~ "When legends return, even kings hold their breath."
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In the world of Nirvania, swordsmanship was not merely a martial art— it was a sacred discipline, a reflection of inner harmony and divine precision. Here, the mastery of prāṇa-dhāraṇā[1]— was revered alongside meditation, music, and mathematics. Spirits wandered freely across the lands, whispering to those who listened— some offering protection, others demanding reverence, and still others seeking vengeance long forgotten.
Even Nirvania's geography mirrored its mysticism.
The planet itself resembled a living yantra— a cosmic diagram of balance and energy. Towering mountain ranges hummed with spiritual resonance; vast oceans pulsed with sentient tides. Its rivers were said to remember the names of those who died with purpose. Its winds carried prophecy. Its forests held memory.
At the heart of this mystic world lay the vast continent of Manovrta— a landmass shaped like a divine sigil, where every valley echoed with ancient chants and every peak stood as witness to long-lost duels of legend.
Upon this sacred land had risen eight mighty empires, each etched into history by blood, glory, and celestial will. Civilizations flourished and faded, but the stories never died.
And yet, among them, the Rajvansh Samrayja.
The empire of legacy and law. Of enlightenment and war. Its banners had brushed the skies for millennia, embroidered with constellations and crowned by people. It was not just a kingdom— it was the heart of people of empire.
At the sacred heart of Rajvansh Samrajya, nestled between river-veined valleys and watchful mountain peaks, rose Shrinagar City— a living poem cast in stone and soul.
Its marble spires kissed the skies, their tips adorned with fluttering pennants bearing ancient sigils. Translucent domes shimmered beneath the morning sun, humming with sacred vibrations from within— the low, unending chant of celestial mantras that echoed through the ether.
Streets of lapis and sandstone bore the prints of generations: sages in ochre robes whispering truths to wide-eyed disciples beneath banyan trees, merchants wrapped in brocade haggling under colorful canopies, warriors marching in precise formations, and mystics who wandered barefoot with eyes full of stars.
As dawn's golden fingers stretched across the city, Shrinagar awakened not with noise, but with symphony.
The ring of sparring steel danced through the air from the Rajya-Kshatra Gurukul[2], where young disciples practiced their sword katas under the watchful gaze of battle-worn acharyas. Nearby, temple bells chimed, their cadence entwining with the scent of jasmine, saffron milk, and sandalwood rising from sacred courtyards.
In the Maharaja Bazaar[3], the heart of commerce and culture, the world converged. Silks from Roygadh, enchanted blades of Sehgalgarh, and elixirs harvested from the ice-bound cliffs of Gamunotri were displayed like offerings. Voices mingled— haggling, laughing, chanting. Banners fluttered. Coins clinked. And between stalls roamed creatures both mundane and mythical— some rare, some rumored to be extinct.
Yet, amidst this vibrant chaos stood a silence that commanded awe.
At the very core of the city loomed the Rajvansh Samrat[4] Mahal[5]— the imperial palace. Built from ivory stone veined with obsidian, its towers rose like celestial sentinels. The architecture was both fortress and temple— a place where war met wisdom. Its highest spire pierced the clouds, casting a shadow that moved with the sun, reminding the city of the legacy it served.
In the royal gardens, where moonflower lotus bloomed under twilight and the air shimmered with sacred stillness, celestial deer— Chandraprāṇa— nibbled at lotus petals. Their silvery coats glowed faintly in the soft light, as if touched by stardust. Nearby, guards in silvermail stood watch, their spears grounded but eyes alert, honoring the peace of the sacred grove with silent vigilance.
From that spire, a lone figure stood at the window— robed in imperial crimson, adorned in celestial armor, his eyes like polished rubies.
The Emperor of Rajvansh.
He looked out not merely at his city, but at his destiny.
The light of dawn reflected in his ruby-red eyes—eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the quiet moments of peace, the roar of war, the sting of betrayal, and the silent grace of sacrifice. They held the burden of countless decisions and the memories of blood spilled for the crown he bore.
Then came the sound that silenced the world:
The great doors of the Rajya Sabha Darbar[6], the Court of Nobles, swung open— their groaning echo like the deep breath of the earth itself, exhaling reverence into stone.
A voice, steeped in ritual and resonance, rang out, crisp and commanding as a temple bell:
"Shravantu[7]! Shravantu! By the divine blessings of the gods and the sacred dharma, I announce the arrival of Param Pujya Samrat Maharajadhiraj Vikramaditya Rajvanshi[8]! Let all present rise and offer their salutations to the sovereign ruler of the glorious Rajvansh Samrajya!"
A hush fell like a silken veil.
Every noble, every scholar, every general and priest rose in unison, their robes whispering like pages turning in the empire's living chronicle. Heads bowed low. Jewels caught the morning light. Even the celestial deer in the palace gardens stilled as if sensing the gravity of the moment.
And then, he entered.
Samrat Vikramaditya Rajvanshi— ruler of the Rajvansh Samrajya, guardian of the Middle Western Leylines, flame-bearer of the Surya-Vansh— walked with a grace that defied time.
Clad in robes of crimson, black, and molten gold, embroidered with ancient glyphs of lineage and conquest, he seemed carved from destiny itself. Upon his brow glimmered the Suryavajra[9], the Sun Diamond— heirloom of emperors, kissed once by the dawn of Nirvania itself.
His frame was powerful— tall, commanding— and though nearing fifty, there was no weakness in his gait. His face, untouched by age and time, bore a little scar over his left brow, earned in a battle buried by scrolls and secrecy. It was a mark he did not conceal— for in the court of Vikramaditya, scars were not shame, but scripture.
His eyes— ruby red, sharpened by decades of rule and war— scanned the assembly not as a formality, but as a warrior assessing both terrain and allegiance.
When he finally spoke, his voice rolled like thunder restrained by silk:
"Let the court be seated."
And so, it was.
Chairs creaked. Robes settled. Hearts steadied.
But today's gathering was more than tradition.
This was not simply darbar.
This was a return.
A celebration had been planned— no, anticipated— for one of the empire's greatest warriors— had been guarded the empire's gates with claw and steel.
The Iron Sentinel.
The warrior who bled but never bowed.
Pradhāna-Samanta[10] Rudrapratap Chauhan — the Lion of Gamunotri — had come home.
The grand hall held its breath, pulsing with unspoken tension.
Silken banners, bearing the crests of ancient clans, fluttered gently in the palace breeze, each thread heavy with history.
Yet it was not the glint of jewels or the weight of royal scrolls that drew the court's attention today.
It was the storm of whispers— rising, circling, tightening— beneath the surface calm. Eyes darted. Foreheads glistened. And behind every measured nod, every graceful face, a very thick anticipation hung in the air like unshed thunder.
News about: he had vanished into the freezing Northern border fronts two years ago, taking with him a battalion of elite warriors to suppress the surge of demonic incursions. Whispers of his death had lingered like smoke. But today— those whispers would be shattered.
And not only had he survived, but he had returned with something more.
Someone more.
Across the gilded benches, whispers grew like a rising tide.
"Have you heard? Pradhāna-Samanta Rudrapratap Chauhan has returned from the Northern border front!"
"And not just him— his army. And someone with him. A boy."
"A boy?"
"They say he's no older than thirteen… maybe fourteen."
"He survived alone on the battlefield."
"Not survived— triumphed. He slaughtered an entire pack of Kalāgnivṛkah[11]."
"And he had also mastered enchantments... Divyakriyā[12] of the highest grade of divya[13] upkaran[14] and aushadhiyan[15]."
"Also, some murmurs swelled… he healed the entire northern village struck by the Void Plague, using a method even the Rajya-Vaidyas[16] couldn't replicate."
"A healer. A warrior. A prodigy. Truly extraordinary."
The murmurs swelled like monsoon winds before the flood, threading awe, doubt, and intrigue through every corridor of power.
The boy's legend had begun— not with fanfare, but with reverence; not with proof, but with prophecy.
Even the most composed nobles leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity, guarded skepticism, and ambition barely veiled beneath their jewelled brows. Legends often began like this— in whispers, not in trumpet calls.
But not all eyes watched with wonder. Not everyone celebrated the boy's rising star.
At the dais of nobles, seated in silence and subtle calculation, sat the three Mahāsamanta[17] lords — stewards of the empire's land, wealth, and legacy. In their own provinces, their power nearly rivaled that of the Samrat himself.
• Mahāsamanta Jaidrath Roy of Roygadh, the philosopher-warrior, sat with raven-black eyes sharp as a hawk's, tracing constellations no one else could see. His fingers, always in motion, lightly brushed the edge of a scroll etched with ancient battle strategy, as if drawing wisdom from the stars themselves.
• Mahāsamanta Mahendra Sehgal of Sehgalgarh was a man carved from basalt—his silence a fortress, his presence colder than the snowbound peaks of the Northern Gates. Words were beneath him; his gaze alone carried the weight of unspoken judgment.
• Then there was Mahāsamanta Manoj Raichand of Chandrahas, the eldest and most enigmatic of the trio. Draped in flowing blue-gold silk, he sat with a jeweled cane resting across his lap, its tip tapping the floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm—each tap a silent calculation, each breath a ledger balanced.
Their expressions were masks— calm, unreadable. But beneath that stillness stirred tides of legacy, power, and quiet unease. It was not peace they wore, but calculation. The boy's name was still unknown, yet his presence had already begun to tilt the delicate balance of Nirvania's future.
Then, the moment arrived— the one all had been discussing.
The door announcer stepped forward, resplendent in crimson attire, his voice slicing through the charged air like a ritual blade:
"Shravantu! Shravantu! With the blessings of the Devatas and by order of Samrat Vikramaditya Rajvanshi, we present the triumphant return of the Lion of the North—
Pradhāna-Samanta Rudrapratap Chauhan of Gamunotri!"
A reverent silence fell.
The kind of stillness that could split fate in two.
And into that silence… the warrior strode.
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[1] Prāṇa-dhāraṇā: the flow and control of inner energy.
[2] Rajya-Kshatra Gurukul: a royal martial academy where elite warriors are trained in swordsmanship, strategy, and spiritual disciplines.
[3] Bazaar: "Bazaar" (बाज़ार) refers to: Market – a place where goods are bought and sold.
[4] Samrat: Emperor
[5] Mahal: A palace or grand residence.
[6] Rajya Sabha Darbar: The imperial court of nobles—where political, military, and ceremonial matters are deliberated under the emperor's authority.
[7] Shravantu: Listen or Hearken.
[8] Param Pujya Samrat Maharajadhiraj Vikramaditya Rajvanshi (परम पूज्य सम्राट् महाराजाधिराज विक्रमादित्य राजवंशी):
The Most Revered Supreme Emperor Vikramaditya of the Rajvansh Dynasty
[9] Suryavajra: referring to Sun Diamond; a divine jewel and imperial heirloom passed down through the Rajvansh emperors.
[10] Pradhāna-Samanta (प्रधान-सामन्त): Chief among ordinary Samantas (General Feudatories or Vassals)
[11] Kalāgnivṛkah(कालाग्निवृकः):
Kāla (काल) = Death/Time (God of death)
Agni (अग्नि) = Fire
Vṛkaḥ (वृकः) = Wolf
(Wolf of deathly blazing fire - very fierce).
[12] Divyakriyā: referring to high-level divine techniques or sacred actions, often involving mystical rituals or combat arts.
[13] Divya: Divine or Celestial.
[14] Upkaran: Sacred tools or instruments.
[15] Aushadhiyan: Sacred medicinal herbs or elixirs.
[16] Rajya-Vaidyas: The royal healers or physicians of the empire.
[17] Mahāsamanta: A title for high-ranking feudatory lords who govern major provinces and hold significant political and military influence under the emperor.