Dr. Rao's composure never wavered, but the intense focus in his eyes deepened, signaling the climax of this painful scene. He held the audience, both in the room and across the world, completely suspended in the silence of that era.
"The introduction of the Sakas was swift and devastating," Dr. Rao's voice returned, now tight with the tension of the impending tragedy. "But in every village, there is one who understands the art of survival, even if it means sacrificing pride."
.....
The village head, a man named Prakash, was quick-witted and pragmatic. He knew that open defiance meant the swift slaughter of his community. He immediately stepped forward, pushing past the frozen fear of his neighbors.
He dropped into a low, deferential bow, pressing his palms together in the traditional gesture of respect and submission.
"My Lord Commander," Prakash's voice was steady despite the fear clutching his throat. "I, and the whole village, thank the great King Azesan for his kindness. We pledge our loyalty and our obedience."
He continued, his voice taking on a tone of desperate supplication. "I apologize, my Lord, but I must beg for your mercy. This has been a harsh season. The ground is dry. We can only afford to give one-fourth (1/4th) of what we produce. We will be immensely grateful if you can grant us this wish."
Zarakan, the Saka commander, sat atop his stallion, his expression unreadable. He was assessing the Village Head—measuring his fear, calculating his usefulness.
Hmm, Zarakan thought, since he knows when to bow and looks quite obedient. If we crush them entirely, they will break and flee, and it would be a complete loss for the King. These farmers were assets, not obstacles. They were needed to cultivate the land for Azesan's coffers.
Zarakan let the silence stretch, savoring the collective anxiety. Then, his gaze wandered. His eyes landed on the small, humble temple dedicated to Devi (Goddess) Durga, situated a short distance away on the left.
The temple was the only structure built of stone in the entire mud village. Every temple we've checked in the region holds some amounts of gold or valuable offerings, he mused. We can secure the compensation here.
He directed his cold, heavy gaze back to the villagers.
"Very well," Zarakan announced, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence. "Since you have requested this concession, we will spare your meager crops, but only at a price. For this tax reduction, we will check that temple. We will take whatever we find inside as immediate exchange for the King's grace."
A collective intake of breath swept through the crowd. Shock rippled through the villagers, quickly giving way to a fierce, ancestral anger. Their sacred place—their last bastion of hope—was to be defiled? Why intrude on their sacred space? The subtle atmosphere of fear rapidly intensified into a tight, furious aura of resistance.
Zarakan, observing the change in their expressions, frowned slightly. The anger was rising; they might yet resist. He needed to re-establish the hierarchy immediately.
With terrifying speed, he dismounted. He walked toward a villager named Kishan, a strong, middle-aged farmer standing at the front. Before Kishan could react, Zarakan seized him by the neck, lifting him easily off the ground.
Zarakan's sword, a long, curved blade, flashed in the bright summer air. There was a wet, sickening thwack, and a raw scream of agony filled the air.
Kishan's left arm—the limb he used to till the soil, to hold his son, to live—fell to the dust. Zarakan tossed the man's bleeding, convulsing body to the ground like refuse.
"Keep your eyes down!" Zarakan roared, his voice thick with unbridled cruelty. "Or one by one, the same will happen to you! With cut arms or legs, you cannot even take care of yourself, much less your families!"
The spectacle of violence was instantaneous and absolute. The man's screams, the sight of his severed limb, and the terrifying, casual speed of the commander's ruthlessness broke the villagers' spirit. They cowered, their rising anger instantly dissolving into primal fear. Every head dropped. They could not fight a group of armed, merciless warriors.
Prakash, the village head, shut his mouth, his negotiating instinct utterly crushed by the sudden savagery.
Zarakan surveyed the cowering figures and smirked, a cruel twist of the mouth. Nice, he thought. Give one example, and they will all understand the cost of resistance.
Gauri, standing among the women, felt the full force of the injustice.
She watched Kishan fall, watched the blood soak into the dry earth, and listened to the guttural screams of pain. Her anger, which had been simmering for weeks, rose by the passing minutes, threatening to burst from her chest like a volcanic eruption.
She was still silent, still hidden beneath the cloth, but her body was vibrating with suppressed fury. Her left hand was tightly clutching Rudraksha, who stood beside her, his small body frozen in horrified shock. Her right hand, however, was a fist, the nails dug deep into her palm until small rivulets of blood started to seep through her skin. She was utterly indifferent to the pain—it was a necessary tether to keep her primal, warrior instinct contained.
Rudraksha, terrified but observant, felt the violent trembling in his mother's hand. He could feel her pain, the raw, rising wave of anger in her heart, mirrored by the helpless, burning fury rising in his own young chest. He knew what was happening, but he was utterly powerless.
Zarakan turned his back on the cowering crowd and marched toward the temple, his men following his signal. His remaining riders dispersed quickly toward the edges of the village, commencing the secondary plan: searching the homes for any hidden valuables.
Four priests were present near the temple. Acharya Deva, the old, frail head priest, had stopped his chanting the moment he heard the loud footsteps and the scream of the injured man. He and the two middle-aged priests, Pujari Rishi and Suresh, along with a young acolyte, emerged from the sanctity of the temple to face the intruders.
When Zarakan reached the stone steps, he sneered down at the old man. "Why did you not come to greet us, old man? Do you deem yourselves above King Azesan's authority?"
Acharya Deva, recovering his spiritual calm, pressed his palms together, his gaze filled with a profound sorrow, not fear.
"Forgive us, my Lord," the Acharya said gently. "We were only performing our dharma—our sacred duty—at this precious hour. We mean no disrespect to any king, only to the Divine."
"I don't care about your rituals!" Zarakan spat, his voice laced with contempt. "We need compensation. We will check everything inside this temple for gold and valuables. Step aside."
The priests were immediately alarmed. The theft was terrible, but the desecration was unforgivable.
Acharya Deva suddenly shouted, his voice gaining a strength born of spiritual conviction. "Mā kṛdhi impudence! Do not commit this impudence in this holy place! Please leave, or you will not be forgiven for these crimes by the heavens!"
Zarakan turned a deaf ear to the warning. He violently pushed the old priest aside and strode into the temple, his boots desecrating the sacred floor. He stopped abruptly before the central shrine.
His fury intensified upon seeing the main idol. It was a beautifully carved statue of Durga Goddess, serene and powerful.
"A woman statue?" he roared, his voice echoing out of the temple doors, meant for the entire village to hear. "If this continues to exist, where will our great King find his place in this land? I will destroy it now!"
Acharya Deva, seeing the commander raise his foot to kick the statue, lunged forward with the last vestiges of his strength. He grabbed Zarakan's leg, his frail body trembling.
"Forgive me, my Lord! Have mercy! You can check and take anything you like, but please, don't destroy it!" the Acharya begged, tears streaming down his age-worn face. The other priests immediately joined him, crying and prostrating themselves, begging for mercy.
The villagers, encircled the temple, watching in horrified silence. They were paralyzed by fear, unable to move, trapped by the clear, terrifying lesson of Kishan's arm.
Zarakan, thoroughly annoyed by the desperate pleading, roughly dragged the old priest out of the temple by his neck and threw him onto the dusty steps. Acharya Deva landed with an immense groan of pain, but still, he crawled back toward Zarakan's feet, repeating his plea like a desperate mantra: "Have mercy! Have mercy!"
Zarakan's patience snapped. He took out a large, wickedly sharp hunting knife from his sash. He raised it high, aiming the lethal blade directly at the old priest's chest.
Gauri could not watch this.
The fear of exposure, the years of caution, the silent vow to stay hidden—all dissolved in the face of this barbaric injustice. This was not merely violence against a man; it was the defilement of the sacred, the final, unforgivable act of the invaders.
She turned her head to Rudraksha, her voice a low, fierce command. "Stay here."
Before the boy could even process the order, Gauri surged forward. She moved with a speed and silent grace that belonged to a trained warrior, not a common farmer.
She reached Zarakan just as his knife began its descent toward the old priest's heart.
With the strength of a coiled serpent, Gauri lunged forward, not yelling, not screaming, but acting. Her hand shot out and grabbed Zarakan's wrist—the wrist holding the massive knife—just before the blade pierced the priest's robes.
At that moment, a sudden, powerful gust of wind swept through the clearing. The sari cloth that had hidden Gauri's identity for years was ripped from her head and face, blowing backward like a banner.
Her face, framed by the wild black hair, was revealed: cold, beautiful, and utterly terrifying. Her dark eyes, burning with silent, total judgment, were locked onto the commander.
Zarakan, a man of violence and experience, felt an electric jolt of fear travel up his arm. The strength holding his wrist was immense, paralyzing the movement of his professional killer's hand. He was utterly stunned by the sudden appearance of the beautiful, fierce woman who held him captive with a single grip. A primal, chilling premonition rose in his heart, a sudden, cold certainty that he had seen this face before—or perhaps, a face like this, a face of royalty.
His words stumbled out, rough and uncertain. "Y-you? Who a...re you? I have seen you… Tell me…"
.....
The scene in the high-rise studio was broken by the sharp intake of breath from Eleanor Vance. She had instinctively flinched, leaning back as if the commander's blade were aimed at her.
"Such injustices… such ruthlessness," Eleanor whispered, horrified. "I cannot imagine that level of cold cruelty."
Dr. Rao waited for her to calm her racing pulse, then spoke, his voice carrying immense weight.
"Yes, Ms. Vance. Not just for this village, but for the fate of every village that fell under the ruthless rules of the Sakas. Every time any major political or social structure changes, only the ordinary folks suffer through these injustices, struggling to survive. They starve, they die, or they face unimaginable accidents. This has become a cycle, like a great wheel of suffering that never ends."
He looked directly into the lens of the main camera. "The era we are living in now, despite its flaws, is very peaceful by comparison. We must know this history to understand the peace we inherit."
Eleanor and her team were deeply affected, commenting softly among themselves about the terror of ancient times. The global audience was equally moved.
Youtube Live (Comments)
New York, USA: "This is not historical fiction, this feels like a true account. The ruthlessness is shocking. That archaeologist is right—we take modern stability for granted." (User: HistoryBuff89)
Berlin, Germany: "The contrast between the calm Gauri and the brutality of the commander is incredible. She is a real-life warrior. I hope she lives!" (User: DeutschReader)
Tokyo, Japan: "A princess in exile who fights for her people... and a child who watches it all. This is the origin story. I need to know her name and her kingdom." (User: Anime_Saga_Fan)
Sydney, Australia: "That moment when the sari cloth blew back... pure cinematography. Subscribed for the next chapter." (User: Aussie_Binge)
Eleanor took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Dr. Rao, the audience is universally gripped. They are fearing for Gauri's life and cheering her courage. I hope she can be safe. What happened after she grabbed his hand? Did the confrontation erupt into a full battle?"
Dr. Rao's eyes gleamed with the triumph of his narration.
"The confrontation, Ms. Vance, was not a battle of swords; it was a battle of bloodlines and destiny. Zarakan's momentary fear and recognition hinted at Gauri's true identity. He saw the face of the Princess he thought had died years ago, the one who escaped the downfall. He saw the face of his worst nightmare."
"The commander was stunned. But his surprise quickly turned to brutal calculation. And as Gauri released her suppressed fury, the fate of the Samrat's entire life would be sealed by the single, bloody mistake she was about to make. The mistake that leads directly to the dying promise."
"The God-King's journey, Ms. Vance, is about to begin in earnest."