"Knowledge is a blade. The hand that wields it decides whether it heals or kills."
Morning came softly to Takshashila. Sunlight spilled over the red-stone terraces, catching the smoke of early fires where scholars warmed ink and wax. The ancient university stretched across the hill like a hive of carved stone and murmuring voices—students reciting sutras, the faint ring of bronze water-pots, the caw of crows above the banyan trees.
Under the oldest banyan, a crowd had gathered. The daily debate was the heartbeat of Takshashila; nothing drew students faster than the promise of pride being broken in public.
At the center stood Vishnugupta, a thin Brahmin boy with unruly hair and a robe the color of dust. He had come from the poorer quarter of the city, where teachers paid tuition with teaching itself. His hands were ink-stained, his eyes sharp enough to slice silence.
Across from him was Prince Jayananda of Kamboja, heavy with gold and confidence. His attendants lingered behind the ring of students, exchanging smirks.
"The question is simple," the prince declared, raising his voice so the balconies could hear. "What rules the world—gold or wisdom?"
A ripple of amusement passed through the listeners. The challenge was old, almost childish, yet the prince's grin made it a trap.
Vishnugupta tilted his head. "Before we weigh them," he said, "tell me what you mean by rule."
Laughter. A few students nodded; others folded arms, waiting for the prince's reply.
"You twist words," Jayananda said. "Rule—as in power. Command. The strength that bends men's wills."
"Then," said Vishnugupta, "we must ask whose will bends first—the wise man's, or the man with gold."
The debate turned like a whetstone. The boy's voice stayed calm, even gentle, while the prince's grew sharp with irritation. In the end the logic was inescapable: gold obeyed the clever hand that spent it; wisdom decided how gold was used. When Acharya Somadeva raised his staff, the verdict was clear.
"The Brahmin boy speaks truth," the old teacher said. "Gold serves wisdom, not the other way."
The courtyard murmured. The prince's smile faltered. Vishnugupta bowed slightly, but his eyes stayed on the prince's. He should have looked away; instead, pride flickered there like a spark.
As the crowd dispersed, Jayananda's companions waited by the stone path. When Vishnugupta passed, one tossed a silver coin at his feet.
"Here, scholar," the boy jeered. "Payment for your lecture. Perhaps buy a comb."
Laughter again, but now it was mean. Another coin clinked on the paving.
Vishnugupta's hand tightened around his scrolls. For a heartbeat he imagined striking the boy with them—parchment against silk—but instead he bent, picked up a coin, and placed it in the prince's friend's palm.
"You dropped this," he said quietly. "A wise man keeps what is his. A fool scatters it."
The laughter died. Somadeva's voice cut the silence. "Enough. Debate ends when pride begins."
Later, in the shade of the library, Somadeva found him copying verses on statecraft. "You win too easily," the teacher said. "That is dangerous."
"Should I lose on purpose?"
"You should learn restraint. Intellect is a sword without a sheath; if you draw it for every insult, soon there is no one left to speak to."
Vishnugupta looked down at the palm leaf, its ink still wet. "If the world silences truth because truth offends, then fools will rule forever."
Somadeva sighed. "Perhaps. But remember, even truth must pay tax to power."
That evening, the boy walked through the lower bazaar. The streets smelled of copper, goatskin, and tamarind. He watched a court astrologer bargaining with a merchant—offering to bless his caravan for a coin. Nearby, a scribe forged a horoscope for a noble's marriage. Everywhere, knowledge was being sold like grain.
A thought coiled in him: Wisdom should command kings, not serve them.
He said nothing, but the idea burned.
When darkness settled, Vishnugupta climbed to the rooftop of the dormitory with his wax lamp and worn scrolls. Takshashila below looked like a field of fireflies. He set his chart against the wind and studied the stars.
Tonight the moon dimmed, and the shadow of an eclipse crept over it—a black arc swallowing silver. Around him, other students whispered prayers. He only watched, breath held. The dark shape looked like a serpent devouring the sky.
Somewhere deep inside, the boy felt the chill of certainty: kingdoms, like moons, were meant to be eaten.
Somadeva's voice startled him. The old man had climbed the stairs quietly. "You stare as if the heavens were speaking."
"They are," Vishnugupta said. "But no one listens."
"What do they tell you?"
"That gold will fall, and wisdom will rule again. But first—blood."
Somadeva laid a hand on his shoulder. "Dreams, child. Nothing more."
Vishnugupta did not answer. He watched the shadow slide fully across the moon, and in its black circle he saw the image of a throne overturned, a crown sinking into dust.
When the eclipse faded and the city returned to sleep, he still stood there, the lamp dying beside him, the faint scent of smoke rising like a vow unspoken.
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