✦ I. After the Fort, the Echoes
Kadapa did not fall quietly.
Even though Narasimha left no banner on its walls, news carried what stone could not.
It travelled:
on the backs of salt traders,
in the whispers of pilgrims,
in the muttered curses of sepoys who'd seen too much,
in the songs of wandering bards who heard a story once and inflated it thrice.
"Some say there were five hundred men," a bard would proclaim in one market.
"Others say five thousand," he would add in the next.
In the hills of Nallamala, men who had been dodging revenue men for years heard:
"A fort? Company fort? Taken?"
In Srisailam, around the great temple of Mallikarjuna, temple guards and local peasant leaders exchanged glances.
"If Kadapa's guns can be silenced," they whispered, "perhaps the lash at our lands office can be… persuaded to sleep too."
In Tirupati, lanes crowded with pilgrims and merchants buzzed with rumours.
"A lion of Rayalaseema roared," someone said near the steps.
"No, a whole forest of lions," another insisted.
What none of them knew was that, far to the west in Uyyalawada, the man they spoke of sat hunched over a map, eyes red with lack of sleep, a piece of charcoal in hand.
And he was drawing a web.
II. Drawing Threads on Dust
The Map Room had changed since the early days.
Back then, it was a simple hall with a few rough charts.
Now:
a massive cloth map of South India covered the floor,
smaller overlays showed trade routes, patrol paths, temple networks,
coloured stones marked forts, safe houses, hostile posts.
Narasimha knelt at its centre, one knee pressed into Rayalaseema, the other hovering near the coast.
Around him, his core circle watched:
Sri, arms folded, mind already three steps ahead;
Ayyappa, leaning on a spear, the unofficial embodiment of "if this plan makes sense, I'll bleed for it";
Raghava, quiet as always, eyes tracking every move;
Avuku Raju, newly arrived from Bellary, sitting with his back against a pillar, chewing thoughtfully on a clove;
Venkanna, staff resting across his knees, gaze somewhere between this room and higher planes.
On the map, Narasimha had marked three regions in darker charcoal:
Nallamala – a forest smear across the north of Rayalaseema;
Srisailam – a knot of hills and temple-town paths;
Tirupati – like a stairway scratched between earth and sky.
"These," he said, tapping each, "are already restless."
Sri nodded.
"We've had Trinetra reports," she said. "Small bands in Nallamala raiding tax convoys on their own. Temple-linked peasants around Srisailam refusing to hand over paddy. In Tirupati, some of the temple's hereditary lands were seized as 'Company property'. That did not go down well."
Ayyappa snorted.
"I heard one of the revenue officers got chased down the hill by old ladies with broomsticks," he said. "He'd have preferred spears."
Avuku Raju chuckled.
"A broom swung by an angry grandmother has more weight than most swords," he agreed. "But all of these are still separate fires."
"Exactly," Narasimha murmured.
He drew three separate circles around the zones.
"At the moment," he said, "the Company can treat them like 'local problems'. 'Forest dacoits.' 'Temple agitation.' 'Pilgrim town disturbance.' Each gets a small column of troops. A stern collector. An official note."
He flicked the charcoal between his fingers.
"And us?" he added. "Down here, we look like a bigger version of the same. A 'Rayalaseema zamindar who got ideas'."
Sri tilted her head.
"You want to change that picture," she said. "Not on paper. In their experience."
He smiled slightly.
"Tell me, Sri," he said, "how does a spider hold a fly?"
"You're comparing us to spiders now?" Ayyappa muttered. "Wonderful. Next battle, we'll be fighting flies with eight arms."
Sri ignored him.
"A spider's web doesn't crush with a single thread," she replied. "It spreads the force. No strand alone is strong. Together, they are… impossible to escape."
Narasimha pointed at her, pleased.
"Correct," he said. "Right now, each of these rebellions is a thread. Strong enough to irritate. Weak enough for the Company to snap one by one if they send enough men."
He drew light lines between Nallamala, Srisailam, Tirupati, and Rayalaseema.
"What happens," he asked quietly, "if we tie them into a web?"
A silence fell.
Raghava broke it.
"You mean," he said, "you send our men to lead them?"
Narasimha shook his head at once.
"No," he said. "They must not become our branches. That makes them fragile. Kill the trunk, the branches wither. Instead…"
He drew smaller, subtler lines: not directly from Uyyalawada to each region, but between the regions themselves.
"I provide them what they lack," he said. "Coins when their people are too poor to fight. Weapons when all they have are sticks. Information—especially information—about where to hit. But not as 'King Narasimha Reddy, please sign here'."
Sri's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Anonymous patronage," she said. "They receive what they need through merchants, pilgrims, temple donations. They think: 'A hidden hand is helping.' They never see the palm."
"Exactly," he replied. "They do not even need to know each other by name. An agitator in Nallamala doesn't have to meet a leader in Tirupati. But one night, they both receive word that on the same week, they should:
block a certain road,
misdirect a certain patrol,
burn a certain file room.
To the Company, it looks like chaos. To us, it is pattern."
Ayyappa scratched his jaw.
"You're basically trying to teach an entire region guerrilla warfare as… correspondence course," he said.
Narasimha spread his hands.
"Welcome," he said dryly, "to the University of Silent Trouble. Admissions are free. Examinations, however, are bloody."
Even Venkanna's lips twitched.
III. Naming the Plan
They needed a name.
Narasimha insisted on naming things.
It helped him remember which madness was which.
Varaha for digging.
Silent Harvest for the first ambush.
Kadapa was its own scar.
He drew a rough circle connecting the zones again.
"This," he said, "is not one operation. It's a strategy. It will span years. We're not cutting a head. We're weaving."
Sri drummed her fingers on her arm.
"Spiderweb Strategy," she said finally. "Simple. Accurate. Easy to whisper. Hard for our grandchildren to forget."
"Spiderweb Strategy," Ayyappa repeated, making a face. "Fine. But if any of my men start calling me 'Eight-Legged Ayyappa', I'm sending them to you for paperwork duty."
Narasimha smirked.
"I will make them count ledgers until they see webs in their sleep," he promised.
Venkanna tapped his staff once.
"Remember, child," he said, "a web is strongest when every part feels the vibration. You wish to be the spider who sits at the centre. But do not forget: the spider also risks starvation if it ties its web only around its own needs."
Narasimha nodded, expression sobering.
"I know," he said. "We do this not just to shield Rayalaseema. If Nallamala burns alone, the flames will lick us eventually. If Tirupati is yoked too hard, pilgrims will stop coming, and the lifeblood of our trade thins. Our survival is tied to theirs, whether we admit it or not."
Sri stepped closer to the map.
"So," she said, "how do we start weaving?"
IV. Thread to the Forest – Nallamala
Nallamala had always been half-independent.
The forest didn't care who ruled the capitals.
It obeyed:
rain,
drought,
tigers,
stubborn roots.
Men who lived there answered more readily to trees than to distant thrones.
But even forests could not stop collectors' men from coming to the edges.
At a clearing near a hidden stream, Jangi—a wiry leader of a loose band that the British labelled "dacoits"—paced angrily.
His people had hit small revenue carriers for years, robbing grain and silver, then vanishing.
Lately, though, there had been more soldiers.
Sharper patrols.
He was losing men.
"We can hurt them," he growled to his companions, "but not stop them. They bleed; they bring more. Our bows are old. Half our muskets misfire. We fight from tree to tree like ghosts with broken fangs."
One of his scouts stepped into the clearing.
"Anna," the scout said, "there's a merchant outside. Alone. Says he wants to talk. He walked into our trap and… laughed."
Jangi frowned.
"Bring this laughing idiot," he said.
A middle-aged man in clean but unpretentious clothes was ushered in.
Trader's cap.
Light travel staff.
Eyes that were entirely too calm for someone surrounded by armed forest men.
"My name is irrelevant," the man said cheerfully. "You may call me 'Uncle' if you must call me something."
Jangi scowled.
"People who don't give names usually belong to trouble," he snapped. "We don't like extra trouble out here. We have enough."
The "uncle" smiled.
"Exactly why I'm here," he said. "I represent certain… friends… who do not like the Company's chains any more than you do. Friends who have coin. And guns that don't blow up in your face."
That made Jangi pause.
"Guns," he repeated.
The man sat on a fallen log without being invited.
"Let us speak plainly," he said. "You are not saints. You've robbed grain caravans. You've frightened some villagers too. But you have avoided—very noticeably—hurting poor farmers directly, unless they betrayed you."
Jangi's eyes narrowed.
"How do you—" he began.
The stranger waved a hand.
"Let's say we have… good ears," he said. "Our friends have decided you are the lesser of many devils in this forest. Perhaps even… redeemable."
He leaned forward.
"A choice is before you, Jangi," he said. "You can continue as you are. Hit random convoys. Lose men. Be called 'bandit' in British reports until they finally send enough guns to wipe you out. Or…"
He unfolded a small cloth bundle.
Inside lay:
a well-maintained musket,
new flints,
small powder horns,
a few silver coins,
and a scrap of parchment with markings.
"Or," the man went on, "you become part of something bigger. You receive weapons like this, in batches. You receive locations like these—" he tapped the parchment "—not just where the caravans are, but what they carry, how many escorts, which routes are most brittle."
Jangi licked his cracked lips.
"And in return?" he asked. "We bow to some new king? Wear someone else's flag?"
The stranger shook his head.
"No flags," he said. "You keep your hills. Your name. You choose which convoys to hit. Our friends will sometimes… request… that on particular nights, you strike particular roads. You may find that other fires are being lit in other places on those same nights."
Jangi stared at him.
"You expect me to trust a faceless 'friend'?" he said.
The man shrugged.
"Trust?" he said. "No. I expect you to test. Take this first batch. Hit the convoy marked here, three days from now. If the information is good, more will come. If it's a trap—"
He spread his hands.
"—you know these forests better than anyone. My bones will make excellent story-sticks for your grandchildren."
Jangi snorted despite himself.
"You're either mad or very sure of your 'friends'," he said.
"Both," the 'uncle' said. "Madness is required when dealing with empires. But so is precision."
As he left, one of Jangi's lieutenants whispered,
"Anna, should we follow him back? See who he runs to?"
Jangi watched the retreating figure.
The man walked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere.
"No," Jangi said slowly. "People like that are followed by ghosts whose arrows we can't see. Better to follow his information first. If he lies, we'll find him. If he tells truth…"
He tightened his grip on the musket.
"Then maybe this forest learns to bite deeper."
V. Thread to the Temple – Srisailam
Srisailam sat like a crown on the Nallamala range.
Temple bells rang from dawn to dusk.
Pilgrims came with shaved heads, hopes, and offerings.
British officials, for the most part, had been careful not to antagonise the shrine directly.
But land was land.
Slowly, cleverly, they had chipped away at temple-held farms, reclassifying them as "Company revenue land."
In a shaded mandapam near the rear of the temple, a meeting took place.
On one side:
Veera Reddy, a stout local chieftain whose family had guarded the hills for generations;
a few village elders;
smugglers who had turned to "service" in old age.
On the other:
a simple man in pilgrim's clothing, lying prostrate before the linga, looking like any other devotee.
Only when the lamps were dimmed and most pilgrims had shuffled out did he sit up, adjust his shawl, and move closer.
"Appa," Veera Reddy greeted him cautiously. "You said you had… tidings."
The "pilgrim" smiled easily.
"Don't worry," he said. "I've bathed, offered flowers, given dakshina. No god is being cheated tonight."
He drew a small packet from his cloth bag.
"More coin?" Veera asked, surprised.
The man shook his head.
"Not only," he said. "You've been helping local farmers resist unjust seizures quietly, yes? Moving grain at night. Hiding cattle. Delaying tax collections with… creative accounting."
One elder bristled.
"If you've come to threaten us—" he began.
The pilgrim held up a soothing hand.
"I've come to make that work less lonely," he said. "I represent a group that dislikes seeing devadasi lands branded as 'unproductive' while Company tea gardens flourish in the same reports."
He unfolded a list.
Names, dates, small annotations.
"These," he said, "are the next three land parcels they plan to seize. Here, here, and here." He tapped.
Veera Reddy's eyes widened.
"How do you—?" he began.
"Again, our ears are good," the pilgrim said lightly. "Our friends request that your people make… difficulties… in these three places. A canal blocked. A key official's records mysteriously ruined. A cart wheel broken at a narrow pass."
He produced another pouch.
"Also," he added, "some coin. For legal fees. For feeding families whose men may need to 'go missing' for a while. No names. No interest demanded. Consider it a… donation from an anonymous devotee of the temple's continued dignity."
One elder narrowed his eyes.
"What do your 'friends' get out of this?" he asked.
"Less British control," the pilgrim said simply. "In the long run, a stronger chain of hills from here to Rayalaseema where the Company can no longer walk without checking under their feet first."
He rose to leave.
Veera Reddy called out.
"Tell your masters," he said slowly, "we are not their servants. We are not their soldiers. We will not die for their glory."
The man nodded.
"They know," he replied. "They only ask that when you fight for your own land, you do so on nights that… harmonise with other music."
"Like temple bells?" an elder asked.
The pilgrim grinned.
"Exactly," he said. "United ringing is louder than one bell clanging alone."
VI. Thread to the Stairs – Tirupati
Tirupati was different.
Not forest, not hill-fort, but that strange combination of commerce and devotion that only great temples produced.
Here, British greed and local politics had become entangled.
The Company wanted a slice of rich temple lands.
Various local elites wanted the same.
The priests wanted everyone to go away and let them count offerings in peace.
In a modest house near the base of the hill, a man named Subbayya—an organiser of local coolies and cart-pullers—was arguing with his cousin.
"They can't just take land given to the Lord!" he snapped. "Today they say, 'This field is idle. We'll manage it for you.' Tomorrow, they say, 'This temple is too rich, we'll manage its coins too.'"
His cousin sighed.
"What do you want to do?" he asked. "Storm the collector's bungalow with laddus?"
A knock came.
Subbayya frowned.
He opened the door to find a woman in plain widow's white sari holding a basket of flowers.
"Offering?" he asked, confused.
She looked past him at the cousin.
"Close the door," she said calmly. "Your cousin must hear this too."
They hesitated.
There was something in her tone that suggested she wasn't to be taken lightly.
Inside, she calmly placed the flower basket on the floor and from beneath it produced… paper.
Documents.
Receipts.
Letters.
"This," she said, "is proof that the man fronting those 'Company acquisitions' of temple lands is taking twice his cut and forging parts of his own records."
Subbayya stared.
"How—?" he began.
She brushed it aside.
"I work with people who dislike such… creative greed," she said. "We have access to certain offices. Certain ink pots."
She pointed at the documents.
"With these," she said, "some of the more devout and influential local patrons of the temple can be shown the truth. Quietly. Once angry enough, they will pressure the British at higher levels. Some lands will be spared. Not all, perhaps. But enough to plant a flag in their minds: 'Temple land is dangerous to seize.'"
The cousin frowned.
"And we?" he asked. "We're just supposed to be postmen?"
She smiled.
"Postmen with options," she corrected. "Additionally, on this list—" she unfolded another slip "—are caravan routes where certain… extra donations can be arranged. Our friends will ensure that some of the gold and offerings being siphoned off from poorer shrines find their way back to those villages instead of to Company-friendly pockets."
Subbayya swallowed.
"And who are your 'friends'?" he asked.
She shrugged.
"Men and women who've had enough," she said. "Of crowns from across the sea deciding which god gets how much land. Their names don't matter. What matters is that next time you organise a 'spontaneous protest' on the hill, you might notice that a forest band in Nallamala hit a convoy the same night. Or that in Srisailam, a land seizure mysteriously stalled on the same day."
She met his eyes.
"That is not coincidence," she said. "That is web."
VII. The Spider at the Centre
Back in Uyyalawada, Narasimha listened as Sri, Raghava, and Trinetra runners reported back:
Nallamala: convoy hit exactly where predicted, with fewer losses than Jangi had thought possible.
Srisailam: a land officer's ledgers spoiled by an "accidental" oil spill, combined with sudden pressure from powerful patrons, postponed three seizures.
Tirupati: certain documents quietly shown to the right eyes had led to tense private conversations; the Company's local agent found his social circle… frosty.
He sat back, rubbing his temples.
"So far," he said, "so good."
Sri tilted her head.
"You sound almost… disappointed," she said.
He gave her a look.
"I am calculating," he said. "We have just tugged three threads. I am waiting to see how the spider on the other web moves."
Ayyappa snorted.
"You're the spider," he said. "They're the flies."
Narasimha grimaced.
"Don't say that," he replied. "Spiders work very hard. I feel seen."
Venkanna coughed diplomatically to hide a smile.
"When will you tell them?" he asked softly. "Those chiefs and agitators… that you are the one connecting their storms?"
"Not yet," Narasimha said immediately.
He stood and walked to the map again.
"Think of it this way," he said. "If I die tomorrow—"
Ayyappa stiffened.
"Don't talk nonsense," he snapped.
"If," Narasimha repeated calmly, "if. If a bullet finds my head, or a blade finds my spine, what happens if everything depends on them knowing my name? The web collapses. Panic. Everyone looks for a new 'lion'."
He traced lines between the regions again.
"But if each node only knows that someone helps," he continued, "someone who doesn't demand obedience, who simply makes their existing anger sharper and more effective… then even if I fall, the habit of coordination may remain."
Sri's eyes softened for a moment.
"You're planning for a future where you might not walk," she said quietly.
He shrugged one shoulder.
"Consider it… good administration," he said. "Even immortal men should not assume they are indispensable."
He looked pointedly at Ayyappa.
"That includes you," he added.
Ayyappa rolled his eyes.
"Please," he said. "If I die, half your fighters will cry, then go back to drilling. If you die, half the region will write poems and the other half will start rumours that you turned into a tiger and walked into the forest."
"That sounds relaxing, actually," Narasimha said wistfully. "Much better than signing grain requisitions."
VIII. British Confusion – Web Seen as Knots
In Madras, fresh reports piled up on desks already sagging from ink.
"Increased bandit activity in Nallamala forests, with unusual precision in convoy attacks."
"Land revenue troubles in Srisailam and surrounding areas; legal challenges, mysterious document spoilage."
"Agitation among pilgrims and landholders in Tirupati over attempted 'rationalisation' of temple lands."
On paper, they were three separate problems.
Harwood, reading them in sequence, felt the back of his neck prickle.
He pointed with his pen.
"Do you see this?" he asked another officer.
The man shrugged.
"Forest trouble, temple trouble, hill trouble," he said. "This is India. There's always something. We tighten here, negotiate there, hang a few ringleaders if we must—"
Harwood shook his head impatiently.
"No," he said. "Look at the timing. These Nallamala raids? They spike just after Kadapa. The Srisailam land cases? Delays, challenges, very cleverly timed. And Tirupati? Protests that somehow avoid major bloodshed while still forcing our local agent to back down slightly."
He tapped the reports.
"These aren't random," he muttered. "Someone is teaching them where to push."
The other officer snorted.
"You're seeing ghosts," he said. "We have real enemies, Harwood. Not every coincidence is conspiracy."
Harwood's jaw clenched.
"In Rayalaseema, they said the same thing," he replied. "Before a so-called 'loyal' zamindar stole a fort out from under us."
He looked toward the window, where the Bay of Bengal shimmered obliviously.
There's a hand somewhere, he thought. A hand that keeps itself off our paper.
IX. Trinetra – Eyes of the Web
Narasimha's intelligence network had evolved.
What began as scattered informants and the Shadow Mandal had taken on a new, sharper shape.
They had given it a name worthy of its task:
Trinetra — "three-eyed".
It had:
one eye on the Company (their posts, their officers, their schedules),
one eye on the People (their mood, their needs, their breaking points),
and one eye on the Future (how today's sparks might feed tomorrow's blaze—or blow up in their own faces).
In a low, windowless room below the mansion, Trinetra's central cell hummed.
Maps on walls.
Coded messages in pigeon holes.
Young scribes decoding, re-coding, sending along.
A courier from Nallamala rushed in.
"Message from Jangi anna," he panted. "Convoy hit as suggested. We got three barrels of powder and more coin than we've seen in two years. Only one man wounded."
A clerk took the scrap, read, nodded.
"Good," he said. "Note that the convoy was guarded by the same subedar who beat peasants in Yerraguntla. That… pleases the king."
Another from Srisailam:
"The officer who tried to grab temple land has suddenly fallen ill. Our contact says his superiors suspect foul play, but no proof. Land case deferred again."
In a corner, Sri monitored the flow like a conductor.
"Shift this to Raghava," she ordered. "He'll decide which ones need Narasimha's direct eyes. The rest—handle at your level. Do not drown him in every petty success. He'll start thinking he's responsible for everything and then never sleep."
A junior scribe hesitated.
"Devi," he asked, "should we not tell him about Nallamala's big raid? He might want to—"
Sri smiled faintly.
"Don't worry," she said. "We'll tell him enough to keep his conscience informed. Not enough to make him feel like he has to personally apologise to every British widow."
The boy flushed.
"Yes, Devi," he said.
She softened.
"We are building something meant to outlive one man," she said. "Trinetra must learn to choose which images to show even its creator. Otherwise, the web collapses from overweight as much as from attack."
X. Lion and Spider – A Quiet Night
That evening, Narasimha sat on the mansion roof, legs stretched, staring at the stars.
Maps could wait.
For a moment, he just wanted… silence.
Of course, Venkanna found him.
He always did.
The old Guru settled beside him, joints cracking.
"So," Venkanna said, "how does it feel to be both lion and spider?"
Narasimha groaned.
"Uncomfortable," he said. "Lions are supposed to roar openly. Spiders are supposed to hide. I am doing both and neither."
He leaned back, hands behind his head.
"In Kadapa," he said slowly, "it was simple. Sword. Gate. Cannon. Clear enemy. Clear victory. This…" He gestured vaguely toward the south and east. "This is different. I send coin to a man in the forest. I send information to another in a temple town. If they use it well, British bleed. If they make mistakes, villagers hang. And they don't even know I exist."
His jaw tightened.
"Some nights, that feels… dishonest," he admitted. "Like being a puppeteer."
Venkanna considered this.
"Are you pulling their strings for your amusement?" he asked gently.
"No," Narasimha said at once. "For survival. For wider breathing space. For… dharma, if I dare use big words."
"Do you demand worship?" Venkanna pressed. "Do you make them bow to your name before they receive help?"
"No."
"Then you are not a puppeteer," Venkanna said. "You are… a hidden irrigator. You divert streams so fields that would otherwise dry up can drink. The farmers don't need to know which distant rock you shifted. They only see green shoots. That is enough."
Narasimha sighed.
"I understand it in my head," he said. "My heart… is slower."
He hesitated.
"Guru," he added, "do you think the gods mind me using webs and shadows so much?"
Venkanna chuckled.
"You think Vishnu never used a web?" he asked. "Ask him about Krishna's politics in Mahabharata. Straight arrows and straight words did not win that war, child. Webs did."
Somewhere in Vaikuntha, Vishnu smiled faintly.
XI. Marvel's Long Shadow – A Divine Aside
Far above, the Trimurti and their consorts watched the Spiderweb Strategy spread.
Fine threads of cause and effect linked hills, forests, temple towns, and one chieftain's restless mind.
Lakshmi traced them with gentle fingers.
"This one," she said, "is not satisfied only with roaring in battle. He wishes to shape quietly."
Parvati's eyes shone with a fierce, amused pride.
"Good," she said. "Let the British think they face jungle bandits and temple hotheads. Let them never quite see the mind behind the pattern until it is too late."
Saraswati plucked a note.
"Interesting," she said. "The metaphor he uses—spiderweb. In Marvel's distant time, another kind of hero will swing from webs between steel towers, burdened by responsibility. The word will carry different meaning. Yet the core remains: a web that connects many lives, one mind hurting quietly for all of them."
Maheshwara smiled.
"Lions, spiders, future men in masks… all avatars of resistance in their own eras," he said. "For now, this lion-weaver is ours to watch."
Vishnu's gaze wandered briefly toward a future where S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA built their own secret networks.
"If only they knew," he murmured, "that long before their helicarriers rose, a chieftain in South Bharat had already mastered the art of influencing events without revealing his crest."
Brahma wrote:
Spiderweb Strategy initiated. U.N.R. provides covert support (funds, arms, intelligence) to independent local resistances in Nallamala, Srisailam, Tirupati. Maintains anonymity through Trinetra network, merchant alliances, temple channels. British administration perceives disturbances as separate 'local' problems, fails to attribute to unified design. Moral burden on U.N.R. increases; subsequent karmic entanglements deepen.
XII. Web Complete (For Now)
Weeks turned to months.
The Spiderweb Strategy took firm root.
In Nallamala, Jangi's band hit not just any convoy, but chosen ones:
those carrying especially cruel officers,
those hauling away grain from starving villages.
His men began to notice that when they acted on certain "suggestions", they bled less and gained more.
In Srisailam, Veera Reddy's quiet campaign of legal obstruction and "random accidents" in hostile offices made land seizures far more costly than the Company had planned.
Someone in a district office scribbled:
"Recommend focusing on other regions; these hills are more trouble than revenue worth."
In Tirupati, Subbayya's protests gained sharper timing.
He called strikes and marches on days when British attention was already pulled by some unrelated-seeming incident elsewhere.
Local officials began to complain up the chain:
"Every time we try to assert authority in one place, trouble flares in another. It's as if someone knows our timetables in advance…"
In Uyyalawada, Narasimha added new lines to his map.
Threads.
Nodes.
He could see, in his mind's eye, vibrations.
A convoy hit here sending ripples to a tax office there.
A cancelled land seizure in Srisailam leading to a milder policy proposal in a far-off boardroom.
A frightened report from a Tirupati agent planting doubt in a stranger's mind in London about whether temple land was worth the trouble.
He also saw faces:
Jangi's scarred grin.
Veera Reddy's stubborn jaw.
Subbayya's burning eyes.
They did not know his.
They didn't need to.
One evening, Sri found him alone in the Map Room, just… staring.
"You look like a man who laid his fishing net and then remembered he can't swim," she said.
He huffed a laugh.
"Accurate," he admitted.
"Do you regret it?" she asked, more serious. "Not being out front in every story?"
He looked down at Rayalaseema, at Nallamala, at Srisailam and Tirupati.
"No," he said quietly. "A king who needs his name attached to every good thing is a tyrant waiting to happen. Let them be heroes in their own villages. Let history forget me if it must. As long as the people remember that they can stand, the web has done its work."
Sri smiled slightly.
"Careful," she said. "Talk like that, and the gods will decide you're due for even more responsibility."
He groaned.
"Please," he said. "I'm already managing a kingdom, a shadow army, a spy network, and now an entire web. If they give me one more project, I'm changing sides."
"To the British?" she snorted.
"To the forests," he replied. "I will become a proper lion. Sleep in shade. Occasionally smack a hunter for sport. No paperwork."
She laughed, the sound easing some of the weight.
Outside, the night deepened.
Far away, in forests, temples, and pilgrim towns, men and women moved:
some with blades,
some with pens,
some with only courage.
None of them knew that the vibrations tying their actions together flowed through the mind of a man staring at a map by lamplight—
a king who hated paperwork,
loved his people,
and was building, string by string,
a spiderweb strong enough to catch an Empire…
…long before anyone in Marvel's world would ever hear the words:
"With great power comes great responsibility."
For now, in this age, that responsibility belonged to
The Deathless Lion.
And somewhere in the shadows of South India,
his web glimmered.
✦ End of Chapter 34 – "The Spiderweb Strategy" ✦