The Crown Prince's residence was a stark contrast to Amrit's quiet wing of the palace. It was a grand, opulent courtyard home, filled with fawning servants, supplicating minor officials, and the constant, tangible pressure of Arjun's own proud and fiery aura. But today, the usual bustling energy was gone. A heavy, oppressive silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken rage. The servants moved on tiptoe, their heads bowed, avoiding the gaze of their master.
In the center of his personal training ground, a space usually filled with the sound of clashing steel and arrogant shouts, Crown Prince Arjun stood perfectly still. His training dummies, once pristine, were a scene of utter carnage. They were not neatly sliced or skillfully pierced; they were hacked to pieces, bludgeoned into splintered ruin. It was the aftermath not of training, but of a blind, impotent fury.
His prized sword, the Silver Serpent, lay on the ground nearby, discarded. He had tried to practice his forms, to reclaim the sense of mastery and superiority that had defined his entire life. But every time he swung the blade, he saw it. He saw the effortless, casual flick of Amrit's wrist. He saw his own sword, his soul-bound weapon, torn from his grasp as if by a phantom hand. He saw the serene, almost pitying look on his useless brother's face.
The memory was a poison, seeping into his spirit and turning his pride to ash.
"Humiliation…" Arjun spat the word, his voice a venomous whisper. "In front of Father. In front of the entire court."
He wasn't just angry. He was spiritually wounded. For twenty years, he had been the sun of Kshirapura. His talent was undeniable, his future glorious. Amrit had been a shadow, a footnote, a broken thing to be pitied and scorned. That shadow had risen up and eclipsed him in a single, bewildering afternoon. It was a violation of the natural order, an offense against the very concept of effort and destiny.
He clenched his fists, his meticulously manicured nails digging into his palms. The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the searing wound in his ego.
"It was a trick," he muttered, trying to rationalize it, to rebuild the walls of his shattered reality. "A forbidden artifact. A momentary boost from a demonic pill. It cannot be real power. It cannot be."
But deep down, he knew he was lying to himself. He had felt the purity of Amrit's aura. He had seen the impossible insight in his eyes. What he had faced was not a trick; it was a higher form of power, one so far beyond his own that he couldn't even comprehend its nature. And that was the most terrifying part.
The heavy, rhythmic tread of footsteps approaching pulled him from his dark thoughts. He looked up to see his brother, Bhim, entering the courtyard. Bhim's face was grim, his usual stoicism layered with a deep-seated trouble that Arjun had never seen before.
"What do you want?" Arjun snapped, his voice raw. He had no patience for his brother's silent judgment right now.
Bhim ignored the hostile tone. He walked to the center of the yard, his eyes falling on the wreckage of the training dummies, then on the discarded sword. "I was at the Sword Pavilion," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"And?"
"Amrit was there."
Arjun's entire body tensed. The name was like a brand on his soul. "What did that… thing… do now?"
Bhim took a deep breath. "He took a common training sword. He infused it with his Prana. The sword transformed… it became a Spirit-Grade weapon, or perhaps higher. Then he took one swing." Bhim pointed a thick finger towards the far wall. "He cut a granite dummy in half. A clean cut. Top to bottom."
Arjun stared at his brother, his mind refusing to process the words. He knew the granite dummies. They were imported from the northern quarries, notoriously dense and resistant to Prana. To cleave one in two… even their father, a Spirit Sea master, would need to use a full-powered artifact and a signature technique.
"You're lying," Arjun said, his voice flat.
"I am not," Bhim replied, his gaze unwavering. "I saw it with my own eyes. His sword passed through the stone as if it were water. There was no sound."
The last detail—there was no sound—was what broke through Arjun's denial. It spoke of a level of control and conceptual mastery so absolute it was the stuff of myth. The image it conjured in his mind was so powerful, so utterly demoralizing, that his rage momentarily gave way to a cold, creeping dread.
"This… this cannot be," he whispered, stumbling back a step.
"Father sent me," Bhim continued, his voice heavy with the weight of the message. "He said… he said you are to go into seclusion. To train. He said if you do not triple your strength by the time of the Academy selections, you will have no future."
The words struck Arjun like a physical blow. It was the ultimate vote of no confidence from the one man whose approval he craved above all others. No future. His father had looked at Amrit's new power and had already written Arjun off. The pillar of the kingdom had been deemed obsolete, slated for replacement.
A dry, rattling laugh escaped Arjun's lips. It was a sound completely devoid of humor, filled with a terrifying, hysterical edge. "No future? I am Arjun! The Crown Prince! The Silver Serpent of Kshirapura! My destiny is written in the stars! He is a cripple! A curse! A mistake!"
His voice rose to a frantic shout, his control shattering completely. He was no longer the proud prince, but a cornered animal, lashing out at a reality it could not accept.
Bhim watched his brother's meltdown with a stoic sadness. "The Amrit we knew is gone," he said quietly. "What is left is… something else."
"I will not accept it!" Arjun roared. He snatched his sword from the ground, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "I will not be replaced by a phantom! I will challenge him again! I will force him to reveal his trick, and I will kill him!"
Contempt, pure and undiluted, had curdled into a murderous obsession. He no longer saw Amrit as a brother to be scorned, but as a cancer to be excised. He would not allow this aberration to steal his birthright, his glory, his very identity.
He started for the exit of his courtyard, his intent clear. He would find Amrit and force a final, decisive confrontation. A battle to the death.
Bhim moved, his massive frame a silent, immovable wall blocking the exit. "No."
"Get out of my way, Bhim!" Arjun snarled, leveling the tip of his sword at his brother's chest.
"Father's orders were clear," Bhim said, his gaze as solid as granite. "And for once, I agree with him. You are not thinking clearly. Your spirit is in chaos. If you face Amrit now, you will not just lose. You will die."
"I would rather die than live in his shadow!"
"Then you are a fool," Bhim stated flatly. The words, coming from his usually silent and supportive brother, struck Arjun with the force of a physical slap.
The two brothers stood in a standoff, the air crackling with tension. One was consumed by a burning, self-destructive rage born of shattered pride. The other stood as a bastion of grim, newfound pragmatism. The contempt that had once been a casual part of Arjun's personality had metastasized, poisoning him from within. It had blinded him to the truth that Bhim, the King, and even the palace servants were beginning to see: the balance of power in Kshirapura had not just shifted; it had been annihilated, and a new, terrifying order was being born from the ashes of their certainty.
Arjun looked at the unwavering resolve in his brother's eyes and knew he could not pass. He let out a final, shuddering breath, the fire in his eyes banking into cold, hard embers of hate.
"Fine," he hissed, lowering his sword. "I will go into seclusion. I will train. I will become stronger." He looked past Bhim, his gaze directed towards the distant sky, as if he could see the destiny he refused to surrender. "And when I emerge, I will personally tear down this new 'pillar' of the kingdom and show everyone the fraud that he is."
His contempt had not been extinguished. It had merely been compressed, transforming from a wild, open fire into a focused, deadly beam of hatred. It was a vow made in the depths of his humiliation, a promise to himself that this was not the end of his story, but the beginning of his war.