✵ I. The Cost of Knowing Everything
By eleven, Narasimha Reddy discovered a new problem.
Not ignorance.
Too much information.
It came from every direction now.
At the well:
"They say in the next taluk, a new officer fines people for spitting near the courthouse—"
From caravan boys:
"On the road to Kurnool, sahibs stopped two carts and counted every grain—"
From temple helpers:
"A man from the town said in front of the sanctum that 'soon this whole area will be under stricter watch'—"
From barbers, fishermen, singers, even drunkards who spoke too loudly at inns and then promptly forgot their own words.
At first, Narasimha had begged for such news.
Now, he sat some evenings on the veranda, massaging his temples, muttering,
"Too many clouds. I asked for warning of storms, not a daily weather report of the whole sky."
His mother brought him buttermilk.
"What now?" she sighed. "Is tax bothering you or the entire British Empire personally?"
"Empire," he grumbled. "They have very long hands and very short brains. Someone must compensate."
She snorted.
"Finish your drink," she said. "You cannot fix stupid on an empty stomach."
He did as told.
But inside, he knew this:
information was no longer just trickling in.
It was flooding.
He had to learn to separate:
gossip from signal,
noise from warning,
and story from threat.
If he failed, even the best Rahasya Mandal would drown him.
❖ II. Sorting Voices
One afternoon, under the shade of the banyan tree, he sat with Ramu, a palm-leaf spread between them.
On it, he had drawn four rough circles.
"What is this now?" Ramu asked. "New game?"
"New headache," Narasimha replied. "Help me."
He tapped the circles.
"Here," he said, pointing to the first, "is what directly threatens us. Soldiers marching, new taxes, sudden inspections. That we must act on quickly."
"Here," he pointed to the second, "is what indirectly threatens us. A drought two districts away. A riot at a port. These may not hit us now, but they might later. We store this."
"Third," he tapped, "is opportunity. A jealous officer fighting another. A trader angry with Company. A village chief wanting protection. Things we can use later."
He paused at the fourth.
"And this," he said, "is noise. Who married whom, who fought over goat, who said which sahab has ugly face. We listen, but we do not waste leaf-space on it."
Ramu squinted at the circles.
"You want to throw away gossip?" he asked skeptically. "Then what will aunties at the well provide? They will strike."
"I won't throw away," Narasimha corrected quickly. "I will just… keep it in my head. Not in my main records. If we write everything here, our own secrets will get lost in junk."
Ramu nodded slowly.
"So," he said, "we treat news like grain. Clean, sort, store, or feed to goats."
"Exactly," Narasimha said. "Except… less smelly."
He began rewriting some of his earlier notes into this new structure.
It felt like taking a messy room and slowly teaching every object its correct place.
Boring.
Necessary.
He sighed.
"If anyone asks me in future what my special immortal destiny is," he muttered, "I will tell them: 'filing clerk of fate.'"
✢ III. The First Bloody Message
It happened on an evening of red light.
The sun was lowering, washing the fields in a burnt orange glow. The air smelled of dust and smoke from cooking fires.
Narasimha was in the courtyard reviewing grain tallies when he heard hurried footsteps.
A boy stumbled in.
Not running, exactly. Half-running, half-dragged by his own will.
Mud streaked his legs. His lips were dry. His dhoti torn.
"Narasimha—" he panted.
It was one of the caravan boys.
Not from their closest routes—this one rode longer distances, often between market towns.
Ramu was at the boy's side in an instant, holding him before he fell.
"What happened?" Narasimha asked, standing quickly.
The boy held out a hand.
Blood smeared his palm.
Not his.
Someone else's.
"Dacoits," he gasped. "On the road between here and the big town. Just after the old stone arch. They've started stopping carts, saying they are 'tax collectors.' They took grain, coin… they hit Keshava badly when he argued."
Images snapped into place in Narasimha's mind.
The road.
The arch.
The stretch where scrub trees grew too thick.
"Is Keshava alive?" he demanded.
"Yes," the boy breathed. "But bleeding. They left him on the side. The cart-master sent me ahead because… because…"
"Because what?" Ramu urged.
"Because the dacoit leader said," the boy whispered, "that if any cart is found with Uyyalawada mark, he will take double. He said, 'Let your Dora try to protect you then'."
Silence dropped into the courtyard like a stone into a well.
Narasimha's face went very still.
He spoke slowly, precisely.
"Ramu. Bring water. Bring this boy food. Send two men on fast horses with cloth and medicine to that road. They are to help Keshava, then stay hidden and watch. No fighting tonight. Only eyes."
Ramu moved at once.
The boy tried to continue, but Narasimha raised a hand.
"Drink," he insisted. "If you fall now, your message will turn to smoke."
As the boy drank greedily, Narasimha's mind moved.
Dacoits were not new.
But these were not simple robbers.
They used the word "tax."
They targeted roads important to him.
They named his estate.
That meant three possibilities:
Someone wanted to weaken his trade routes.
Someone wanted to push villagers away from trusting Uyyalawada protection.
Or both.
Whichever it was, this was no longer just random banditry.
It was enemy strategy.
And that meant Rahasya Mandal's information could no longer remain harmless.
It had to bite back.
✶ IV. "We Are Not Playing Shop Anymore"
That night, in the inner hall, Narasimha sat with his father, his mother, and a few of the closest elders.
The lamp flames danced, throwing their shadows long on the walls.
"Up to now," his father said, clasping his hands, "we have mostly used information to protect grain, avoid inspections, adjust prices. Today, we face another question."
He looked at his son.
"Narasimha," he asked, "do you intend to use your web only to dodge trouble—or to hunt those who cause it?"
The boy's jaw clenched.
He remembered the caravan boy's shaking shoulders. The single smear of blood on his palm.
"If we only dodge," he said quietly, "they will grow freer to strike. They will learn where we step aside and plan their knife for those gaps."
He met his father's eyes.
"We must know who they are, who feeds them news, who buys their stolen grain," he continued. "Once we know that… we can decide how to cut."
His mother frowned, worried.
"You are eleven," she murmured. "Already talking like seasoned warrior."
"I am eleven in this body," he thought, but did not say.
Aloud, he answered,
"Amma, if we do nothing, more boys will come with other people's blood on their hands. I would prefer not to see that."
There was a silence.
An elder who had seen more than one famine finally nodded.
"Then we must act," he said. "But carefully. If we strike without proof, the Company will say we are 'disturbing peace.'"
Narasimha exhaled slowly.
"Then first," he said, "we use eyes. Then, if needed… we use teeth."
✢ V. Using the First Thousand Eyes
Within two days, news began to converge.
From a barber in the nearest town:
"Some men with new money came last week, paying hard coin for cheap drink. Their leader had a scar across his chin. He asked which roads 'Uyyalawada grain' used."
From a temple cleaner near the inn:
"There was a man boasting in front of the kitchens that he now 'collects tax from cowardly Doras'."
From a performing storyteller who had passed through several villages:
"In three hamlets, people said that if Uyyalawada can't protect their caravans, maybe they should deal more with the Company directly."
That last one hit hardest.
"They are not just stealing grain," Narasimha said grimly, fingers drumming on the table. "They are stealing faith."
He spread a rough map.
Dots marked where attacks had happened.
Lines showed likely paths.
With each report, the pattern became clearer:
The dacoits were not wandering.
They were choosing spots where Uyyalawada carts passed most often, especially those carrying not just goods, but messages.
"And they know our marks," Ramu observed. "See? Other carts have been hit less."
"Someone is telling them," one elder muttered. "Someone who wants to see this boy's network broken."
Narasimha tapped the map.
"Good," he said.
Ramu stared.
"Good?" he repeated. "How is that good?"
"It means we are dangerous enough to worry someone," Narasimha said. "People do not burn what is useless. Only what threatens their dry grass."
❖ VI. The Lion Sets a Trap
He knew he couldn't simply send soldiers to sweep the road.
Too obvious.
The dacoits would vanish into scrub and rock, reappearing elsewhere.
He needed them to come confidently to a place he chose.
So he planned his first hunt.
"We send a cart," he said, pointing to the map. "Loaded enough that it looks tempting. Marked clearly with our sign. It must leave on a day, and by a route, that our friend-with-loose-tongue is sure to hear about."
His father's gaze narrowed.
"You intend to leak your own movements?" he asked.
"Yes," Narasimha replied. "Through a channel I am almost certain they have. If our guess is right, the dacoits will be waiting. If wrong… then at least we will know this source is clean."
Ramu frowned.
"And the cart?" he asked. "Do we sacrifice it?"
Narasimha shook his head.
"The grain, maybe," he said. "The men, no. This will not be a cart of innocents. It will be bait. With teeth."
He explained:
The cart would carry some real goods and a few sacks filled with worthless stones at the bottom.
The men on the cart would be trained fighters disguised as ordinary drivers.
Hidden nearby, in the scrub, more of his father's best men would wait, watching.
The moment the dacoits committed fully to the "robbery," they would be surrounded.
His father listened.
"This is dangerous," he said.
"Yes," Narasimha replied. "Less dangerous than letting them keep cutting our roads whenever they please."
"Who leads?" an elder asked.
Narasimha opened his mouth—then shut it.
He wanted to say, "Me."
Every bone in him wanted to stand on that road, to see the enemy's eyes himself.
But he remembered his father's words.
He remembered the gods' voices from his dreams.
He remembered that one arrow could still end this body, even if his soul would continue.
"You lead," he said to Ramu instead. "I will watch from a distance. If I stand on that road and get stabbed, it will not make my future very long."
Ramu's eyes softened with relief he didn't hide.
"Finally, some sense," he muttered. "I thought we'd have to tie you to a pillar."
✶ VII. Blood on the Road, Not in Vain
The trap was set three days later.
The cart rolled along the dusty road near the old stone arch, oxen plodding.
On it sat two "drivers", laughing loudly about nothing in particular. Under their casual chatter, every muscle was tense.
In the scrub on both sides, hidden like stones in tall grass, Uyyalawada men waited with spears and stout sticks.
The sun was just beginning to tilt west when they appeared.
Six men.
Faces half-covered.
Swords at hips.
Rust-coloured cloths tied around arms.
Their leader had a scar slanting across his chin, just as the barber had said.
He stepped onto the road, raising one hand.
"Stop," he called. "Tax inspection. For using this road. Pay, or bleed."
The cart creaked to a halt.
The nearer driver fumbled dramatically.
"Brother, we are only poor men," he protested, loud enough for hidden ears to hear. "We barely have grain enough to feed—"
"If you have grain," the leader cut him off, "you have enough to pay tax."
He grabbed the cart side and hauled himself up to check the sacks.
At that signal, his men moved to surround the oxen.
Perfect.
Exactly as planned.
From his hidden vantage point behind a scrub-covered rock, Narasimha exhaled.
"Now," he whispered.
Ramu's low whistle sliced through the air.
In an instant, the scrub exploded into life.
Uyyalawada men surged out from both sides, weapons in hand, forming a rough circle around the dacoits.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze.
Then—
Chaos.
The "drivers" dropped their act and swung their sticks like clubs, cracking into the nearest attacker's wrist.
A dacoit cursed, dropping his sword.
Uyyalawada spearmen moved in, not aiming to kill immediately—just pin, disarm, disable.
Dust flew, men shouted, oxen bellowed.
From his covered point, Narasimha watched with fists clenched.
His second test:
Could he design a fight where his side walked away stronger, not more broken?
One of the dacoits tried to break through the ring, darting towards the rocky slope.
A spear shaft slammed into his legs, dropping him.
Another swung his sword wildly, nicking a Uyyalawada man's arm.
Blood sprayed.
For a moment, rage flared hot in Narasimha's chest.
He forced himself to stay put.
"You are not a sword," he reminded himself fiercely. "You are the hand planning where the sword goes. Stay. Watch. Learn."
Within minutes, the dacoits were on the ground or pinned against the cart.
Three injured.
Two badly.
None dead—yet.
The scar-faced leader spat blood and glared.
"So," he rasped, "little Dora has teeth."
Ramu hauled him up by the collar.
"You should have chewed on someone else's road," he growled.
✢ VIII. Justice, Not Slaughter
The easiest thing would have been to kill them there.
Leave the bodies by the roadside as warning.
But easy roads often led straight into trouble.
"If we slaughter them here," Narasimha said later, standing over the bound prisoners in a makeshift camp, "Company will say we are 'taking law into our own hands.' They will use it as excuse to meddle more."
Ramu scowled.
"And if we send them alive to Company," he argued, "they will either be 'lost' on the way or used as informants against villagers. Or whipped publicly for show while the real sponsors hide."
Narasimha nodded.
"Exactly," he said. "So we neither kill them quietly nor hand them over blindly."
He crouched in front of the scar-faced leader.
"Who told you to hit our carts?" he asked.
The man laughed, a short, dry sound.
"Hunger," he said. "World. Fate. Take your pick."
Narasimha's eyes remained steady.
"I am not stupid," he said. "You knew which carts carry our mark. You knew our best roads. Someone told you. Who?"
The man stared back.
"You think I will tell you and then live?" he sneered.
"If you don't tell," Narasimha replied calmly, "you will still not live well. At least this way, some part of you may buy protection for whatever family you have."
The man's eyes flickered, just once.
"Everyone has someone," the boy said softly. "Mother. Sister. Child. If you tell me who helped you target us, and you swear not to touch our roads again, we will not send men to break your family's door. I give you my word as Uyyalawada blood."
There was a long silence.
Then, little by little, the story came out.
Not all at once.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
A petty grain trader angry at Narasimha's fair prices had fed them routes.
A local peon, hoping to show British officers how "uncontrollable" Uyyalawada was, had exaggerated the estate's wealth and vulnerability.
The dacoits had started as simple thieves, then discovered they could be weapons in other people's hands.
"Use the hungry to attack the just," Narasimha murmured. "Ancient strategy."
He stood.
"These men," he said, looking at the bound dacoits, "we will not kill today. We will take their weapons, mark their faces, and give them one chance: disappear from our lands. If they return, then next time, there will be no words."
An elder frowned.
"You would let them walk?" he asked.
"Yes," Narasimha answered. "Because our real enemy is not just their stomach. It is the men who decided to feed that hunger in our direction. They, we will deal with ourselves."
❖ IX. Cutting the Hidden Hands
Dealing with the trader was easy.
He had a shop in the nearby town, full of polished displays and insincere smiles.
Narasimha did not march in with soldiers.
He walked in with accounts.
In one afternoon, with quiet questions and pointed remarks, he made the man realize:
Uyyalawada could reroute its grain business to other merchants.
They could also subtly advise other estate heads to do the same.
Without Uyyalawada's trust, the man's trade would wither.
He said none of this outright.
He let the trader imagine it all himself.
At the end, the man was sweating.
"What do you want?" he stammered.
"Simple," Narasimha said. "You will never again feed men to hunt our carts. And you will donate a portion of your grain this year to the poorest village on our lands. Publicly. Everyone will see."
The trader swallowed.
"I–I will," he said quickly. "I swear."
"Good," Narasimha said pleasantly. "See? Honest trade is less tiring than managing thieves."
The peon was trickier.
He wore British favour like shield.
For him, Narasimha chose a different tactic.
He used his Thousand Eyes.
He listened.
He found out about:
the small bribes the peon took from villagers,
his quiet misreporting of numbers to keep extra coin,
the way he insulted certain officers in private.
He gathered it carefully.
Then, through a trusted channel, he fed it upward—not to a friendly officer, but to one who hated incompetence more than he hated natives.
A few weeks later, the peon was abruptly transferred, his name mentioned with distaste in the Company's own reports.
"Create your own snake," Narasimha thought, watching the man leave, "and sometimes, you will be bitten by another's."
✶ X. The First Shadow of Fear
Word spread fast.
Not just that dacoits had been beaten.
Not just that Uyyalawada carts were again moving safely.
But also that:
"If you try to use thieves to hurt Dora's people, he won't just hit the thieves. He will trace the string back to your hand."
Caravan boys walked with lighter steps.
Villagers whispered with a little more pride.
Even those who disliked him grudgingly admitted:
"He is not just playing merchant. He is playing something deeper."
And among the men who liked to move in darkness, a new caution grew:
"Don't touch Uyyalawada's roads," some muttered. "That boy has eyes everywhere."
✢ XI. Heaven's Verdict on a Bloody Lesson
In Vaikuntha, the six watched the entire sequence as clearly as one might watch scenes reflected in still water.
They saw:
the boy arriving with blood on his hand,
Narasimha's tightening jaw,
the trap on the road,
the moment he chose not to kill everyone,
the way he handled the trader and the peon.
Parvati exhaled softly.
"He did not lose himself," she said. "He let information grow teeth—but not fangs that bite everyone blindly."
Lakshmi nodded.
"And he remembered to protect the boy first, before asking questions," she added. "Good."
Saraswati's gaze was thoughtful.
"He is learning the difference between punishment and correction," she mused. "That is a rare skill, even among kings."
Maheshwara's eyes shone with a mixture of pride and a warrior's quiet anticipation.
"This was his first hunt," he said. "Small. Local. But he planned, set, and executed it with an understanding of cause and consequence. When he leads armies, he will remember this road."
Vishnu smiled faintly.
"And notice," he said, "how he did not rush forward with sword in hand, even though his blood burned. He stayed back to see the whole picture. That… is the difference between hero and ruler."
Brahma wrote slowly:
When information learned to bite, the lion learned to choose where to draw blood.
✵ XII. The Lion's Quiet Decision
Later that night, after all the reports were done and the house had grown silent, Narasimha sat alone in the courtyard.
The stars were bright.
Crickets sang.
The stone beneath his feet was cool.
He thought of Keshava, bandaged but alive.
He thought of the caravan boy's bloody hand.
He thought of the dacoits' eyes—fearful, defiant, resigned.
He felt very, very tired.
In his chest, the Ichha-Marana boon was a steady, warm presence.
"You will live long," it seemed to murmur. "What will you do with all that time?"
He answered it in the dark:
"I will watch," he whispered. "I will build. I will bite when I must. But I will not become just another wolf."
He pressed his palm flat against the earth.
"Let my eyes grow sharp," he prayed softly, "but let my heart not become stone. If I must be lion, let it be for my herd, not for sport."
Somewhere far beyond human hearing, something in the fabric of dharma shifted in agreement.
✶ XIII. From Ears to Nerves
Over the next year, he improved the web.
He didn't just collect information.
He structured response.
He set up simple signal systems in nearby villages: certain drum patterns at night meant "soldiers"; certain lamp positions meant "raiders"; a string of red cloth on a well-pole meant "tax collectors came today; be cautious."
He identified people in each area who could coordinate small groups in emergencies—without needing to constantly ask Uyyalawada what to do.
He began to separate his network into "Ears" (who only gathered), "Tongues" (who carried messages), and "Hands" (who took action).
"It's like a body," he explained to Ramu one day, sketching in dust. "Ears hear, nerves carry signal, hands move. If everything waits for one brain to shout, reaction is slow. We must build reflexes."
Ramu rubbed his chin.
"You are trying to build a living… thing," he said. "Not just a system."
"Yes," Narasimha replied. "Because enemies can learn our patterns. But a living thing can adapt."
He was still a boy.
He still laughed loudly when his friends played stupid pranks.
He still complained whenever a new ledger palm leaf was added to his pile.
But now, when people said "Dora's boy knows everything," it carried a new tone:
Not just awe.
Not just fear.
Something else.
Expectation.
✦ XIV. Close of the "When Information Learned to Bite" Chapter
By the time he touched twelve, the second phase of his silent rise had settled into place:
He had trade that kept his people fed.
He had hidden stores that prevented immediate collapse.
He had eyes that warned him early.
And he now had teeth—able to strike back at threats without collapsing into chaos or cruelty.
He was still far from being king.
Far from the immortal rebel whose name the British would curse.
But somewhere on a dusty road, under an old stone arch, the ground remembered the echo of his first true counterattack.
And in the years to come, when soldiers and spies and even costumed heroes tried to understand how one man seemed always to be two steps ahead…
They would never know that it all began here:
With a boy,
a bleeding messenger,
a small trap on a country road,
and a simple decision:
Information alone is not enough.
It must be used—not just to survive,
but to protect.
The Deathless Lion had taken his first true bite.
The world, even Marvel's fragment of it, simply hadn't realized yet.
✦ End of Chapter 10 – "When Information Learned to Bite" ✦