"A clever tongue can move mountains—or bury its master beneath them."
The midday bells of Takshashila rang through corridors lined with carved pillars and hanging scrolls. Students poured from the lecture halls, clutching palm-leaf notes, arguing even as they walked. In this city of scholars, argument was worship; victory in words brought more honor than a hundred battles.
Vishnugupta crossed the courtyard with a bundle of notes under his arm, his pace quick, his eyes fixed. The debates of the week had grown louder since his duel with the prince of Kamboja. Everywhere he walked, whispers followed—the poor Brahmin boy who defeated nobles with nothing but thought. Some in awe, some in resentment.
He reached the open forum beneath the banyan tree where the next contest would begin. The ground was swept clean, circles marked with chalk. The judges sat on a raised platform, the audience of students and merchants gathering beneath the shade. The hum of anticipation filled the air.
Acharya Somadeva approached, robes brushing the dust. "You need not win every debate, Vishnugupta," he said softly. "There is merit in silence."
"I only speak when challenged, Acharya," Vishnugupta replied.
"That is what worries me. Challenge follows you like a shadow."
Somadeva left him with a faint smile, half pride, half concern.
Today's opponent was Rudrasen, a senior student known for his flowery rhetoric and noble patrons. He was taller, confident, his silk belt heavy with amulets gifted by admirers.
The moderator's voice cut through the murmurs. "The subject of debate: What is the foundation of a stable kingdom—virtue, or law?"
Rudrasen raised a hand first. "Virtue," he began, his tone practiced, almost theatrical. "A kingdom built on law without virtue is a machine without a soul. Men obey only when they believe their ruler righteous."
Applause. Even Somadeva nodded. Rudrasen bowed slightly and gestured to Vishnugupta. "Let the Brahmin of Takshashila tell us otherwise."
Vishnugupta stepped into the circle, the dust cool beneath his feet. "Virtue is a light, yes," he said. "But law is the lamp that holds it. Without the lamp, the light dies with every breeze."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Virtue inspires," Rudrasen countered, "law merely restrains. Do we want citizens who obey because they must, or because they believe?"
"Belief," Vishnugupta said, "feeds itself on comfort. A man believes in goodness when his stomach is full. When hunger strikes, belief sells itself to survival. Law, however, stands whether the belly is empty or full."
Rudrasen frowned. "Then you would chain men, not uplift them."
"I would chain the wicked," Vishnugupta replied, "so the good may breathe."
The audience shifted, listening harder now. Even the merchants at the edge leaned closer.
Rudrasen smiled thinly. "You speak as though you plan to rule, not study."
"Knowledge," said Vishnugupta, "is the only throne worth fighting for."
Laughter rippled, but there was admiration too. Somadeva's gaze softened—then hardened again as he noticed something. At the edge of the circle, a small group of older scholars whispered together. Among them stood a man in royal blue silk—the insignia of Magadha embroidered at his collar. A visiting official.
Rudrasen saw him too and pressed the advantage. "You argue like a politician, not a sage," he said loudly. "Are you sure you belong in a place of learning? The king may prefer such talents in his court."
The laughter this time was sharp-edged. Vishnugupta felt heat crawl up his neck. He bowed to the judges, his voice steady.
"I serve truth, not kings. When truth sits on the throne, I will gladly serve it."
Silence fell—complete, uncomfortable. Even the birds in the banyan seemed to hold their breath. Then the chief judge cleared his throat and raised his hand. "The debate ends. The argument of law is sustained. Vishnugupta wins."
Applause broke out, uneven and hesitant. Rudrasen's eyes flashed with fury, but he bowed stiffly. The visiting official's expression was unreadable.
---
Later that afternoon, Vishnugupta climbed the narrow stair to the library balcony. From there, he could see the whole of Takshashila: rows of courtyards like chessboards, each filled with men playing at truth. Below, Somadeva joined him, his steps slow.
"You should be careful whom you embarrass," the teacher said.
"I spoke only what was right."
"That official below serves Magadha's court. His words travel faster than traders."
"Then let them travel," Vishnugupta said. "If kings fear reason, they should fear their own weakness."
Somadeva sighed. "You think the world is a debate, that truth always wins with logic. But power listens only to advantage."
Vishnugupta looked out over the rooftops. "Then I will learn advantage too."
"Advantage without virtue is tyranny," Somadeva said quietly.
"And virtue without advantage," Vishnugupta replied, "is slavery."
The teacher's expression faltered—pride again, mixed with something like dread. "One day, boy, you will be asked to choose between what is right and what is useful. Pray you never find both the same."
---
Evening draped the city in amber light. Vishnugupta descended into the lower market, the scent of ink and oil thick around him. He bought no food, only a small clay lamp. When he reached his dormitory, he lit it beside his manuscripts. Its flame was steady, unwavering despite the drafts.
He copied the last line of his debate onto a scrap of leaf:
Law sustains order; virtue sustains meaning. But when meaning is lost, order must rule alone.
He stared at the words. They felt older than him, as if someone else had written them through his hand.
A noise came from the courtyard below—laughter, then footsteps. Rudrasen and his companions passed by, talking loudly. One said, "The Magadhan envoy will remember that Brahmin's arrogance. Let's see how long his tongue keeps him safe."
The voices faded. Vishnugupta extinguished the lamp and sat in darkness, listening to the distant echo of drums from the city walls. In that darkness, thought burned brighter than flame.
He understood now that every argument carried a cost, that every truth was a blade drawn before an unseen crowd. Yet he also knew he would draw it again and again, until the world stopped pretending that power and wisdom were enemies.
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