✦ I. Rains, Rumours, and a Warning
By late 1822, the rains had misbehaved again.
Not a full drought this time—but enough insult to make farmers nervous:
Tanks filled only halfway.
Wells coughed instead of singing.
Clouds came, rumbled dramatically, and wandered off like lazy courtiers.
Uyyalawada, with its Varsha Nidhi and Beej funds, could manage.
Others… not so easily.
Trinetra's reports began to show a pattern:
"In such-and-such taluk, tax collection is harsh this season."
"New Company patrol assigned to 'ensure compliance'—led by Subedar William Hart and native sub-inspector Raghunatha Pillai."
"They are… not loved."
Then, one morning, a messenger arrived from a village three days away—a place just outside Uyyalawada's formal borders, but firmly within Narasimha's mental map of "people who count as mine."
The palm leaf was smudged, the handwriting hurried:
"Dora,
Men in red and khaki coming again and again. Demand full tax despite weak harvest. Beat elders. Drag youth from homes. Threaten to seize cattle next week if payments not made. Some say they will take women also if we cannot pay. We fear… something bad will happen when they come again after two days.
We have no one else to ask.
— Chinnaiah, temple drummer of Mallapuram"
The leaf trembled slightly in Narasimha's hand.
He read it once, twice, then handed it to Ramu, Ramachandra Reddy.
His father's jaw tightened.
"Mallapuram is technically outside our estate," one elder began cautiously.
"Technically," Narasimha repeated. "So is half the trade route we protect."
He looked up.
"These men—Hart and Pillai," he said. "What do we know of them?"
Raghava, quiet as always, produced another set of notes.
"Subedar William Hart," he read. "British. Former sergeant. Reputation: strict, ambitious, sees natives as 'lazy until whipped'. Has not yet been caught in direct corruption, but does not stop his men. Believes in fear as policy."
"And Pillai?" Narasimha asked.
"Raghunatha Pillai," Raghava continued. "Local recruit. Clever tongue. Known to identify 'troublemakers' in villages and point them out to British. Reported to have taken side payments to spare some… while pushing the burden on others."
Narasimha exhaled slowly.
"Snakes in uniform," he said. "And they're planning a display in a village already on edge."
Ramu frowned.
"If you go openly," he said, "and confront them, they may write reports. Then Madras will start sniffing again. We have only just convinced them you are harmless."
"I don't have to go as a roaring lion," Narasimha replied. "I can go as… Uyyalawada's dutiful heir 'inspecting grain arrangements.' My mask is useful for travel too."
Seethamma, sitting with betel in hand, snapped her fingers.
"Simha," she said sharply. "Remember—anger is good servant, bad master. These men will insult, threaten. Your blood runs hot. Your Guru is barely starting to cool it. Do not let them make you dance to their tune."
He bowed his head.
"I will try, Avva," he said.
From the doorway, Gosayi Venkanna spoke quietly.
"The problem in Mallapuram is not just grain," the Guru said. "It is fear. If you go, go not only with sword, but with presence. You cannot protect every village personally forever. But you can plant memories in men's minds: 'There are some lines we do not cross unless we want the lion to wake.'"
"So," Narasimha said, a grim smile forming, "I go as 'harmless prince'—until they try to break what I'm sworn to protect."
Venkanna's eyes met his.
"And in that moment," the Guru said, "you will see how much of your asura you can wield… without becoming it."
❖ II. Heaven Holds Its Breath
In Vaikuntha, the Trimurti watched the decision ripple through possibilities.
Lakshmi murmured,
"Another knot ahead."
Saraswati said,
"His training has given him some control. But deep within, there is still that… roar, waiting."
Parvati's hands tightened on her peacock-embroidered sari.
"This will be the first time he lets his power truly surge in front of ordinary men," she said. "The first time villagers see more than 'boy prince' or 'clever heir'."
Maheshwara nodded.
"And the first time," he added, "Soldiers of Empire feel terror not from numbers, but from one soul's raw fury."
Vishnu's gaze turned distant.
"In future eras," he said softly, "men in uniforms will face gods, giants, mutants, and Iron Men. They will learn that not all power comes from artillery. Today, a small patrol will get a… preview."
Brahma wrote:
1822 – Mallapuram incident. First manifest Asura-Battle spark. Mortal witnesses acquire mythic image of U.N.R.
✢ III. The Road to Mallapuram
They did not go as an army.
Narasimha refused.
"If I take too many men," he said, "this becomes a clan clash. We are not starting full war over one patrol. Not yet."
So he went with:
Raghava, for eyes.
Ayyappa, for disciplined steel.
Two local traders' carts, as cover.
And one bullock carrying sacks of grain marked with Uyyalawada's seal, as excuse.
He wore:
a clean, but plain dhoti,
an upper cloth loosely draped,
simple sandals,
no heavy jewellery.
To anyone but the sharp-eyed, he looked like a well-born merchant's son riding ahead of a supply caravan.
Underneath that cloth, however, his breath was measured.
Gosayi Venkanna had made him stand in horse stance for half an hour that morning.
"Ground yourself," the Guru had said. "So when anger comes, it will not sweep you off."
"Guru," Narasimha had muttered, thighs burning, "if I survive British harassment, it will only be because my legs refuse to move."
Now, as they approached Mallapuram, he felt the earth through his soles.
He felt his lungs expand, consciously counting:
In – two, three, four… Out – two, three, four, five…
Smoke greeted them before people did.
Not from houses burning—yet—but from cooking fires that smelled thin, stretched.
The village looked… strained.
Children with eyes too big in too-thin faces.
Men gathered in uneasy clumps.
Women watching the road with the tense posture of those who expect trouble, not guests.
Chinnaiah, the drummer who had sent the message, ran forward.
"Dora!" he gasped. "You came."
"Not as Dora," Narasimha said, slipping easily into his 'lesser' persona. "Just as one man bringing grain to a friend. Where are they now?"
"Company patrol camped under tamarind grove," Chinnaiah said, pointing. "They sent word they will come after midday… with list of names."
"Good," Narasimha said. "Then we are early."
He turned to Raghava.
"Spread quietly," he murmured. "I want to know: who among villagers they target most, who collaborates with them, who is ready to snap."
Raghava vanished into lanes like smoke.
To the villagers, Narasimha spoke calmly.
"Bring your elders," he said. "And your women do not need to stand on the road when they come. Let them remain near temple. We will stand at the front. No panic. Panic gives cowards courage."
A few men straightened at that.
His presence did what Venkanna had predicted:
It changed the texture of fear.
Not removed it.
But gave it shape.
❖ IV. The Patrol Arrives
They heard the patrol before they saw it.
Boots on dry earth.
Horse snorts.
The clink of metal.
Laughter pitched too loud.
Subedar William Hart rode at the front, hat slightly tipped, moustache trimmed.
Beside him walked Raghunatha Pillai, holding a folded list.
Behind them:
a line of sepoys,
muskets on shoulders,
bayonets glinting.
Hart scanned the gathered villagers with the brisk, faintly bored gaze of a man accustomed to issuing orders without opposition.
"Right," he said in passable Hindustani. "Last time we came, you said 'we will pay, we will pay, next week, next week.' Now it is next week. So… who pays?"
His eyes fell on Narasimha.
"And you are?" he asked.
Narasimha bowed slightly.
"From Uyyalawada estate, sahib," he said. "Bringing grain from our surplus to assist Mallapuram in bad harvest. We have arrangements with some villages to support in lean year. Their ability to pay tax next season is higher if they do not… die this season."
He kept his tone mild.
Reasonable.
Hart sneered slightly.
"Ah yes," he said. "Charity. How touching."
He rode forward a few steps.
"Understand this," he said loudly. "Charity is your affair. Revenue is ours. Crown demands its due. Drought, flood, bad dreams—none of these pay soldiers or roads. Pillai, read out the arrears."
Pillai unfolded the list with theatrical care.
"Subedar sahib," he said, voice oiled, "these households are behind two quarters…"
He began to call names.
With each, a man stepped forward, shoulders hunched.
Some muttered protests.
Some stayed silent.
Hart interrupted one older man who began to explain.
"Enough," Hart snapped. "You speak too much. You had months. We warned you last visit. Today, we collect in coin, grain, or property."
He swept a hand toward the bullocks.
"Those cattle," he said, "will do nicely."
Chinnaiah blanched.
"Subedar sahib," he said, "those are plough bulls. If you take them, we cannot sow next season—"
"And if we do not take them," Hart said coldly, "my superior will ask me why this village pays nothing while others manage. I am not here to debate. I am here to collect."
He nodded at his men.
"Take them," he ordered. "If there is resistance, make example."
Sepoys moved.
Villagers stirred, some instinctively stepping forward, then freezing at the sight of muskets.
Pillai watched, calculating.
He had seen this dance before.
Then Narasimha stepped between the bulls and the soldiers.
Not dramatically.
Just… quietly.
"Subedar sahib," he said, still mild, "those bulls are already under Uyyalawada's surety. We registered them as collateral for Beej Nidhi loans. If you seize them, our own arrangements collapse. Allow us to pay a portion now from our grain, and adjust the rest against next season—"
Hart's eyes narrowed.
"You think your estate's paperwork can override Company authority?" he asked.
"No, sahib," Narasimha said. "I am asking you to let us support your goal: a village that can pay next year, instead of one we must rebuild from nothing after it breaks."
He met Hart's gaze steadily.
It was a risk.
Hart stared at him.
Then at the sack of grain with Uyyalawada's seal.
Then back at the villagers.
"Always the same," he muttered in English. "Bleeding hearts. Soft hands."
Switching back, louder, he said:
"You speak nicely, boy. But this is not your jurisdiction. And frankly, I do not care for native schemes that make you look like saviours while we take the blame."
He leaned down in the saddle, bringing his face closer to Narasimha's.
"You want to help?" Hart asked, voice low. "Then step aside. Or I will count you among those obstructing revenue. And I have orders to deal harshly with such men."
Behind him, one sepoy—young, nervous—shifted his grip on the musket.
His finger brushed the trigger too early.
Muzzle dipped.
There was a snap, a flash, a crack.
Time fractured.
✢ V. The Shot
The musket decided the argument before any word could.
The bullet did not fly where the sepoy intended.
It flew where fate—and perhaps some darker habit of oppression—aimed it:
Toward the cluster of villagers closest to Narasimha.
Toward…
A boy.
No more than twelve.
Thin.
Barefoot.
Eyes huge.
Standing slightly ahead of his father, as if trying to shield him.
Narasimha's body moved before his mind did.
Prana training, battle intuition, Ichha-Marana—everything knotted into reaction.
He shoved the boy aside and turned.
The bullet struck him just below the ribs.
For an instant, the world was pure white.
Not pain.
Just… impact.
He staggered.
Someone screamed.
Lakshmamma's face flashed in his mind.
Avva's stick.
Venkanna's voice: "Stand like a tree."
Then the pain came.
Hot.
Searing.
Driving the breath from his lungs.
He dropped to one knee.
Blood soaked his cloth.
Hart cursed.
"Idiot!" he shouted at the sepoy. "I didn't give the order yet!"
Villagers froze.
The air vibrated on the edge of panic.
Raghava and Ayyappa tensed to move—
and then stopped,
because something else moved first.
Something inside Narasimha woke.
❖ VI. When the Lion Forgot to Hold Back
He should have been dying.
By every rule of flesh, bone, and British ballistics, that shot at that range, at that angle, should have taken him.
The villagers saw blood.
They saw the boy-prince crumple.
They began to wail.
Chinnaiah grabbed his drum without meaning to, heartbeat pounding.
Then—
Narasimha inhaled.
A strange, deep, rattling breath that did not belong in the chest of a wounded seventeen-year-old.
In Vaikuntha, Vishnu murmured,
"Now."
Maheshwara's eyes glinted.
The Ichha-Marana flame in Narasimha's core flared, not outward, but inward.
The bullet that had torn into muscle slowed.
Its lethal intention met something that said:
"No. Not yet. You die in my time, not yours."
The flow of blood shifted.
Instead of rushing out wildly, it thickened, clotted, slowed.
Cells knit faster than they had any right to.
Pain did not vanish.
But it… moved.
Became a roar rather than a scream.
Narasimha's head lifted.
His eyes opened.
For the first time in his life, the villagers saw them not as familiar brown—
but as something older:
For an instant, under the sun, his irises caught a strange light.
Amber.
Molten.
Like a lion's narrowed gaze just before it lunges.
His posture changed.
His spine straightened slowly, as if being pulled up by unseen threads.
He rose to his feet.
The musket ball remained inside him, lodged but no longer advancing, held by an angry miracle.
Hart stared.
"This is… not possible," he whispered in English.
The sepoys' grips faltered.
They had seen men take bullets.
They had seen them scream, fall, bleed out.
They had not seen one stand back up like this:
breathing hard, yes, blood still staining his cloth—
but eyes clear,
steps steady,
presence… larger.
Chinnaiah would swear later that, for a moment, a lion's shadow reared behind Narasimha—
vast, jaw open in a silent roar—
before flickering away.
A temple woman would insist she'd heard, under the rush of her own pulse, a distant conch sound.
Children would remember only that suddenly they were not as scared.
Because the boy who had been shot was still there.
And he was angry.
But it was a different kind of anger.
Not the flailing heat of wounded pride.
Something colder.
Sharper.
Ancient.
✢ VII. Asura-Breath
Narasimha's world narrowed to:
Hart on his horse,
Pillai holding the list, eyes wide,
the trembling sepoy,
the villagers behind him.
His vision edged in red, then cleared.
He felt his breath, as Venkanna had drilled:
In from below the navel.
Out with focus.
But now each exhale carried… something else.
His aura, usually a quiet field of warmth, spiked.
Not just outward.
Downward.
Into the earth.
Into the space between him and the patrol.
Men sensitive to such things—like Ayyappa, who had seen strange holy men in his sepoy days—felt it first:
A pressure.
Like standing too close to a storm front.
Asuras are not always demons with fangs.
Sometimes they are a mode—a battle-state where restraint thins and primal force surges.
Venkanna had warned him:
"You have this within you. Use it carefully. It can end battles. It can also end you."
Now that force tasted the air.
Felt the threat to his people.
He could have let it loose fully.
He did not.
But for the first time, he loosened the leash.
Just a little.
His voice, when it came, was not loud.
It did not need to be.
"Subedar," he said, each syllable steady. "Your man shot at a child."
Hart swallowed.
He had faced charging warriors in other districts.
He had seen men in opium madness.
This felt different.
His hand went to his pistol.
"I… I regret the misfire," he said stiffly. "But you stepped in the way. That is… your doing. You are injured. Stand down and let us complete our duty, or I will—"
"You will what?" Narasimha asked softly.
The air seemed to thicken.
He took a step forward.
Ayyappa, without coordinating, stepped half a step behind and to the side—instinctively flanking.
Raghava melded into the crowd, ready.
Hart felt the weight of dozens of villagers' gazes behind the boy.
He also felt the weight of something else:
A presence that made his war-hardened nerves twitch.
His horse snorted, ears flattening, as if sensing a predator.
"Shoot him," Pillai hissed under his breath, panic rising. "Now, before—"
Narasimha's eyes flicked to the sepoys.
He didn't know their names.
But he knew one thing:
They were men in a machine—not the machine itself.
He pointed at the trembling musketeer.
"You fired once by mistake," he said. "If you raise that weapon again toward my people, it will be the last time you hold anything."
His tone was calm.
The threat was not.
Prana swirled around his outstretched hand.
The sepoy felt his fingers numb.
He lowered the musket without consciously deciding to.
"Subedar," Narasimha continued, now addressing Hart, "we came here willing to help you collect reasonable dues over time. You chose to answer with a bullet. I will ignore that this once—for the sake of avoiding more blood on this soil."
His voice roughened at the edges.
"But I will not let you take plough bulls today. Or touch a single woman. Or drag an elder in chains from this village. If you try, I… will… stop… you."
Hart's pride flared, trying to override the creeping chill up his spine.
"You are making a dangerous enemy," he said. "I can write reports. I can label you troublemaker, rabble-rouser—"
"I am many things," Narasimha cut in. "I am not afraid of ink."
He took another step.
For a heartbeat, Hart saw not a village heir—
but a lion stalking.
Behind his normal features, something vast seemed to peer out.
Old.
Patient.
Done with being polite.
The Asura-Breath within him coiled tighter.
"Leave," Narasimha said. "Take what grain they can spare today without killing next season. Note their names. Come back with proper agreement through my father's office. We will help ensure a schedule that does not break their backs."
He let a fragment of killing intent bleed into his next sentence.
"But if you ever come again with the intention to break them—with ropes, with threats against their women, with 'examples' made of those who speak—then do not come on a road. Come in a coffin. It will be more efficient."
The words were not flowery.
They did not sound like a boast.
They sounded like administrative advice.
Which made them more terrifying.
Hart, for the first time in a long time, hesitated.
Pillai tugged at his sleeve, whispering frantically.
"Sir, he's one man. We have guns—"
"Yes," Hart snapped. "And one of them already misfired and nearly escalated this beyond repair."
He looked again at Narasimha.
The blood.
The unmoving eyes.
The villagers behind him.
His instincts, honed in battles where overconfidence got men killed, finally overruled his ego.
"Very well," he said curtly. "We will… take a smaller portion today. But you are not the law here. Do not think you can dictate our route."
"I think," Narasimha replied, "that today we have both understood each other."
Hart barked commands.
The sepoys, shaken, collected a measured amount of grain from communal store—less than they'd intended, more than the villagers wanted, but not shattering.
No bulls were taken.
No one else was beaten.
As they left, Pillai glanced back, hatred and fear mixed in his eyes.
"You think this is over," he spat softly toward the villagers.
No one answered.
All their attention was on the boy standing with a bloodstained cloth, swaying slightly, but upright.
When the patrol finally vanished in dust, the Asura-Breath that had been coiled in Narasimha's chest loosened.
His knees buckled.
He would have fallen if Ayyappa hadn't caught him.
"Dora!" Chinnaiah cried.
"I'm… fine," Narasimha lied.
His vision blurred.
Pain, which had been held at bay by adrenaline, crashed back.
The world tilted.
Darkness took him—
this time, allowed by his boon,
because now that the danger had passed, Ichha-Marana no longer needed to hold him up.
✢ VIII. Between Life and Death's Waiting Room
He did not die.
He walked alongside it.
In a strange, half-luminous space, he found himself sitting under the familiar banyan again.
The lion was there.
Gosayi Venkanna too—but as a presence, not a body.
"You pushed," the Guru said mildly.
"Yes," Narasimha replied. "He shot a child."
"And you answered appropriately," Venkanna said. "You stood. You used terror as tool. But you did not start slaughter. You did not rip them apart to prove you could. Good."
Narasimha looked at his own chest.
There was a mark there—dim, but visible.
Like a bruise made of starlight.
"The bullet?" he asked.
"Still in your flesh," Venkanna said. "Your boon prevented your death. Your prana slowed the bleeding. But flesh is still flesh. When you wake, it will hurt. You will need healing. You are not invincible, only stubborn."
The lion huffed.
"You have tasted what you can be when cornered," it said. "Remember that feeling. But do not chase it like opium. Battle-high is sweet and addictive. You must learn to fight without losing yourself in that red river."
Narasimha nodded slowly.
"I wanted to tear him off that horse," he admitted. "For a moment, all I saw was… red. If villagers hadn't been there, if Ayyappa and Raghava hadn't been watching, I might have—"
"—become something you would later regret," Venkanna finished. "Exactly. That is why I made you stand like a tree when it felt pointless. So that today, your roots held, even as your branches shook."
He reached out and flicked Narasimha's forehead.
"No more bullets for a while," the Guru said. "I am too old to watch you test the limits of your boon every month."
Narasimha almost laughed.
"Guru," he said. "Did the gods send you to scold me in two worlds?"
"Of course," Venkanna replied serenely. "They know you only listen to those who make fun of you."
Far off, other presences stirred:
Lakshmi's worry,
Parvati's fierce pride,
Saraswati's cool assessment,
Vishnu's calm watching,
Maheshwara's silent approval.
He felt them like distant stars.
Then the banyan faded.
Pain dragged him back up through his own body.
❖ IX. Aftermath in Mallapuram
He woke on a woven cot in a small hut, the smell of herbs and smoke thick in the air.
His side burned.
Someone had bound it.
He groaned.
A familiar voice clucked.
"See?" Seethamma's tone sliced through the haze. "I told you: one day you will come back carried, and I will personally shout at the gods for giving you this much stubbornness."
He squinted.
His grandmother sat at his bedside, arms folded.
Lakshmamma was beside her, eyes red from crying, but face composed.
Ramu stood near the doorway, jaw tight.
Gosayi Venkanna sat cross-legged in the corner, as if he had been there forever.
"How…?" Narasimha croaked.
"Raghava sent a runner faster than your bullet," Seethamma snapped. "We came as soon as we heard. Your Guru pulled you back from halfway up Yamadharma Raja's queue."
Lakshmamma brushed his hair back gently.
"You stopped them from taking the bulls," she said softly. "You frightened trained soldiers into retreat. You saved a boy."
Her eyes brimmed.
"And you made my heart stop for a full hour," she added, voice wobbling. "Never do that again."
"I'll… talk to the bullets," Narasimha muttered weakly. "Negotiate better terms."
Despite everything, they laughed.
Venkanna leaned forward.
"The bullet stays for now," he said. "Removing it would mean cutting too deep without proper tools. Your body is already adapting around it. In time, your prana and regeneration will make it more of a nuisance than a threat."
"So I'm going to… carry British metal around like a souvenir?" Narasimha grimaced.
"You are going to carry memory," Venkanna said. "Every time you feel it ache in rain, you will remember: your life is not yours to throw away in first rush of rage. Your boon is not invulnerability. It is responsibility extended."
Ramu cleared his throat.
"There will be reports," he said quietly. "Hart will paint this as 'native interference in revenue collection.' But…"
He smiled crookedly.
"Some sepoys have family here," he added. "Word has already spread—not of 'rebellious chieftain's son attacking patrol,' but of 'boy who took bullet and stood up like lion, then forced Subedar to back down.'"
Seethamma smirked.
"Let them carry that to neighbouring villages," she said. "Maybe next time some uniform thinks to raise stick too quickly, he will remember his friend's story of the lion and think twice."
Lakshmamma squeezed Narasimha's hand.
"Rest now," she said. "There will be time for politics later. Today, you are just my foolish son who scared me."
He closed his eyes.
This time, when sleep took him, it was simple.
Just… sleep.
✢ X. The Story That Walked Ahead of Him
In the weeks that followed, Narasimha's wound slowly healed.
He resumed training—with Venkanna forcing him to move slower at first, which he hated.
"Prana is not excuse to abuse flesh," the Guru said. "We are strengthening your house, not finding new ways to set it on fire and rebuild."
Meanwhile, Mallapuram became a story.
Villages heard:
of the Company patrol,
of the misfired bullet,
of the boy from Uyyalawada who stepped in front, bled, rose, and stared Subedar down.
The details changed with each retelling.
Some insisted:
"His eyes turned golden. I saw it!"
Others claimed:
"A lion's roar came from nowhere. Even the British horses trembled."
A few embellished:
"He caught the bullet in his hand and crushed it!"
(He very much did not.)
But the core stayed:
"He was shot… and the lion still stood."
For Hart and Pillai, the incident became a sore point.
Officially, their report framed it as:
"Local estate heir interfered, was accidentally wounded, situation defused with minimal disturbance. Recommend caution regarding Uyyalawada's growing influence."
Unofficially, among sepoys, Hart was now the officer who had been stared down by a boy whose blood refused to listen to bullets.
Fear works both ways.
The next time Hart considered using extreme measures in a village, his hand paused.
Remembered that burning gaze.
Chose a slightly softer approach.
Not out of kindness.
Out of caution.
Even that, Narasimha considered a small victory.
❖ XI. MCU & Mystic Echoes
The Mallapuram incident did not just echo in bazaars.
In Kamar-Taj, the same senior sorcerer sighed.
"This boy again," he said.
In his inner sight, he had watched:
the bullet,
the flare of Ichha-Marana,
the surge of asura-like aura when Narasimha confronted Hart.
"There is a line," the sorcerer told his apprentice, "between righteous wrath and uncontrolled rage. Today, he walked right on it. Let us hope his teachers keep him from crossing."
"Should we… reach out?" the apprentice asked.
"Not yet," the sorcerer said. "He is still rooted in his land's dharma. If we pull him too early into our wider games, we might uproot something vital. The Vishanti themselves prefer champions who know who they are before they touch the bigger currents."
In distant cosmic vantage points—a Watcher's observation post, an Eternal's quiet archive—Mallapuram was just a data point:
"Subject U.N.R. – evidence of significant regenerative capacity and fear projection. Interesting."
In the far future, when analysis teams at SHIELD or sword-wielding analysts at Kingsman dug into odd anomalies in colonial-era India, some dusty report of a "native heir surviving a musket shot and intimidating a patrol" would flare back to relevance.
For now, it was a myth in the making.
✵ XII. Closing of "When the Lion Forgot to Hold Back"
By the end of 1822, something fundamental had shifted in Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy's journey:
He had taken a bullet in front of his people—and stood back up.
He had consciously, if briefly, unleashed the Asura-Breath within him—using terror as shield and sword without falling entirely into bloodlust.
Villagers had seen not just the clever, kind heir—but a glimpse of the Deathless Lion he truly was.
A British Subedar and his men had learned that not all natives broke under guns. Some… glared back.
The cost?
A new, constant ache in his side.
A small lump of metal lodged where flesh had been.
A heavier understanding of his own capabilities.
On quiet nights, when pain kept him from sleeping easily, he would sit up, press a hand lightly to the wound, and whisper to himself:
"I am not invincible. I am just… harder to remove. That means more work, not less fear. Remember that, idiot."
In the shade of the banyan, Gosayi Venkanna smiled.
"He has met his asura," the Guru thought. "And he did not bow to it. Good. In future wars—against Empire, against darker things—this memory will anchor him."
Above, the gods relaxed.
Just a little.
The lion had forgotten to hold back for a moment—and the world had shivered.
But he had remembered again before it was too late.
Next would come:
more alliances,
more preparation,
the long, quiet build toward open revolt.
For now, the story of Mallapuram walked ahead of him:
"One bullet.
One boy.
One lion's gaze that made soldiers step back."
And somewhere, in a future not yet born, when superheroes would stride across screens and cosmic forces would threaten Earth,
there would stand among them an ancient king in a modern world—
who remembered the taste of dust, the weight of one bullet,
and the day he first realized that his immortality was not a shield for himself…
but a promise to stand between guns and the helpless—
for as long as the world needed him.
✦ End of Chapter 21 – "When the Lion Forgot to Hold Back" ✦