Night.
Port City of Barbarikon[1]
It was some hours into the night.
The city lay fast asleep, wrapped in darkness. Only the magi-stone pillars along the main thoroughfares and the upper districts cast steady pools of pale light. The rest of the capital was quiet.
At one of the royal guest houses, however, the atmosphere was markedly different.
Royal Guards stood in layered formations. Shadow Agents moved unseen between corridors and rooftops. Even beyond the compound, watchers had been quietly dispersed across the city.
Within a guarded chamber, Raja Indra[2] entered and took his seat.
"What does it say?" he asked.
Mahadevi Bhadra held the report in her hand.
"It says that nothing of consequence occurred," she replied evenly. "But—"
"But what?" the Raja asked, leaning forward slightly.
"It appears that our son has compelled our most loyal agents into discretion."
Raja Indra rose and came to sit beside her.
"What do you mean by that?"
"The report states that Hamsa merely floated a short distance above the training grounds and then returned," she said. "Nothing more."
"And?"
"Do you recall his journey north, into Punja, about some months ago?"
"I do."
"During that time, I learned that he is capable of ascending far higher than this document suggests. If the report understates the matter, then he has either withheld information—or persuaded those three to do so."
The Raja's expression hardened.
"That is a concern."
"It is," Mahadevi agreed. "At this pace, it will not be long before he presses us openly to name him Yuvraj."
Indra exhaled slowly.
"He is our son," he said. "And if he intended to press us immediately, he would have accompanied us and Garuda on this journey."
"We are at the largest port city in the kingdom," he continued. "The guild houses are influential here—particularly the Shettys."
Mahadevi turned to him sharply.
"And you believe my family would not support him?"
"It is not that I believe they would oppose him," Indra replied calmly. "But under present circumstances, I do not see them committing themselves hastily in his favor either."
Silence settled between them.
After a moment, they leaned slightly toward one another, the tension easing but not vanishing.
"Leaving that aside," Mahadevi said at last, "how did the negotiations proceed?"
"As well as could be expected," Indra answered. "They have sworn renewed loyalty. A southern trade route has been secured. Though nothing will be finalized until Vasu delivers the formal instruments."
"And the other matter?" she asked.
"They continue to investigate," he replied. "We have received no further word from the Parthians."
"No," Mahadevi said. "And that troubles me."
Indra studied her expression.
"Trade in the north remains disrupted," she continued. "But there is also increased migration from the steppe."
"Migration?" he repeated, frowning a little.
"Yes. Thus far, they have struck only at the border regions, and we have held them at bay. You are aware of that much. However, my informants suggest that a larger wave is forming—one that may descend upon both states. And this time, it may not be mere settlers. It may be an army."
Indra's gaze sharpened.
"Are they being driven south by some greater force?"
"We do not yet know," she replied. "But we must prepare to honor our defensive pact."
"You know we cannot afford full mobilization at present," he said.
"I am aware," Mahadevi answered. "Yet we cannot remain idle."
The chamber fell silent once more.
And outside, the city slept.
________________________
Night: Hamsa's Chambar.
Hasma was fast asleep.
But—
White Room.
The space was as it had always been—endless, empty, and white. No walls. No ceiling. No floor. Only the occupants and whatever they chose to conjure into existence.
Two enclosed rooms stood within the expanse.
In the smaller one—
Adi sat at a study desk cluttered with booklets, loose sheets, and marked calculations. Ink stains dotted the pages. Symbols and formulae filled the margins.
Hamsa stood over him.
"These are wrong," Hamsa said flatly, handing back a booklet layered with markings. "Your common mistake is in the calculations. Work on it."
"Come on, kid," Adi protested, rubbing his temples. "I've been at this for hours. And what exactly am I going to do with all this anyway?"
Hamsa who had turned and began walking toward the exit, stopped.
He came back.
He slammed both hands onto the desk.
The sound cracked sharply in the white silence.
Adi flinched.
"Listen here, you overgrown snake," Hamsa said, voice tight with restrained anger. "I let your consciousness reside in my body. I allowed you a spirit form so you could move freely. And all I asked in return was that you use that so-called smart, fast-learner brain of yours to actually learn something useful."
His gaze did not waver.
"It has been almost two years. Two years. And your competence is barely above that of a secondary-school student."
Adi opened his mouth—
Hamsa cut him off.
"And you know what? I would have let it slide. I would have tolerated it. If you were not constantly interrupting me to ask about the most basic things I do."
He leaned closer.
"Even now, I have four versions of myself in the adjacent room debating because you were too lazy to grasp them properly and help me."
Adi shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"So if you are going to complain," Hamsa continued evenly, "then I will remove every distraction I conjured for you."
The white room flickered slightly.
"Including the game consoles. And every other piece of technology from my previous world."
He straightened.
"You can have them back when your output matches your mouth."
The silence followed as Adi, now a bit scared began to study again.
In the next room, faintly, the other versions of Hamsa continued their debate.
Next Room—
Unlike the endless white beyond its walls, this chamber had form.
It resembled a court.
A raised central seat stood at the far end. Two opposing benches faced one another. The structure was not ornate, but deliberate—order imposed upon nothingness.
Two pairs of Hamsa sat across from one another.
The version who had just reprimanded Adi entered and took the central seat.
"So," the central Hamsa said calmly, "do we have a decision?"
"No," one of the Hamsas seated on the left replied.
"Are we still on that?" the one at the center asked.
A Hamsa from the right side leaned forward.
"As we stated earlier—if we proceed with Form A, the margin for sampling error will surface too late. We do not possess the resources we had in our previous life. If the data collectors commit even minor errors, we will lack the time and infrastructure to correct them without delaying interpretation and application."
He continued, voice steady.
"Form B provides buffer. It integrates more easily with the Kingdom's current administrative structure. It allows iterative correction. We gather, refine, adjust. Then—after several years—we transition to Form A."
The central Hamsa turned to the left bench.
"And your position?"
A Hamsa from the left responded without hesitation.
"If we ensure that data collectors are thoroughly trained and analysts understand error thresholds from the outset, Form A becomes viable. A heavier initial investment results in long-term efficiency."
He held the gaze of his counterparts.
"It accelerates structural reform."
He paused only briefly.
"Short-term strain. Long-term gain."
The right-side Hamsa countered immediately.
"Your assumption is flawed. You presume scholars in this world can internalize frameworks we ourselves only grasped in our twenties—and that too with superior tools, formal education, and vast data access."
He gestured toward the air. Faint projections of charts shimmered into view—distribution curves, error bands, resource flow models.
"We learned through failure. Through repeated exposure. Through trial and correction. Form B mirrors that natural progression."
Another on the right added,
"If you propose relying on institutions like the Temples or centers such as Taxila, understand their limits. They may produce hundreds. Perhaps a few thousand capable individuals."
He looked directly across.
"We require tens of thousands."
Silence settled briefly.
"Recruitment from the non-educated classes will be unavoidable," the right continued. "They will not adapt immediately to our numerical structuring or analytical methods. Even basic standardization will take years."
The Hamsa on the left folded his arms.
"And yet if we delay final standardization, we embed inefficiency at scale. Once flawed methodology spreads across districts, correction becomes exponentially more difficult."
He leaned slightly forward.
"There must be a full transition eventually. Out with the old. In with the new. Form A forces early alignment and gives us experience for implementation of future systemic changes."
The central Hamsa listened without visible reaction.
In the adjacent chamber, Adi's pen scratched faster—perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of renewed determination.
Within this constructed court, four identical minds weighed variables without emotion.
After some time they fell silent.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
A though crossed into his mind.
How quickly a single Rajkumar could restructure an entire state—and eventually a civilization—without triggering collapse, rebellion, or unintended consequences.
His reform plans were vast and tightly interwoven.
It was like cracking an egg for an omelet—precision mattered.
Too much force, and the shell fell in.
Too little, and the pan overheated before the egg broke.
"Very well. This discussion is tabled for now," the central Hamsa said. "For the present, we study further under Mahamanthri Vasu and test minor reforms before attempting structural overhaul."
He paused.
"We are also in desperate need of more minds. This courtroom method will not scale."
Two of the four dissolved into white particles, leaving three standing.
"Even with specialization between us, this will not suffice long-term," he added.
"What about someone from the Temples?" the optimist asked.
"They are rigid. We would have to justify every premise in exhausting detail," the pessimist replied.
"Stop being pessimistic."
"That is literally my function," he said, glancing at the center.
The central Hamsa gave a small nod.
"What about discussing matters with our parents?" the optimist tried again.
"They are occupied."
"Then someone from Taxila—or another university city?"
"We cannot leave the capital alone until we are formally named Yuvraj," the pessimist replied flatly.
A brief pause.
"Maybe Adi—"
"Yeah not happening for at least two more years," all three said in unison.
Silence returned to the white room.
"Then what about one of our future wives? Or Garuda," the optimist said. "They would have little choice. And we could reinforce loyalty the same way we did with him. And it seemed to have worked."
The pessimist stared at him.
"Do you even listen to yourself? You are the optimist, yes—but I guess you are still me at the end of the day."
He folded his arms.
"You were the one who opposed this not long ago. You lectured about morality. About responsibility. 'They are marrying someone who is mentally decades older.' 'We should not let them suffer for our ambition.' 'He is our brother, even if half.'"
The optimist's jaw tightened.
"I opposed you because you wanted to exploit their base level education, which would be the height for this world. And then drill everything we know into them. And use intimidation layered with calculated kindness and mana influence to secure loyalty."
He looked away briefly.
"You wanted efficient assets. Not people."
"And now?" the pessimist asked.
"I am suggesting something more balanced."
"Do both of you hear yourselves?" the central Hamsa said, voice flat, controlled.
The room quieted.
"We have settled this before. We do not use family—by blood or by law. If they assist, it will be voluntary. We don't want a target on our back from a potential claimant."
A pause.
"And I will not build a state on coerced loyalty."
A fourth Hamsa appeared near the rear of the chamber.
"I still do not understand why you insist on that."
The central Hamsa turned slowly.
"Why are you here? More importantly—how are you here?"
The optimist squinted.
"Wait. Who was he again?"
The pessimist sighed.
"That one," he said dryly, "is the un-attached realist variant."
He glanced sideways.
"And since he is also us, you already know what that means."
"You know that will not last, right?" the central Hamsa said evenly.
"Not unless we use the serpent to extend our lifespan further," the new Hamsa replied. "We are already going to outlive most people we meet. If we commit fully, we could stretch that into what is, politically speaking, an eternity."
"And live alone?" the optimist shot back.
The pessimist spoke before anyone else could.
"He is not entirely wrong. We are already walking a path that leads to isolation. Personal distance. Just like before."
"That was because of you two," the optimist snapped, pointing between the pessimist and the new arrival.
"Our fault?" the pessimist replied coolly. "If you had stayed grounded instead of chasing ideals, perhaps we would not might have not ended up like this."
"Enough," the new one said, waving a hand dismissively. "Blame is irrelevant. This is simply what we are."
He gave a thin smile.
"Brilliant enough to redesign a kingdom. Foolish enough to sabotage our own peace. And so self-deprecating that even a tragic hero would tell us to calm down."
Silence followed.
None of them spoke.
"Anyway," the unhinged realist said at last, tone returning to business, "what happened to the budgetary reform we proposed to Vasu?"
The central Hamsa answered.
"He agreed. The accounts are being reviewed. And we should receive a preliminary report tomorrow."
"Which reform?" the optimist asked. Then his eyes widened slightly. "Oh. The one where we required the Temples to disclose detailed usage of state donations. But remind me—what was the strategic objective again?"
The other three smacked their foreheads in unison.
The same thought crossed their minds at once—
Please tell me he is not actually a part of us.
"It concerns expenditure control," the central Hamsa said flatly. "We reduce unnecessary outflow and gain leverage over allocation."
He continued.
"If we know precisely where temple-administered educational funds are directed, we can influence distribution. For instance—shift greater emphasis toward medical training. Or engineering. Or administrative mathematics."
The optimist blinked.
"And before this?"
"Before this," the pessimist replied dryly, "the state donated and did not inquire."
The central Hamsa nodded.
"But times are tightening. Trade fluctuations. External pressures. With all that, private donations are declining. So this is prime time to get something through that the temples would resist."
"You know that makes us sound like bad guys." the optimist said.
"We are not the bad guys, we are doing what needs to be done. And if we don't do it today, then someone will have to tomorrow." the three said in unison.
[0]
[1] This is near modern day Karachi, I will use modern day cities in the sub-continent. Though I will use old names, ancient names before the Islamic and later European Invasion and occupation. Another example would be Delhi-Indraprastha. I will name then each time a new city I name.
[2] From now on, I will use this unless its a public event of some kind.