The corridor was silent as he walked back.
His father's words echoed in his head long after he had left the war room.He had heard every word—the map, the voices, the plans—and then, that sentence.
His father's voice, calm and final:
"If I fall, my son must be ready to inherit it all."
At only one year old, with unsteady steps and a body barely out of infancy, Rudura felt the weight of an empire pressing down on his small shoulders.
It was the first time he truly understood what it meant to be born first.
In his previous life, he had only dreamed of greatness while reading dusty pages in a small rented house. Now, the dream was a burden—and an opportunity.
I can't afford to waste even a single day.
From that moment, everything changed.
The next morning, during training, he pushed himself harder than ever before.His tiny body trembled under the effort of each swing, but his mind was steady.
Guru Malavatas noticed it."You are impatient, Rudura," he said, correcting the angle of the boy's wooden blade. "Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast."
But Rudura could not slow down. He kept moving, correcting, improving.Every day his grip grew stronger. In just a few days, the movements that once felt heavy became sharp and natural.
It was as though his body was finally catching up to the skills from his previous life.
When the palace fell asleep, Rudura stayed awake.
Late at night, by the flickering light of an oil lamp, he climbed down from his bedding and crept to the low shelves in the corner of his father's private study.He was still small, but the nurses often left the doors open during the hot season, and he had learned to take advantage of their carelessness.
He read what he could.
Scrolls on war. Records of trade. Accounts of battles. His small hands could barely turn the pages, but his eyes devoured every line.
From these texts, he pieced together the truth.
The greatest threat to his father's kingdom was not some small border chiefdom—it was the Gupta Empire.
The Guptas, according to the records, held incredible wealth.They had trade links with the Roman Empire in the far west, and caravans came loaded with gold, glassware, and fine armor.
Their army was large, disciplined, and trained in newer, more advanced techniques of warfare.The capital city of the Guptas stood protected by massive walls, taller than any other in the region, and the fertile Ganga plains gave them both food and power.
Taxes from rich land and income from trade with powerful neighbors filled their treasury.
In comparison, the Mauryan Empire, though larger in land, was weaker in wealth.Its army was strong in loyalty but not as well-equipped, and many regions were still unstable.
Land means nothing if you can't hold it, Rudura thought grimly. And an army with poor supplies cannot fight for long.
In the quiet of those nights, a goal began to form.
If I want to secure everything my father has built, I must first make the Mauryan Empire richer. Stronger. Self-sufficient.
His small fingers brushed over a map, tracing the rivers and hills. Power comes from wealth. Wealth builds armies. Armies win kingdoms.
The logic was clear.
But there was a question he could not yet answer:
How?
That single question haunted him.
As he lay in his crib, the moonlight painting pale patterns on the ceiling, his mind ran through every lesson he had read in both lives.
Trade routes? Agriculture? Mines? Or something completely new?
No answer came. Not yet.
But in that moment, Rudura understood something vital:This was no longer a dream. It was a war for survival.
If he failed, the empire—and everything his father had risked his life for—would crumble.
And so he stared at the ceiling with unwavering eyes, and whispered to the silent air:
I will make us stronger than the Guptas. I will make us wealthier than Rome itself. Whatever it takes.
(To be continued in Chapter 6)