The monopoly over perfumes was barely a month old when disaster struck.
Sharath had anticipated noble mansions pouting, whispering, muttering behind the security of their gold-plated curtains. He had not, though, anticipated perfume warfare.
It began first as counterfeits. Inexpensive knockoffs of his fragrances — diluted, overpowering, sometimes even rotten — dominated the marketplace. Traders spoke in hushed tones of "exclusive" arrangements with noble families, and a few fools actually believed it, arriving at salons reeking of moldy flowers.
Sharath's trained sense of smell picked up the difference right away. "Fake," he snarled, holding one of the vials up to the light. "They can replicate the bottles but not the skill. Fools."
"Correction," 🐧NeuroBoop chimed inside his head, "they're not fools, they're desperate. And desperate nobles are the worst flavor of human. Nearly as bad as nobles who've smelled too much lilac.
He dismissed it. Fakes could be destroyed. His monopoly intact. His manufacturing processes strictly regulated.
Then arrived the spies. A number of "servants" on Darsha estate were apprehended lurking around the laboratories. Sharath had them brought before him, and upon interrogation, each one of them swore to be spying for various houses. One broke down in tears and confessed to having been promised noble rank if he could manage to steal a recipe vial.
And then. the first assassination attempt on his life.
A gift had come to the Darsha estate — a perfume bottle, beautifully presented, with a royal seal crafted to perfection. Lady Ishvari had almost opened it when Sharath intercepted her, wary. He had used a basic appraisal spell. The outcome chilled his blood.
Poisoned. Delicate, fragrant, calibrated to remain in the lungs till the victim strangled to death within hours.
That night, he didn't sleep. Rage burned through him like molten iron.
But worse was yet to come.
One bright morning, Lady Ishvari decided to take the twins — now four years old, bundles of laughter and chaos — to the marketplace. They clutched her hands, pointing excitedly at sweets, toys, and stalls filled with silk.
They never returned.
By the time news reached Sharath, he had recently come back from a quick dungeon dive, his bag packed with monster cores and slime sludge. A guard ran into his study, white and trembling.
"My lord—! The lady— the twins— they… they've been kidnapped."
The silence which followed was oppressive.
Sharath's hands shuddered once, then. Then he banged them on the table so hard that the thick oak creaked and splintered, shrapnel of wood flying through the room.
"WHO." His tone was a low growl, threatening.
The servant stuttered, "A number of masked men— they carried no banners, but rumor has it they were paid for by competing noble families—"
Sharath didn't wait to hear more. He stood, strode out of the room, and stormed into his laboratory. His face was like stone, eyes blazing with fury.
He pulled them out one by one — the rifles, the pistols, the magic guns he had modified late at night. He buckled on armor, fastened ammunition belts around his chest, and draped three rifles over his shoulder.
At his back, his personal retinue formed up, armoured men trained in his own doctrine. They were loyal to a man, their eyes showing the same fire that burned within their young lord.
"Prepare the balloons," Sharath commanded, his voice cold as steel. "We fly at once."
Hours later, the night sky over the enemy noble estate was illuminated with the light of fire-lit balloons. Villagers on the ground pointed in horror as dozens of airships floated down like judgment from the gods.
Sharath struck the ground first. He did not wait for parley, did not wait for diplomacy. As soon as his boots touched the earth, he unleashed the hail of bullets. Cracks boomed, magic rounds punched armor, and the erstwhile haughty guards of the estate fell like paper.
His soldiers followed, swift and unforgiving.
Within the manor, there was pandemonium. Lords of noble birth shouted, servants ran, women grasped pearls as bullets broke marble. Sharath strode through it all, unrelenting, his mind with only one idea.
The twins.
He discovered them barricaded in an opulent room, guarded by mercenaries. They hadn't even been injured — no, the idiots had tried to ransom them. Sharath killed the guards before they could even move, broke down the door, and swept his siblings into his arms.
The little ones cried against his chest. "Bhaiya! Bhaiya!"
"You're safe now," he whispered, his voice cracking for the first time that evening. "No one will ever lay hands on you again."
He spun back toward the estate. His soldiers were at the ready, waiting for orders. Behind him, the noble family — those responsible for this hell — huddled in the hall, begging for mercy.
Sharath leveled his rifle.
"Burn it," he ordered.
The forces of Darsha complied. In a matter of an hour, the mansion was ablaze, fire illuminating the dark skies. All stone, all banner, all remnant of the home was consumed to ashes.
Sharath did not linger. With the twins grasping at him, he took to his balloon and flew home.
By morning, the news had spread like a wildfire. The Empire was abuzz with whispers. Some hailed him as a hero. Others branded him a butcher.
And soon enough, a summons came.
The Emperor demanded an explanation. The Empress was enraged. The Princess, in conflicted admiration and horror.
Nobles in the grand court shouted, wailing outrage.
The Emperor bellowed, "Sharath Darsha, you have the temerity to slaughter a noble family without my sanction? Explain yourself!"
Sharath moved forward, shoulders set, eyes blazing with unyielding passion.
"You desire my perfumes? Take them. My inventions? Take them. My fortune, my experience, my creations— take everything. But heed my warning." His voice rang up, echoing off the room.
"You NEVER lay hand on my house. For that offense, there will be no pardon, no quarter. I will destroy any house, any empire, that attempts it.
The court sat in awestruck silence. Nobles blanched. Even the Emperor relaxed back, mouth compressing as if weighing the gravity of the young man's words.
The Empress breathed, barely audible: "A lion cub… no, a lion grown."
And within that silence, the perfume prince, the boy inventor, the reluctant politician — had transformed into something altogether different.
A warning. A storm. An unmanageable power.