One year had passed.
The boy once known as Arjun was no longer just an infant cradled in silk. He now stood on solid legs, breathing the same incense-laced air that once carried the dreams of kings.
Here, in the golden halls of Pataliputra, his name was Rudura Maurya—firstborn son of Chandragupta Maurya, heir to the Mauryan throne.
The Guru
With the coming of his first birthday, came his first teacher—a man of legend.
A weathered man with a thick white beard and eyes like chipped obsidian, Malavatas had once trained Rudura's father—shaping him into the warrior and tactician who would one day conquer the subcontinent. Now, that same man stood in the courtyard each morning, his robes fluttering like banners in the wind, holding a wooden training sword in one hand and ancient wisdom in the other.
"Your grip," the guru said, correcting the toddler's tiny stance, "must be firm as your will. A blade is not just for striking—it is an extension of your thought."
Rudura didn't need to be told twice.
In my past life, I took sword classes after school while others played football. This body may be small, but the memory is sharp.
Each strike came easier. Each movement cleaner. The soldiers who passed by stopped to watch—their eyes amused at first, then slowly impressed.
Malavatas said nothing. But the faint nod he gave after each session said enough.
Afternoons were spent under stone pillars, beside scrolls filled with looping Brahmi script.
"Read this," the guru would say, pointing to a phrase written on bark. "Say it aloud."
Rudura read fluently within weeks. He absorbed Magadhi, Sanskrit, and royal code dialects faster than even his instructors expected.
But he said nothing about why.He was careful. Controlled. Let them think he was a prodigy—but not a god.
I cannot let them suspect I remember another world.
That evening, after sword practice, Rudura felt sweat drying on his brow as he left the courtyard. The sky outside had turned amber, casting long shadows through the open corridors.
He had been walking independently since the age of eleven months. And now, he needed to relieve himself—though no nurse followed him, trusting his short route to the nearby chamber pot.
But then… he saw something.
A faint, flickering glow in the distance. A lantern—one that shouldn't have been there.
It glowed behind a doorway—eleven rooms away. Far from the route he was meant to walk.
He paused. Looked back. No one was watching.
Curiosity pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat.
Information is power. What I see today could shape what I do tomorrow.
He turned and began walking toward the light.
The voices came first. Low. Measured. Strategic.
He reached the edge of the room and crouched low, peering through the sliver of the slightly open door.
Inside was a large brown wooden table, its surface covered by a massive hand-drawn map—the known world in brushstroke lines and ink borders.
His father, Chandragupta Maurya, stood at its head. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in deep red robes with gold threading. Beside him stood four military commanders, each one with swords at their hips and their hands resting heavily on the table's edge.
Ink pots, dagger markers, scrolls, all surrounded the table like offerings to war itself.
Rudura's heart pounded.
This is it… This is the command center of an empire.
He leaned in, silent, steady.
At first, he could not hear clearly. But then—his father's voice rose.
"We strike first at Takshashila. They are still disorganized. If we wait, they'll ally with the Nanda remnants."
One commander responded, "But if we move now, the harvest season will be interrupted in the northern districts."
Chandragupta's hand stabbed downward at the map. "Then the farmers will harvest under our banners, or under none at all."
Then came the words.
Words that made Rudura's blood turn cold… and hot at the same time.
"And if I die in battle, then Rudura will inherit everything. He must be ready."
Rudura flinched.
He felt excitement. Fear. Pressure. A mix of everything he had lived for and everything he wasn't ready to face.
He stared at his father—his posture regal, his voice unshakable. This man wasn't just planning a war.
He was preparing a legacy.
He's thinking of his death already… He's thinking of me.
Rudura backed away carefully, heart pounding in his ribs like a war drum.
He said nothing. He told no one. But the seed had been planted.
The path was clear now.
He was no longer a baby prince.He was the next ruler—and now the countdown had begun.
(To be continued in Chapter 5)