The Royal Court had been adjourned, the sparkling nobles exiting in precise rows as if they hadn't just seen the most peculiar negotiation of the past ten years. To the court it was just an ordinary day: murmurs of alliances, hidden threats masked behind smiles, and the occasional coughing noble feigning illness at standing while listening to everything. But to Sharath, the encounter had left the air vibrating with tension. He could feel the presence of a hundred daggers behind him, daggers sharpened and pointed by individuals who had not been pleased with his cocky terms regarding the Chill Box.
The boy lord, yet barely old enough to be confused with an apprentice, had stood in front of the Emperor and Empress and demanded terms like he was some master merchant guild. Five percent here, ninety percent there, and—oh, yes—five percent for the public good, because why not include charity into royal finance? Nobles did not appreciate being outmaneuvered, particularly by someone half their age who also had the temerity to create machines they could not understand or reproduce.
The instant Sharath and his family had departed from the palace gates, gossip overflowed into action. Behind silken draperies and marble pillars, the nobles conspired. A greasy-haired marquis spoke under his breath, "The boy is dangerous. Bright boys become bright men. Bright men bring kingdoms down."
"Better to eliminate him while he is still…controllable," concurred another noble, lips twisting around the word.
Within less than one hour, three contracts of assassination were signed. Before Sharath's carriage creaked along the forest road to return to Darsha lands, knives had been sharpened, poisons concocted, and mercenaries sent.
The Ambush
Twilight colored the road with fire and dark. The Darsha carriage horses snorted restlessly, hooves ringing on cobblestones. Sharath, sitting within with his father Varundar and grandfather Bassana, gazed out at the window, preoccupied with blueprints and profit percentages. His thoughts were filled with runes and percentages, not the peril already approaching in the treeline.
The first arrow hit with a hiss, planting itself in the side of the carriage. A moment later, there was a deluge of shafts, hitting wood and soil with unrelenting fury. Horses whinnied, rearing up in fright. Guards yelled, swords out, shields up.
The door of the carriage was torn aside. Black-robed mercenaries emerged from among the trees like a flood of darkness.
Sharath did not think. His finger moved quicker than his mind. The Uzi was in his hand, runes shimmering softly down the barrel. A burst of explosions ripped through the first wave of attackers, fire-scarlet sparks lighting the dusk. Mercenaries crashed to the ground, howling, grasping torn limbs.
Varundar lifted his arms, shimmering wards blazing into being around the carriage like glass domes reflecting the final sun. Arrows shattered on the shield.
Bassana darted with uncharacteristic quickness for one of his years, sword flashing, splitting two assassins in two before they could strike Sharath. "Stay behind me!" he shouted.
Sharath did not hear. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and next thing he knew, both Uzis were clutched in his hands, firing rune-tipped bullets in great sweeps. The mercenaries stumbled. Some had apparently never handled a gun, let alone one which spat mana-imbued death in radiant streams.
🐧NeuroBoop's voice echoed in his mind, as dry as always."Well, would you look at that. Assassins at sunset. At least they were considerate enough to choose dramatic lighting. Very polite."
"Not the time!" Sharath muttered under his breath, ducking as a blade whizzed past.
"Correction: It's exactly the time. You need a one-liner, my boy. Something like: 'Say hello to my little mana-enhanced friend.' Very intimidating."
Sharath clenched his teeth. "Shut. Up." His Uzis screamed, cutting down another wave.
The mercenaries pushed forward, some running between the guards, swords pointed at Sharath's throat. But again and again, rune-bullets struck them down. There were still too many, though. Two men took down every man that fell, and for each taken, two more crept out of the trees, eyes shining with greed for blood and coin.
The forest echoed with screams, clash of steel, and the unnatural thrum of magic-weapons. Minutes felt like hours until, at last, the tide broke. Survivors fled into the dark, leaving behind the stench of death and the ground littered with corpses.
Breathing hard, Sharath lowered his weapons. The night was eerily silent except for the ragged breaths of his family and the groans of the wounded.
Lady Ishvari's Fury
When they came back to the Darsha estate, battered and bloodied, Lady Ishvari was already waiting at the gates. Her pale face, full of fear, turned hard the moment she saw them alive.
You fools!" she blazed, charging forward. Her voice was more deadly than any assassin's blade. "You charged into the lions' den, defied every aristocrat in the empire, and then had the sense to come back with an entourage of guards? Do you care for your lives as playthings of destiny?"
Sharath flinched. "Technically—"
"Don't. Speak.
Bassana, the man who had chopped through killer assassins with a single blow, now resembled a chastised schoolboy. Varundar massaged his temples, looking down.
Lady Ishvari's anger burned even hotter. "I thought I'd lost all of you. Do you have any idea—any idea—what it would mean to me, to this family, to this land, if you hadn't come back?
Her voice cracked on the final word, and then she was dragging them into a tightly locked hug, shaking as if she would never release them. "Don't you dare ever scare me like that again," she whispered, her face streaming with tears. "You're alive. That's what counts."
There was no word from any of them for a very long time. Not even 🐧NeuroBoop.Sharath's Resolve
That night, in the quiet of his study, Sharath sat staring at a lamp's flickering flame. His Uzis rested on the desk beside him, barrels still faintly warm. His thoughts churned like storm clouds.
The attempted assassination had shaken him, not out of fear for danger—he had been in danger before—but out of what it meant. If nobles could attack so openly now, why not again? Why not at his people, his workers, his expanding lands?
No, this must not be allowed to happen again. Not to him, not to his family, not to Unnatirajya.
He brought parchment near and started to draw—not blueprints for machines now, but systems.
First: Population Census. All the souls in Darsha lands and Unnatirajya need to be known, counted, and appreciated. If he didn't know his people, he couldn't defend them. If he didn't know their abilities, he couldn't utilize them. The census would note names, families, strengths, and functions.
Second: Personal Guard. Not mercenaries, not borrowed soldiers, but an elite group devoted only to him and his house. They would be trained in the new magic guns he was developing. They would live and die with him, unbribable, incorruptible.
Third: Identification System. Nobody would march onto Darsha lands unmarked again. Citizens would have ID plaques with runes inscribed upon them. Tourists for the first time would have temporary passes for thirty days. IDs only if thoroughly vetted. No exceptions. This system would be taken to the borders too: checkpoints, guards, initiation rituals. Everybody coming in would be recorded, or else they would not come in.
When the final line was marked, Sharath slumped back, weary but determined.
🐧NeuroBoop finally spoke."Congratulations. You've created bureaucracy. Next stop: irate villagers yelling about lost forms and hour-long lines. Truly, you've reached godhood."
Sharath grinned in spite of himself. "Better irate villagers than dead ones."
"Spoken like a true lord," 🐧NeuroBoop quipped. "Don't worry—I'll ridicule you just as much when your guards begin insisting on dental insurance."
The Morning Announcement
At sunrise, Sharath called his stewards, scribes, and officers into the great hall. The marble rang out with murmurs as they stood awaiting, puzzled why the young lord had called them so hastily.
He stood before them, parchments in his hands, voice firm. "Assassins attempted to kill us last night. They were unsuccessful. But they reminded me of one thing: without order, without protection, without watchfulness, we fall. From today, things will be different."
He presented his three reforms. Gasps were heard throughout the hall. A census? Some spoke in hushed tones of invasion of privacy. Personal guards trained in odd rune-swords? Others grumbled about expense. Identification plaques for all? A few laughed—it sounded ridiculous.
But as Sharath went on, describing step by step, the muttering died down. Nods of heads broke out. They recalled the boy's inventions, his Chill Box, his farms, his odd machines that functioned. If anyone could accomplish this, they thought, it was him.
By noon, clerks loaded ink and papyrus to start the census. Recruiters spread out into villages looking for faithful men and women to fill the elite guard. Craftsmen cut prototype ID plates, rune-inscribed and shining.
Unnatirajya hummed like a hive in battle preparation.
Closing Scene
That evening, worn to the bone, Sharath flopped onto his bed. Thermo the cat stepped onto his chest, gold eyes shining dimly in the lamplight. The cat gazed down at him with unblinking intelligence.
"Don't give me that look," Sharath grumbled.
The cat blinked slowly, then batted his nose with its tail.
🐧NeuroBoop laughed."Even your cat believes you've bitten more than you can chew. But hey—at least you're still alive to chew it. Progress, my son. Bloody, bureaucratic progress."
Sharath let out a deep breath and yanked the blanket up to his chin. Tomorrow, they'd start for real.
And in the dark alleys of the empire, knives were already being honed.