Ten days passed.
Ten slow, careful, watchful days.
To everyone else, they were the peaceful first days of a newborn child.
To Rudra—
They were ten days of preparation.
Every night, when the castle slept and silence ruled the corridors, he meditated.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Without greed.
Karmashakti was not something that could be forced. It was not mere power—it was the weight of actions, the invisible thread of existence itself, the consequence of all things living and dead.
And finally—
On the tenth night—
He felt it.
A sliver.
Tiny.
Almost insignificant.
But real.
A faint stream of Karmashakti settled within his Muladhara Chakra, the first foundation of power located at the base of the spine.
The poison bead hidden there remained silent, the amethyst-like jewel embedded above his tailbone unmoving, but now beside that danger...
There was strength.
Very little.
But strength.
The moment the energy stabilized, Rudra felt the world sharpen.
He could sense faint traces of energies around him—life force, emotions, spiritual pressure, intent.
Even his own body felt slightly stronger.
His bones sturdier.
His senses clearer.
His thoughts sharper.
He smiled inwardly.
Finally.
A warrior does not complain about slow progress.
A warrior survives.
And Rudra had no intention of doing anything less.
Then—
The eleventh day arrived.
And with it—
Humiliation.
"Stop moving!"
His mother laughed softly.
Rudra, currently being held hostage in a silver bathing basin, kicked his tiny legs in silent rebellion.
Warm water surrounded him while his mother, Aarya Shreysth, sat beside him with clear enjoyment on her face.
Neha stood nearby, trying—and failing—not to laugh.
"Miss, Young Master is definitely angry."
"Of course he is," Aarya said with a smile, gently pouring warm scented water over his head. "He clearly believes he is far too important for baths."
Rudra glared at both of them with all the dignity a baby could possess.
It achieved absolutely nothing.
His mother giggled again.
That sound—
Soft.
Warm.
Alive.
Even after everything, Rudra found himself calming.
This humiliation... was acceptable.
For now.
After the bath came oils.
Then powders.
Then clothes.
Then more suffering.
By the time they were done, Rudra felt like a political hostage dressed for surrender.
He wore fine purple ceremonial robes, soft and rich, embroidered lightly with golden thread that shimmered under sunlight.
His mother wore the same color.
Deep royal purple.
Elegant robes lined with delicate gold plating and lotus embroidery, flowing gracefully around her seated form. Her long black hair fell over her shoulders like midnight silk, and despite the paleness in her skin, she looked almost unreal in beauty.
Rudra stared at her.
Even with death once stalking her—
She was radiant.
Aarya noticed.
"Oh?"
She smiled, touching his nose gently.
"Already admiring your mother?"
Rudra blinked innocently.
Internally:
Obviously.
Neha laughed.
"I think Young Master already knows who the most beautiful woman in the castle is."
Rudra agreed.
Silently.
Professionally.
Soon, they left the room.
Their chamber itself was larger than most noble houses—high ceilings, red stone walls polished smooth as mirrors, golden carvings lining the pillars, silk curtains moving with the wind from open balconies.
But outside—
The true scale of the Shreysth Castle revealed itself.
Even Rudra, with all his memories, paused.
The castle stood like a kingdom carved from fire and pride.
Built from deep crimson stone, the walls rose like mountains, reinforced with ancient gold-veined architecture that reflected the morning sun like living flame. Massive towers stretched toward the heavens, their tops crowned with banners of red and gold bearing the crest of the Shreysth Clan—a blazing wheel surrounded by a lion's mane.
Bridges of white marble connected elevated sections of the inner fortress. Golden statues of ancient warriors stood guard at every major passage, each one carved with terrifying precision.
Lotus-shaped fountains flowed with clear water through open courtyards.
Training grounds could be seen below—soldiers drilling in crimson armor, their spears moving in perfect unison.
Watchtowers.
Archives.
War rooms.
Shrines.
Generational halls.
This was not a home.
It was a declaration.
Power made into stone.
Neha pushed Aarya's wheelchair carefully through the grand halls, while Rudra sat quietly in his mother's lap.
As they moved, Aarya softly pointed things out.
"That tower is the eastern watch tower. Your father used to climb it when he was young."
"That courtyard is where the spring ceremonies happen."
"That shrine is older than even this castle..."
Her voice was gentle.
Almost like she was showing him a dream.
Rudra listened.
But he was also remembering.
These same walls.
These same halls.
In his past life—
They had felt different.
Cold.
Silent.
Watching.
Back then, he had walked them alone.
Ignored.
Blamed.
Feared.
Today—
Servants bowed.
Maidens smiled.
Guards lowered their heads.
Several maids greeted Aarya respectfully.
"Good morning, Matriarch."
Some smiled warmly at Rudra.
Some looked neutral.
Some showed genuine affection.
And some—
Some smiled with their mouths and hated with their eyes.
Rudra noticed all of it.
Every twitch.
Every hesitation.
Every hidden glance.
His tiny face remained calm.
But inside—
He was cataloguing names.
Faces.
Allegiances.
Enemies.
This castle was not filled with family.
It was filled with people waiting for weakness.
And weakness—
Would be hunted.
Eventually, they stopped before the largest doors in the entire castle.
Ancient redwood reinforced with golden steel.
Runes carved into the frame.
Two guards stood there in ceremonial armor, each holding a spear taller than a man.
The moment they saw Aarya—
They struck the ground with their weapons.
BOOM.
"The Matriarch enters!"
Their voices thundered through the hall.
Rudra watched silently.
Aarya Shreysth.
The title given upon her marriage.
Not merely wife of the Patriarch.
Matriarch.
The face of internal authority.
Because while his father ruled war—
She ruled the house.
And the Shreysth Clan...
Was no ordinary clan.
They were revered across nations as humanity's vanguard.
The shield against monsters.
Against foreign species.
Against the Asur clans.
Against everything that threatened mankind's survival.
His father—
The current Patriarch—
had earned his title through blood.
One of the youngest Law Bearers in history.
A stage most spent seventy-five years pursuing—
He reached at thirty-two.
A monster among monsters.
The sword of humanity.
And yet—
Even he trusted Aarya with the castle.
That alone spoke enough.
The gates opened.
Slowly.
And the Hall of Judgment revealed itself.
It was magnificent.
And dangerous.
The great hall stretched like the inside of a palace built for kings and conquerors.
Massive golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling like captured stars. Pillars of white stone lined both sides, wrapped in golden dragons and divine script.
Diamonds and precious gems were embedded subtly into the walls—not for greed, but for statement.
We are above wealth.
The floor reflected like polished glass.
And standing there—
Were everyone.
Generals in red armor, their killing intent barely hidden.
Elders with ancient eyes and heavier silence.
Ministers.
Advisors.
Branch families.
Relatives.
Nobles.
Scheming uncles.
Watching aunts.
Children learning how to smile with knives hidden behind.
Everyone.
Because today—
Rudra was the center.
As Neha pushed Aarya forward, the entire hall bowed.
Every head lowered.
Every voice silenced.
Rudra watched carefully.
Hypocrites.
The most powerful person here—
Was also the most fragile.
His mother.
Fragile.
Poisoned.
Still recovering.
And yet no one challenged her.
Not openly.
Because power was not always strength.
Sometimes—
It was legitimacy.
And everyone here understood that.
Aarya's face remained calm.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Untouchable.
She did not seek their approval.
She expected their obedience.
Rudra almost smiled.
Mother... you are terrifying.
Good.
She needed to be.
At the far end of the hall rose a great staircase of white marble leading upward.
And above it—
The throne.
Massive.
Ancient.
Demanding.
It was less a chair and more a symbol.
Carved from crimson stone and lined with gold, engraved with generations of rulers and battles. It did not ask for respect.
It assumed it.
Neha stopped.
Aarya gently handed Rudra to her.
Then—
With visible effort—
She stood.
Her legs trembled slightly.
Her body was weak.
The poison had left scars.
But she climbed.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
No complaint.
No visible pain.
Only calm.
The hall watched.
And Rudra understood.
This was not pride.
This was necessity.
If she showed weakness here—
They would devour her.
Finally, she reached the throne.
Turned.
And sat.
Looking down upon everyone.
Not as a patient.
Not as a fragile woman.
But as Matriarch.
Silence followed.
Perfect silence.
Only then did she speak.
Her voice was soft.
And absolute.
"Let us begin."
But before anything could continue—
The guards at the entrance struck again.
BOOM.
"The Head Minister enters!"
The air changed instantly.
Even Rudra felt it.
Interesting.
The gates opened.
And poison walked in wearing silk.
His name was Devraj Vashisht.
And he looked exactly like someone who spent his whole life scheming should.
Tall, but unnervingly thin, like a man sharpened by ambition instead of battle. His shoulders were narrow, but his posture was perfect—too perfect, like someone constantly looking down at the world.
His face was sharp and severe.
High cheekbones.
A pointed nose.
Thin lips that rarely smiled without insult hidden beneath.
His skin was pale, almost sickly, making his dark eyes look even colder.
His neatly trimmed beard and mustache gave him false refinement.
But the eyes—
The eyes ruined everything.
They were cruel.
Patient.
Calculating.
The eyes of a man who smiled at funerals.
His robes were dark green lined with black gold, elegant but severe.
Behind him walked his family.
His wife—beautiful, but cold, her expression permanently carrying disdain.
But Rudra noticed her left arm hidden in the extension of robes was bandaged.
Circulating a little Karma-shakti he felt a decaying aura near the arm but he let it go.
His eldest daughter—fifteen.
Sharp-faced.
Mean-eyed.
Already learning cruelty like inheritance.
His son—twelve.
Handsome.
Arrogant.
The kind of child praised too much and corrected too little.
And the youngest daughter—
Ten.
Quiet.
Kind-looking.
Too quiet.
Interesting.
They entered not like guests—
But like people measuring what they intended to own.
Devraj stopped before the hall.
Bowed just enough to avoid insult.
And said—
In a voice dripping with contempt disguised as courtesy—
"I hope we are not late, Matriarch."
Not Lady Aarya.
Not Matriarch Aarya.
Just enough disrespect to be noticed.
A deliberate challenge.
The hall froze.
Everyone waited.
Rudra looked at his mother.
And smiled internally.
Go on.
Aarya leaned slightly against the throne.
Elegant.
Untouched.
Then she replied—
"Minister Devraj, time only matters to those whose presence improves the room. Fortunately for us, we had already begun without suffering that concern."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then—
Rudra giggled.
A real baby laugh.
Small.
Bright.
And unfortunately—
Perfectly timed.
Several elders coughed to hide smiles.
Neha nearly died trying not to laugh.
Rudra's mother giving him a smile.
Devraj's face tightened.
Just slightly.
But enough.
His wife's eyes sharpened.
His son looked offended.
His eldest daughter looked murderous.
And Rudra—
Smiled like an innocent baby.
Pure.
Harmless.
Absolutely guilty.
Devraj looked at him.
Then at Aarya.
And for just one second—
His polite mask slipped.
Something dark.
Something devious.
Something that said—
This is not over.
Then he smiled again.
Thin.
Cold.
"Of course, Matriarch."
Rudra met his gaze.
And thought calmly—
Found one.
The game had begun.
And this hall—
Was full of smiling thieves.
And suddenly, the guards shouted again and the door flung open.
To be continued...