,” the first sword said, bringing her palms together and gently pressing them. She did not let her head bow, refusing to show reverence to her lesser. That brought mirth to the rebel’s face. Nothing amused him more than ucchavarnas and their meticulous way of greeting a lesser.

“So it is morning. Can’t really tell in this prison.”

Two servants brought a chair, and the first sword settled on it. Her amber eyes stood out on a face painted in hues of sun-kissed earth. She peered at him with eyes like a candle in silence, and the rebel stared back with an amused grin. A few moments later, four servants walked in with a table, cotton papers, bamboo pens, and a carbon-based ink bottle. They eased the table between the traitor and the first sword and skillfully arranged the stationery on the table before hurrying out.

The first sword moved her finger in the air. Inky blue mana leaked from invisible pores on her index. She traced a curve and uttered, “Stha,” the curve stayed as her finger traced another curve and, after completing it, recited the same word. She repeated the same process for curves and dots until it formed a glyph that resembled an owl. “Ekikuru,” she uttered imperatively, and the glyph blazed splendidly. It altered into tendrils of light and merged with the contours of Arishia's eyes. There was no shift in the hue of her eyes, but the rebel knew of the effects.

“Ah, the owl glyph. I recall using it once to meet an ancient and peculiar individual. Very useful glyph for clandestine endeavors. However, in this situation, couldn’t you have easily asked the servants for a candle instead of expending a significant amount of mana?” the rebel said with a wilful sigh, and then his eyebrows raised in a playful, exaggerated manner, accompanied by a sly grin.

“You want to discern lies from truth? You sneaky child. Good for you! Good for you!” he said, nodding approvingly.

“I am not a child, and this is no time for prattling. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Tell me why you surrendered so suddenly? Why did you disappear for two years? How did you become one of us and taint the sacred halls of Vishvavidyalaya? And how did you become Indra the man- “ Her lips pressed tightly together as if trying to hold back from uttering that word.

“Mantravid,” he completed it for her and smiled rather proudly.

“I know you abhor it, but really face the truth. I am one of the greatest mantravid in centuries. My tale spread wide across the continent and several seen what I can do.”

“You are a deceiver, nothing more.”

The rebel chuckled.

“You didn’t ask me the most important one. You need to ask why I picked you.”

“Very well,” she said. “Enlighten me then. Why did you pick me? What is it about me that compelled you to surrender and share your secrets?”

The rebel’s smug grin widened. He leaned forward, relishing the opportunity to reveal his motives.

“You play a huge part in this than you realize, and you can learn it at the very end. I promise you that with proper context, your involvement would make perfect sense.”

Arisha’s mind raced, her thoughts entangled with questions and possibilities about her involvement. But she did not have patience to let his veiled words bother her.

“Enough,” she said, her voice firm.

“I need transparency, not ambiguous hints and half-truths. If my involvement holds such significance, then lay it all bare before me. I refuse to be kept in the dark.”

“Not really a patient person, are you?” the rebel sighed. “You have much to learn, child, and my story might help you with that.”

“What can a sullied like you teach me?” she scoffed.

“Do not dismiss us sullied, young lady. You can learn much from a sullied than those preening leeches you force yourself to converse with.” The rebel said. “I broke through your system, didn’t I? You will get your truth, but you must be patient. Five days is all I need. You will get everything, and I get to do what I want.”

“And what is it you want?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Redemption. I want to redeem myself and face the consequences of my actions.”

“I find it hard to believe that a man like you could ever feel guilt.”

The rebel chuckled wryly.

“I see you painted a monster out of me,” he began. “And perhaps, in some ways, I have become one. But, Lady Shatrughna, aren’t you curious about the path that led me down this perilous road? This could be a cautionary tale, a glimpse into the depths of the human mind and the consequences of a cruel world, and listening to this may help you prevent something like that from happening again.”

“Is that so?” she said. “Then tell me your story, and I will judge you with a fair mind. Enlighten me about what shaped your journey, the choices that propelled you towards the path of defiance and rebellion.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “It should be appropriate that it begin with my earliest memories right when I was seve-“

“No,” the First Sword interrupted. “Start from that incident. When you became an Asura.”

“If you want to know the truth, you need to write my entire story. That is why I asked for you to be my chronicler. If not, you can bring the wise men and their dogs to torture me. They won’t get anything out of me. They know it, which is why they gave in to my demands.”

“Have it your way. I will act as the biographer, and you, the pious, misunderstood noble revolutionary.”

“You’re getting the hang of this,” he said, smiling proudly.

Arishia dipped the pen in the ink, ready to pen his tale on cotton paper. Her eyes lingered on him as he contemplated.

“Begin,” she said, impatiently. “Tell me the truth as it is, for I can see through your lies, and I am not very patient with liars.”

“My most vivid memories began when I was six,” he began.

“It was a time when the Asuras were but tiny buds unnoticed by their ruler’s gaze and mine. My family, we were a family of four, barely scraping by, but our days did not lack mirth. It was better, and I was a better man, too.”

“Were you pious back then?” Arishia asked.

“Oh, we were pious. My father was more so than my mother, but she understood our place and bent her head low like all the others. The only thing she complained about was the negative aspects of our society disallowing her to divorce worthless man that offered nothing but misery,” he said, smiling weakly.

“I love the cunning manner you people embedded these regressive beliefs within the common people, hindering our progress and preventing us from evolving.”

“Maybe it is you people who could not evolve, and as civilized people, we d tolerated your beastly nature, for we are merciful,” the First Sword countered.

“Go to a temple in the sullied districts, child. You will understand what I am talking about,” the rebel shook his head and let out a weary sigh.

“Engaging in a verbal clash with you is akin to beholding a resolute buffalo amidst a tempest’s wild uproar. Now, where was I? Ah yes. I had two younger sisters, sired from a sullied prostitute. She dropped them on our doorstep, much to the dismay of my mother. Ladies of vesyavarna would have gladly claimed them as heirs and trained them to be violated by their betters, but sullied can never go to their brothels, you see. So some of us who can’t get work sold our bodies to scrape by and we can’t afford to raise a child.”

“You were a whore?” she asked, her lips curling into mock amusement.

“I did what I had to do to survive. They are not what I call fond memories,” he said, then let out a bitter chuckle.

“Oh, there are only a handful of memories that I would call fond. My life is nothing more than perpetual disaster, sometimes of my making, most times the world throwing the worst at me out of spite. I would give anything to bring back the days of innocence when my father taught me the family creed, and my mother sang songs to put me and my sisters to sleep after feeding us. She ate lesser than she deserved to give us bigger portions.”

“Very tragic, please continue.”

The rebel ignored her mockery and continued. “It was not a good life, but at least it was peaceful, and we were whole.”

“What happened to your family?” she asked.

“What happens to those who defied their masters?” he asked, and then answered his own question. “Execution.”

“That was one of the darkest parts of my life, but before delving into it, you need to understand the core of my character. Before I aspired to become an arcane and before I became an Asura and lead the bloodiest rebellion, I yearned to be a singer—a foolish aspiration for someone like me, as sullied individuals were not allowed such pursuits. Nevertheless, I possessed a voice, and even if I could never earn a living from it, I wanted to pursue my passion. So, let us start from the incident that made me realize my first dream.”