"No kingdom is conquered from without until it first destroys itself within."
---
The palace of Pataliputra no longer smelled of sandalwood and incense.
It reeked of sweat, blood, and fear.
Where once courtiers bowed and poets sang, now soldiers dragged ministers through marble corridors, their cries echoing beneath gold-painted ceilings. The torchlight flickered over shattered jars and overturned furniture — relics of a court that had forgotten its grace.
At the heart of this ruin sat King Dhanananda, hunched upon his throne, his jeweled crown tilted crookedly upon his head. His eyes — sunken, bloodshot — darted toward every sound, every movement, as if betrayal lurked in each shadow.
Before him knelt Rakshasa, the only man who still dared to stand in the throne room without trembling.
"The ledgers are false!" Dhanananda shouted, slamming his hand upon the golden armrest. "Someone is stealing from me — from me! The gold of Magadha does not vanish by itself!"
Rakshasa bowed. "Majesty, I have inspected the accounts myself. The shipments were delayed, not stolen. There are disruptions on the western routes, but—"
"Lies!" Dhanananda roared. "You were the one who swore my vaults were secure! You, Rakshasa — have you joined them too?"
The minister's heart twisted, but his face remained stone. "I have served Your Majesty since your father's time. My loyalty—"
"Loyalty!" The king laughed, a hoarse, broken sound. "You sound like the priests before they begged for mercy."
He gestured wildly. Guards dragged in three chained courtiers — pale, trembling, eyes hollow.
"They were found meeting in secret," the king hissed. "Confess, Rakshasa. Confess that you knew!"
The men fell at Rakshasa's feet, weeping. "We spoke only of the tax records, sire — the discrepancies—"
"Enough!" Dhanananda's dagger flashed. One stroke. Then silence.
Blood spread slowly across the marble, the reflection of torchlight rippling within it.
Rakshasa bowed his head. "Majesty… this is not governance. It is madness."
Dhanananda turned on him, trembling with rage. "Madness? No, Rakshasa — this is survival. I built an empire of gold and fear. You think I'll lose it to a street-born rebel and a Brahmin snake?"
He clutched the dagger tighter. "No. They want my crown? They can pry it from my corpse."
Rakshasa closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, there was no fear left — only pity.
"Then, Majesty," he said softly, "perhaps that is exactly what they will do."
---
Outside the palace, the city was burning.
Whispers had become riots. Merchants refused to open their shops. Soldiers abandoned their posts. Food stores were raided by starving crowds.
The banners of Magadha — once symbols of wealth and power — now hung limp over smoke-stained towers.
And beyond the Ganga, under a sky bruised with storm, Chandragupta's army advanced.
Their discipline was terrifying — every step measured, every formation perfect. The thunder of their march echoed like the heartbeat of fate. Farmers watched from the fields as the rebel columns stretched across the horizon, banners bearing the insignia of the lion and serpent fluttering in the wind.
At the front rode Chandragupta, his armor dull with travel dust, his eyes fixed on the golden silhouette of Pataliputra.
Beside him rode Parvatak, silent, grim.
"It's begun," Parvatak said quietly.
Chandragupta nodded. "The city burns itself before we even touch it. Vishnugupta has done his part."
A rider approached and dismounted, bowing. "My lord — a message. Delivered by one of the Brahmin's couriers."
Chandragupta took the scroll, unrolling it under the pale light. It bore only a single mark — the symbol of a flame.
He smiled faintly. "The gates will open."
---
In Pataliputra, that prophecy was already coming true.
By midnight, half the palace guard had deserted. The others lingered, watching one another with wary eyes. Some had already removed their Nanda insignia, hiding it beneath plain cloth.
In the treasury, panic reigned. Accountants tore through ledgers, desperate to balance columns that refused to make sense. Gold bars had disappeared, chests gone missing. The once-limitless wealth of Magadha was dissolving like salt in water.
In a hidden corridor, Vishnugupta watched it all unfold. The hood he wore concealed his features, but his eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction.
He turned to the young scribe beside him — one of his earliest converts.
"Do you see now?" he murmured. "This is how empires die. Not by invasion, but by imbalance. A single lie repeated enough becomes a nation's truth."
"And the king?" the boy asked.
"The king is already a corpse," Vishnugupta replied. "He just hasn't fallen yet."
---
By dawn, Rakshasa stood alone in the council chamber. The walls echoed with emptiness.
He had dismissed the last of the soldiers who still obeyed. The others were gone — defected, dead, or drunk with despair.
He heard the sound of distant horns — low, steady, approaching. The rebel army had reached the gates.
For the first time in decades, Rakshasa allowed himself to weep.
He had built Magadha's bureaucracy, its laws, its very structure. He had believed in order, in strength, in the stability that Dhanananda once represented. But now the walls themselves seemed to whisper of betrayal.
He walked to the throne room.
The king sat slumped upon his seat, crown askew, dagger still in hand. His eyes were glassy, lips moving soundlessly.
Rakshasa knelt. "Majesty. The enemy has reached the outer gates."
Dhanananda looked up slowly. "Then let them. Magadha has stood for a hundred years. The throne cannot burn."
A crash thundered through the halls — the sound of the first gate falling.
Rakshasa rose, voice trembling with emotion. "Majesty, you must flee! We can escape eastward, regroup. There is still—"
"Go, if you wish," Dhanananda interrupted. "I will not run like a coward. I am the king."
He turned his dagger toward the empty hall, as if daring the universe itself to defy him. "Let them come."
Rakshasa bowed low, tears streaking his face.
"Then forgive me, my king," he whispered. "For I cannot watch you die."
He turned and left, his footsteps echoing softly through the ruined corridors. Behind him, the last Nanda ruler sat in silence, surrounded by the ghosts of his court.
---
Outside, the gates of Pataliputra fell one by one.
Chandragupta's army poured through the streets, not looting but restoring order. His men moved with discipline, escorting civilians to safety, extinguishing fires. The city's people watched in stunned silence — not conquered, but liberated.
At the steps of the royal palace, Chandragupta dismounted. His armor glistened faintly with rain. Beside him, Parvatak drew his sword.
"Do you wish to give the order?" he asked.
Chandragupta shook his head. "No. The palace is already defeated. No need to stain it further."
At that moment, a figure emerged from the smoke — cloaked, unhurried, calm.
Vishnugupta.
He carried in his hand a small object wrapped in crimson silk. He stopped before Chandragupta and knelt, offering it with both hands.
Chandragupta unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay the golden signet ring of Magadha, engraved with the royal seal.
Vishnugupta's voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The empire has fallen from within. You need only take its shell."
Chandragupta stared at the ring — the weight of a thousand lives and choices compressed into a single symbol.
After a long moment, he slid it onto his finger.
Vishnugupta rose, their eyes meeting — teacher and student, serpent and lion.
"The throne is yours, Chandragupta," Vishnugupta said softly. "But remember — power is not peace. It is the beginning of war without end."
The young king looked toward the smoking skyline of Pataliputra.
"The Nandas ruled through fear," he said. "We will rule through knowledge."
Vishnugupta's lips curved faintly. "Then the age of the Mauryas begins."
---
At sunrise, the banners of Magadha were lowered from the palace walls.
In their place rose new ones — bearing the emblem of the lion.
The city's bells rang, not in mourning, but in awakening.
Far away, in the cool shadow of the throne, the ashes of gold still smoldered.
The serpent's fire had done its work.
---