Chapter 422 - 390: Wanted Ruin Trivenivrata...

(A/N):

Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.

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There had been no catastrophe that could be presented as proof of divine displeasure, no sudden collapse of the kingdom, and no unmistakable calamity that would vindicate the warning he had delivered before leaving.

Instead, stories had circulated of Devara’s extraordinary fortunes, his victories against formidable enemies, and his close connections with divine beings.

The tales surrounding Devara’s wedding had been particularly difficult for him to accept.

According to the accounts reaching the gurukul, Vishnu and Lakshmi had personally participated in the ceremonies and treated the king with extraordinary affection.

Whether every detail of those stories had been accurately reported was another matter, but their widespread circulation had only strengthened Devara’s reputation.

The acharya found the entire situation infuriating.

How can this be? he repeatedly asked himself.

I warned him that his actions would bring ruin upon his kingdom.

I told him that the gods would not favour a ruler who disregarded the established order.

Yet his kingdom prospers, his influence grows, and now other kings look to him for guidance.

He pressed his lips together, his fingers tightening around the edge of the manuscript resting before him.

The problem was not simply that Devara had rejected his advice.

A king was free to disregard the counsel of a teacher, however unwise the teacher might consider that decision.

What the acharya could not tolerate was the possibility that Devara’s success might undermine the principles he had spent his entire life defending.

If Trivenivrata continued to prosper, then others might begin asking whether the restrictions he regarded as sacred were truly necessary.

If people from different backgrounds could learn, practise medicine, and contribute to their kingdom without bringing about the disaster he had predicted, then what would become of the arguments he had used to justify their exclusion?

For a man whose identity and authority were deeply intertwined with those beliefs, such questions were intolerable.

It was easier to conclude that Devara was arrogant, that his prosperity was undeserved, or that the king had somehow deceived the world into accepting his reforms than to consider whether his own assumptions might have been mistaken.

And now the incident involving the Ashvamedha horse had given the acharya another reason to condemn him.

"That man has no respect for anything,"

he muttered, rising from his seat and beginning to pace beneath the pavilion.

"First, he overturns the traditions governing education and the sacred arts. Then he encourages other rulers to follow his example. And now he dares to interfere with a royal sacrifice that has been recognised for generations. How much further does he intend to go?"

A nearby teacher, who had been arranging the manuscripts, glanced towards him but wisely chose not to interrupt.

The acharya stopped beside one of the pavilion’s pillars and looked out towards the training grounds.

Students were practising their lessons under the supervision of their instructors, repeating the teachings that had been passed down to them through successive generations.

To him, the gurukul represented continuity, discipline, and the preservation of a sacred inheritance.

The idea that a king could alter the established boundaries of learning and then be celebrated for doing so struck at the heart of everything he believed.

He could not accept that Devara’s reforms might have succeeded because they had allowed more people to develop their abilities.

Nor could he accept that a ruler might preserve dharma by examining whether inherited customs served the people they governed.

Instead, his resentment continued to grow.

When Vrishasena had informed him that several kingdoms were considering an alliance under Devara’s leadership, the news had struck another nerve.

The very ruler whom the acharya had once dismissed as an arrogant fool was now becoming a rallying point for kings who feared losing their independence.

Devara’s decision to stop the Ashvamedha horse had not isolated him, as the acharya might once have expected. It had drawn others towards him.

The irony was almost unbearable.

"I refused to lend my name to his gurukul because I would not participate in what I believed was an abandonment of dharma,"

he said bitterly to himself.

"And now, after all these years, he is the one whom other kings seek when they wish to defend their kingdoms."

He fell silent, his face hardening.

There was no reason, he insisted to himself, to reconsider his judgment.

Devara’s popularity did not make his actions righteous, nor did prosperity necessarily prove divine approval.

The king might be powerful, his institutions might be flourishing, and his influence might be spreading, but none of those things could persuade the acharya to abandon the principles he had spent a lifetime upholding.

Yet beneath his certainty lay a truth he refused to acknowledge: he had predicted Devara’s downfall, and every passing year had made that prediction more difficult to defend.

Rather than question himself, he allowed his hatred to deepen.

If Devara could not be discredited through the failure of his kingdom, then perhaps his growing influence could be challenged through other means.

And if the approaching conflict with Vrishabhapura weakened Trivenivrata, the acharya reasoned, the king might finally be forced to confront the consequences of his defiance.

He did not yet know how the war would unfold, nor could he be certain that Vrishasena would emerge victorious.

But the prospect of Devara facing a serious challenge brought him a grim sense of satisfaction.

For years, he had waited for the world to prove that his judgment had been correct.

Now, with an alliance gathering around Trivenivrata and the possibility of war drawing nearer, he began to hope that the coming conflict might accomplish what time itself had failed to do.

He wanted Devara’s confidence shaken.

He wanted his influence diminished.

Above all, he wanted an outcome that would silence the growing number of people who regarded the king’s reforms as a success.

What he failed to understand was that a man who could not tolerate the possibility of being wrong was in danger of becoming more attached to his resentment than to the very principles he claimed to defend.

The acharya remained beneath the pavilion for a long time after Vrishasena’s departure, his thoughts circling around the same bitter truth that had tormented him for years.

Devara had not merely ignored his warning.

He had built a kingdom that appeared to flourish despite everything the acharya believed should have brought it to ruin, and worse still, the king’s influence was now spreading beyond Trivenivrata’s borders.

Other rulers were beginning to question the traditions that the acharya and his fellow teachers had spent generations preserving, while Devara was increasingly regarded as a king who possessed both the strength and the wisdom to challenge established powers.

The approaching conflict offered an opportunity to change that narrative.

If Vrishasena defeated Devara, the consequences would extend far beyond the loss of territory or military strength.

The alliance gathering around Trivenivrata would collapse, the kings who had placed their hopes in Devara would be forced to reconsider their choices, and the ruler who had challenged the established order would finally be made to answer for his defiance.

The acharya could then point to the outcome as proof that no king, however powerful or favoured he appeared, could simply discard the principles that had governed their society for generations and expect to escape the consequences.

A slow, determined smile appeared on his face.

"If the kings will not understand the danger while Devara continues to prosper," he murmured,

"then perhaps they will understand when they witness what happens to a man who believes himself powerful enough to stand against an entire system."

He rose from his seat and called for one of the senior teachers.

"Bring me the records of the rulers who studied under my guidance," he instructed.

"I want the names of those who still maintain correspondence with this gurukul, particularly those who have retained their respect for our traditions and the teachings they received here."

The teacher bowed and departed without asking questions.

He returned some time later with several bundles of palm-leaf records, which he placed before the acharya.

The old man began examining them carefully, his fingers moving across the inscriptions as he recalled the students whose education he had overseen.

Some had become ministers and military commanders, while others had inherited the thrones of their fathers.

Several were now kings in their own right, rulers who had once sat before him as young princes and listened to his lessons on kingship, duty, social order, and the responsibilities of those entrusted with authority.

Not all of them had followed his teachings unquestioningly after ascending their thrones.

A few had introduced reforms of their own, adapting certain practices to the circumstances of their kingdoms.

Others remained devoted to the traditional order, regarding the teachings of their gurus as the foundation upon which their authority rested.

It was among the latter that the acharya intended to find his allies.

He selected several names and ordered his attendants to prepare sealed letters addressed to their respective courts.

He would not openly command them to take up arms, for he understood that even former students who respected him would be reluctant to enter a war without considering their own interests.

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(Author note:)

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