Chapter 135: Chapter 133: Gathering... Strengthen Their Influence...

(A/N):

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After A Week...

A week after the grand coronation of Dhritarashtra, life within Trivenivrata continued peacefully.

The roads leading toward the capital remained busy.

Merchants arrived daily carrying goods from distant kingdoms.

Pilgrims traveled toward temples.

Farmers brought produce into the city markets.

Artisans sought opportunities in the growing kingdom.

The prosperity of Trivenivrata had become difficult to ignore day by day.

Naturally, this also made the kingdom a perfect place to disappear into a crowd.

One morning, shortly after sunrise, a small merchant caravan approached the western gate of the capital.

Five men accompanied a large wooden cart.

The cart was loaded with bundles of rare herbs, medicinal roots, dried flowers, and valuable forest ingredients.

The men themselves looked ordinary.

Dusty travelers.

Merchants who had spent weeks on the road.

Nothing about them stood out.

As always, the guards of Trivenivrata performed their inspections carefully.

The kingdom’s prosperity had attracted many newcomers, and King Devara had repeatedly instructed his soldiers to remain vigilant without becoming oppressive.

The cart was searched thoroughly.

Bundles were opened.

Storage boxes inspected.

Documents checked.

The guards even questioned the merchants regarding the origin of their goods.

Everything appeared legitimate.

The herbs were genuine.

The trade permits were valid.

The answers were consistent.

After nearly an hour of inspection, the captain of the gate guard finally nodded.

"You may enter."

The five merchants bowed respectfully.

"Thank you, Sir."

The massive gates slowly opened.

Their cart rolled forward.

And just like that—The first agents of the practitioners entered Trivenivrata.

The moment they disappeared into the busy streets, the smiles on their faces vanished.

These were no merchants.

Not truly.

All five belonged to the practitioner clans hidden within the forest beyond the borders.

Each possessed knowledge of tantra and ritual arts.

Each had been selected carefully for this mission.

And each understood the importance of what they were about to do.

The oldest among them quietly guided the cart through the city streets.

"Observe first."

His voice remained low enough that only his companions could hear.

"No unnecessary actions."

The others nodded.

They had received strict instructions.

No attacks. No obvious rituals. No reckless behavior.

Their purpose was simple.

Learn.

Watch.

Understand.

And prepare at the right time.

The elder practitioners in the forest had reached a conclusion after the disaster involving the pishachas.

They could not strike blindly.

Not against someone protected by forces they barely understood.

If future rituals were to succeed, they required a connection.

A foothold.

Something anchored within Trivenivrata itself.

The stronger the connection, the stronger the influence their distant rituals could exert.

That was why these five had been sent.

To live among the people.

To learn the rhythms of the kingdom.

To identify locations of significance.

Sacred grounds. Old shrines.

River crossings.

Ancient trees.

Places where ritual energies naturally gathered.

As the cart rolled deeper into the capital, the practitioners silently studied everything.

The streets.

The markets.

The temples.

The people.

And what they saw surprised them.

The city did not feel like most kingdoms.

There was laughter everywhere.

Children ran through the streets without fear.

Merchants openly praised the fairness of local laws.

Even tax collectors were not being cursed by the population, a rarity in almost every kingdom.

One of the practitioners frowned.

"Strange."

Another nodded.

"The people seem genuinely happy."

The oldest among them remained silent.

He had noticed something else.

Something he disliked.

Everywhere they went, conversations eventually returned to the same name.

Devara.

The king who had settled disputes personally.

The king who walked among commoners.

The king who spent time in the gurukul.

The king who spoke with farmers.

The king who apparently played games with children and somehow befriended half the animals in the kingdom.

The stories sounded absurd.

Yet they were repeated everywhere.

Not with fear. Not with obligation.

With affection.

The elder’s expression darkened.

That kind of loyalty was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Because kingdoms held together by fear could be broken easily.

Kingdoms held together by genuine trust were far more difficult to destroy.

As evening approached, the five disguised practitioners rented a modest warehouse near the merchant district.

Officially, it would serve as storage for their herbal business.

Unofficially, it would become their base of operations.

That night, after ensuring nobody was watching, they gathered in the warehouse’s cellar.

A small oil lamp burned between them.

The elder unrolled a map of Trivenivrata.

His finger slowly moved across it.

"We begin tomorrow."

One of the younger practitioners nodded.

"The ritual sites?"

The elder shook his head.

"First we learn about the king."

The room became silent.

"Whatever resides within Devara..."

His eyes narrowed.

"...is the key to everything."

None of them noticed that outside the warehouse, perched upon a nearby rooftop beneath the darkness of night, a black cobra sat motionless.

Its golden eyes stared directly toward the building.

Watching.

Waiting.

As if it already knew exactly why they had come.

Over the following weeks, the five disguised practitioners settled into their roles surprisingly well.

By day, they operated as herb merchants.

They bought roots from villagers.

Sold medicines to travelers.

Negotiated prices in markets.

Paid taxes properly.

Slowly, they became familiar faces within the merchant district of Trivenivrata.

And all the while, they listened.

Every conversation. Every rumor. Every story.

Every piece of information connected to Devara.

At first, most of what they heard sounded ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

The youngest among them often rolled his eyes.

"According to this man, the king once spent half a day helping children build toy boats."

Another practitioner snorted.

"And according to that woman, he personally helped repair an old farmer’s irrigation canal."

The elder merely listened.

A kingdom always exaggerated its heroes.

That was normal.

But then the stories became stranger.

Far stranger as they listened.

One evening, while serving customers at their shop, they heard a traveling merchant speaking excitedly to a group gathered around him.

"I saw it myself!"

The merchant slapped his thigh.

"With my own eyes!"

Several listeners laughed.

"You’ve told that story ten times already."

"I’ll tell it a hundred more!"

The merchant who was a former solider pointed toward the palace.

"When Kamsa attacked, I was there!"

The practitioners immediately became interested.

The merchant lowered his voice dramatically.

"I saw King Devara transform."

The listeners grew quiet.

Even after all these months, stories about that day still captured people’s attention.

The merchant continued.

"I swear upon my ancestors."

"He transformed into Lord Narasimha."

The practitioners exchanged glances.

Again.

That story.

They had heard versions of it dozens of times already.

At first they dismissed it as myth-making.

The sort of tale people invented around popular rulers.

Yet the strange thing was that the details remained remarkably consistent.

The witnesses always described similar events.

The same overwhelming aura.

The same divine form.

The same terrifying presence.

The same destruction of Kamsa.

That consistency bothered the practitioners.

Very few rumors remained so stable unless they were rooted in something real.

Later that week, they deliberately sought out more witnesses.

People who claimed they had personally been present.

Not secondhand storytellers.

Actual eyewitnesses.

One old soldier sat across from them at a tavern.

The man had lost two fingers during the battle.

He had no reason to invent stories.

The elder practitioner carefully asked,

"You truly saw it?"

The soldier became quiet.

His cheerful expression disappeared.

For several moments he stared into his drink.

Then he nodded. Slowly.

"I saw it."

His voice carried none of the excitement found in storytellers.

Only certainty.

The old soldier looked toward the distant palace.

"You can call me a liar."

"You can call me a fool."

"But I know what I saw."

The tavern had become quiet around them.

The soldier’s hands trembled slightly.

"One moment there was Prince Devara."

"The next..."

He swallowed just thinking about it.

"...there was something else."

The practitioners listened carefully.

The soldier struggled to find the words.

"It wasn’t transformation. It felt more like..."

His gaze unfocused slightly.

"...like a god looked through him."

Those words made the elder practitioner freeze.

Because they sounded disturbingly similar to what he himself had felt when the pishachas were destroyed.

Not transformation. Not possession.

Something looking through him.

The soldier laughed nervously.

"I know how crazy that sounds."

"But every person who was there felt it."

"We weren’t looking at a man anymore." 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

"We were looking at something ancient."

Nobody at the table mocked him.

Because the fear in his eyes was real.

Very real.

That night, inside their warehouse cellar, the practitioners gathered once again.

The elder sat silently while the others discussed their findings.

"The stories are too consistent."

"The witnesses genuinely believe them."

"The battle records match portions of the accounts."

One of them slowly unfolded a scroll.

"We originally thought the Lord Narasimha story was political propaganda."

The elder nodded his head seriously.

"So did I."

The room became quiet.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Finally, one practitioner asked the question everyone had been avoiding.

"Do you think he truly carries a fragment of divinity?"

The elder looked toward the oil lamp burning between them.

Its flame flickered softly.

His mind returned to the ritual.

The pishachas.

The green eyes.

The destruction.

The overwhelming presence.

Then he remembered the soldier’s words.

’Like a god looked through him.’

A long silence followed.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Finally the elder spoke.

"Perhaps."

The room froze.

That single word carried enormous weight.

Because coming from him, it was practically an admission.

The elder leaned back slowly.

"If what the witnesses describe is true..."

"If what we experienced is connected to the same source..."

His eyes narrowed.

"...then we are not dealing with a blessed king."

Nobody spoke.

The oil lamp crackled softly.

Then the elder finished.

"We are dealing with a man whose soul is connected to something far beyond our understanding."

For the first time since entering Trivenivrata, genuine caution replaced curiosity within the room.

Yet beneath that caution—The greed remained.

Because if even a fraction of those stories were true...

Then the power hidden within Devara was greater than anything they had ever imagined.

That night, the five practitioners finally decided to take the next step.

For weeks they had done nothing but observe.

They had studied the people.

Mapped the roads.

Marked temples, shrines, river crossings, and old sacred groves.

Most importantly, they had learned the rhythm of Trivenivrata itself.

Now they intended to establish a stronger connection to the kingdom.

Deep beneath their rented warehouse, the five sat around a low wooden table illuminated by a single oil lamp.

Spread before them was a hand-drawn map of Trivenivrata.

The elder pointed at five locations.

"The northern boundary."

"The southern boundary."

"The eastern boundary."

"The western boundary."

His finger then moved to the center of the map.

"And the capital."

The others nodded listening to the instruction.

Beside the map rested five small dolls.

Each had been carefully crafted over several days.

Made from cloth, herbs, threads, clay, and materials gathered from various parts of the kingdom.

At first glance they looked harmless.

Simple handmade dolls.

Yet each contained symbols and markings hidden beneath the stitching.

The elder wrapped the final doll in cloth.

"We are not attacking."

He looked at each of them.

"Remember that."

The younger practitioners nodded.

The disaster with the pishachas was still fresh in their minds.

None wished to repeat it.

"We are merely establishing a connection."

"A foundation."

"Nothing more."

Outside, the city slept peacefully.

The streets had grown quiet.

Only patrols and late-night travelers remained awake.

The five practitioners separated and left the warehouse one by one.

Each carried a bundle beneath his cloak.

The first traveled north.

The second south.

The third east.

The fourth west.

The elder himself carried the final doll toward the heart of the capital.

The night air was cool.

Lanterns swayed gently beside empty roads.

From distant temples came the faint sound of bells ringing during midnight prayers.

As the elder walked through the sleeping city, he couldn’t shake an uncomfortable feeling.

The kingdom felt...

Alive.

Not physically. But spiritually.

Everywhere he went, he sensed traces of blessings.

Small shrines maintained by ordinary citizens.

Offerings left beside trees.

Prayers whispered at crossroads.

Temples filled with devotion.

The land seemed wrapped in countless threads of faith.

It made him uneasy.

Still, he continued.

Hours passed....

One by one, the practitioners reached their destinations.

At the northern border, a doll was buried beneath an ancient banyan tree.

At the south, another disappeared beneath a lonely hill.

The eastern and western dolls followed.

Finally, near the center of the kingdom, the elder knelt beneath the shadow of an old peepal tree.

The city remained silent around him.

Carefully, he dug a small hole.

Placed the doll within.

And covered it.

For several moments, nothing happened.

The elder released a slow breath.

Perhaps the operation would proceed smoothly after all.

Then—A wind suddenly swept through the area.

Not strong.

Just enough to rustle leaves.

Temple bells throughout the city rang at the same moment.

The elder froze.

Far away, the other practitioners paused as well.

An odd sensation passed through them.

As though the kingdom itself had noticed something.

Only for an instant.

Then it vanished.

The night returned to normal.

The elder slowly stood.

Perhaps he was imagining things.

Perhaps.

Yet as he walked back toward the warehouse, he found himself glancing over his shoulder more than once.

Because somewhere in the darkness, unseen by him, a pair of golden serpent eyes opened briefly.

Watched.

And then disappeared again.

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(Author note:)

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Guys I have a new fic which named: Karuppan: King of Openings.