BAI'S PENTHOUSE

SHANGHAI,CHINA

The skyline of Shanghai burned gold against the glass, but the man standing before the window barely saw it.
Tall. Bare-chested. Muscles carved like sin and discipline.
His pants hung low on his hips, his body lit by the faint spill of city lights—danger molded into a man.

The room was hot, or maybe he made it feel that way.
Power did that.
Some men entered a room and blended into the shadows.

But him?
He dominated them simply by breathing.

A knock sliced through the heavy silence.

He didn't turn.
"Come in."

The door opened, and his right-hand man, Linhai Nansheng, stepped inside—a loyal shadow who had walked beside him through years of blood, secrets, betrayals. Usually composed. Usually unshakeable.

Not tonight.

His hesitation said everything.

"What is it?"
That voice—low, dangerous—smooth steel dragged across stone.

Lin swallowed. "S-sir... it's about the payment. The one who fled."

Silence.
Dense. Sharp.

His jaw flexed. Fingers curled. A storm gathered behind his eyes.

"I asked for answers."

"I—I'm sorry, boss. We... we couldn't find him."

A crack exploded through the room.

His fist slammed into the wall so hard the plaster split, brick crumbling. Blood streaked across his knuckles—bright and careless—because pain meant nothing to him.

"You couldn't find him?"
The disbelief was soft. Deadly.
Soft—like the moment before a throat is cut.

Lin bowed his head, breath locked in his chest.

"You didn't just lose him," the man continued, calm like a rising fire.
"You handed every enemy watching a reason to think I've lowered my guard. That this is their chance to come for me."

The air thickened.
The temperature spiked.
Even the shadows seemed to recoil.

"Either you find him... or I will have your head served at dinner tonight."

The threat wasn't shouted.
He didn't need volume—his quiet alone could start a war.

"Y-yes, sir. W-we will find him."

Lin backed out of the room.

The man remained still, blood dripping onto the cold marble floor as he stared down at the city beneath him.
Not feeling the pain.
Not caring.

The underworld whispered many names.

But only one made men flinch the way his did.

Bai Yansong.

And tonight, he made a vow—
someone was going to burn.

Just then, the door creaked open again.

A younger man entered—head bowed, shoulders tense, carrying something that altered the air instantly.

He didn't need to speak.
His eyes said it all.
He had something.
Something that dragged Bai Yansong closer to his revenge.

Closer to ending a fool who thought he could betray sin itself and walk away breathing.

Divish.
A man stupid enough to believe he could outplay him.

Lin froze mid-step, turning back. The man held out a phone—footage. A location.
And the name that had poisoned the last twenty-four hours.

Divish Malhotra.

Found.
Alive.
Hiding.

Hiding in Rajasthan...
and hiding from him.

Lin's eyes widened. He took the phone with a sharp motion, dismissed the messenger, and approached his boss—still staring out the window like a king overlooking his empire.

An empire no one touched.
Not without consequence.
Not without signing their own death warrant.

"Boss."

"What is it, Lin?"
Deeper now. Quieter. Deadlier.

Lin swallowed.
"Boss... we found him."

For the first time in hours, Bai Yansong turned.

His gaze snapped from Lin's face to the footage held out before him.
His jaw tightened the moment he saw that familiar face—

Laughing.
Drinking.
Partying as if he hadn't already written his own epitaph.

Every second of that video poured gasoline on his rage.

"Book a flight to India."
The command cut through the silence like a blade.

Before Lin could respond, Yansong snatched the phone from his hand. His breath hitched with fury—and with a feral snarl, he hurled it against the wall.

The device shattered into pieces that skittered across the marble floor.

Because somewhere far away, Divish Malhotra must have felt it too—
his days were no longer numbered.

They were nearly over.

Lin didn't wait another heartbeat.
He turned and left, already dialing, already booking the flight.

And back in the study?

A man stood before the window—breathing hard, knuckles dripping blood onto the floor, rage simmering beneath an expression no one alive had ever learned to read.

A man preparing for war.

⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

AMAR KILA PALACE

RAJASTHAN - MEWAR

The palace glowed in the moonlight—so bright it seemed to outshine the moon itself. Diyas burned along every balcony, every arch, every stretch of carved stone, turning the entire mahal into a shimmering constellation.

The spirit of Diwali clung to the air. Maids swept through the corridors with hurried grace, their arms full of brass lamps, the soft jingle of their anklets echoing against marble walls. Servants worked with quiet devotion, weaving marigold garlands, fixing lanterns, and adorning the temple courtyard with petals and fragrant incense.

Jasmine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the warm scent of ghee and flickering flames.
The night was still.
But the palace was alive—breathing, glowing, preparing.

A festival was about to begin.

The palace glowed as if it had swallowed the moon whole—diyas glittered along every balcony, every archway, every carved curve of stone, turning the mahal into a cascade of warm, living light. And through that glow came the bright, breathless music of payal, ringing fast and uneven against marble floors.

Princess Vishakha was running again.

Of course she was - on her way to be a troublemaker once again.

Her lehenga—silk the colour of ripened berries—fluttered around her like a restless flame, embroidery catching and throwing light with every hurried step. Her dupatta slipped from her shoulder and streamed behind her, a ribbon of gold chasing in her wake as she weaved between pillars and marigold strings.

"Rajkumari Vishakha! Stop—please ruk jaiye!"

The maids followed in a flustered parade, nearly tangling their feet in their own saris. They shared a tired yet amused glances. 

This was going to be a long day.

But something in Rajkumari's eyes confirmed that - She wasn't just being mischievous tonight; she was determined.

Vishakha didn't stop.
She turned her head just enough for them to see her pleading eyes.

Maids paused seeing that look - those doe eyes. How could anyone say no to them?

"I just want to see the Diwali procession," she insisted, voice high with hope. "Jab sab dekh sakte hai pure rajya mein sab toh ham kyu nahi?"

"Princess, you know you are not allowed outside the gates," one maid called, struggling to keep up.
"It's for your safety," another added.
"Maharaj will be furious if he finds out you've run again!"

But Rajkumari wasn't having it not today. She wanted to just get a glimpse of that celebration - everyone talked about with such excitement. 

And yet all these years she never got to see it. 

But she wanted to now.

But before they could answer, she took off again—
laughing, stubborn, hopeful—
her lehenga flashing like sparks, her anklets echoing through the glowing halls.

"You can't catch me!" she giggled, darting around a pillar. Cheeks flushing from running - eyes full of mischief but also something close to hope.

A hope to see the celebration for the first time ever.

"Princess, please—stop! Your lehenga will tear!"
"And the King asked you to be ready for the aarti!"
"Rajkumari ruk jaiye!" another maid called, half-laughing, half-despairing.

"I won't go far!" she protested, slowing only for a heartbeat, her anklets chiming softly. "I only want to watch from the steps. Just once."

She ran again - before even maids could say something.

But Vishakha didn't look back.
Tonight, she wanted to breathe outside air, not palace rules.
Tonight, she wanted to feel what her people felt—joy, music, freedom.

Finally, the oldest maid placed a hand on Vishakha's cheek.
"All right, Rajkumari," she whispered. "We'll speak to the King's steward. Perhaps... perhaps after you attend the aarti with maharaj and maharani.  We will go behind the gates and see the precision.. Not beyond the gates."

"If," the maid added firmly, "you let us take you back to your chambers and get you ready properly for the Diwali aarti."

Vishakha nodded so quickly her earrings jingled.
"Yes! Yes, ham vaada karte hai ! I'll stand still. I won't run. I'll—"
She caught herself with a small grin. "I'll try."

The maids couldn't help laughing.
"Come then, Princess," one said, looping an arm gently through hers. "Before the King realizes you've vanished again."

"Sit, Rajkumari," one instructed, pulling out an embroidered cushion.
"We must braid your hair and dress you before the aarti begins."

Vishakha settled onto the cushion, excitement humming under her skin.
For once, she wasn't running toward freedom—
freedom was coming to her in the form of a single permission, a single evening under Diwali lights.

And as she ran toward the courtyard glowing with a thousand lamps, she didn't notice the silent shadow on the highest terrace...
watching the celebration with far darker intentions.

AMAR KILA - DARBAR

The darbar hall echoed with the weight of old power—high ceilings carved with ancient stories, pillars wrapped in marigold garlands for the festival, and soldiers standing tall along the walls, spears upright, eyes unblinking.

At the head of the hall sat Maharaj Ranvijay Singh Rathore.

 His royal angarkha—deep indigo with gold borders—lay perfectly over him, but it was not his clothing that commanded the room.
It was his presence.

Silent.
Steady.
Unmistakably king.

The council of ministers stood in a semi-circle before him, scrolls and ledgers in hand, waiting for his word. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the tension of unspoken concerns.

Ranvijay finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying through the hall like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"Diwali brings joy," he said, fingers drumming once against the armrest, "but joy invites carelessness. We cannot afford that."

"Yes, Maharaj," one minister replied, stepping forward. "The procession route has been inspected twice. The guards posted—"

"Not enough."
Ranvijay didn't raise his voice, yet the interruption felt like a command.

Another minister cleared his throat. "We have doubled the soldiers at the outer gates—"

"Triple them," the king said. "And have them rotate. Fatigue is an enemy too."

Heads bowed. In the far corner, a general stepped forward and saluted.

"Maharaj, scouts have reported increased movement near the western forest line. We suspect outsiders have entered the region."

Ranvijay's jaw tightened, just slightly—so slight only those who knew him well would notice.

"Have they been identified?"

"No, Maharaj."

"Then find them before the sun sets tomorrow."
His voice carried no doubt. Only expectation.

Another minister added softly, "Your Majesty, Princess Vishakha has expressed a wish to step outside during the procession—"

Ranvijay's gaze lifted, sharp as steel.

"No."
The word was immediate.

The hall fell into a pin-drop silence.

"She will remain within the palace grounds," he continued, his tone unmoving. "Not a step beyond the inner courtyard. I will not have her exposed to risk during a time when shadows move too freely."

"Yes, Maharaj," the minister whispered, bowing.

Ranvijay leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the faces before him. "I want every roof checked. Every vantage point guarded. Every unknown face documented. The kingdom may celebrate, but we will remain vigilant."

The council members nodded, a chorus of "Ji, Maharaj," filling the hall.

"When my people walk in light," Ranvijay said quietly, "I will be the one who watches the dark."

The ministers bowed deeper. Orders were dispatched instantly.
The darbar hall buzzed into disciplined motion.

And while the kingdom prepared to celebrate Diwali,
its king prepared for war—
against an enemy he had not yet seen,
but already sensed in the wind.

The palace corridors glowed with the soft shimmer of diyas, their flames bending gently as Maharaj Ranvijay Singh Rathore walked through them. Guards straightened; servants stepped aside. But the king's expression, usually carved from stone, held something quieter tonight—concern, layered beneath royal restraint.

He paused outside Princess Vishakha's chamber.

Soft laughter floated from within, the rustle of silk, the jingle of payal, and the gentle scolding tones of the maids trying to tame their unruly princess.

Ranvijay exhaled once—father, not king— as his entry was announced.

The door finally flew open.

Inside, Vishakha sat on a low cushion while the maids braided her hair, tiny jasmine buds tucked between glossy strands. Her lehenga now properly arranged, her dupatta pinned, she looked every bit the princess she was meant to be.

But her eyes—bright, restless, hopeful—betrayed the child who had been running through the palace moments ago.

The maids instantly stood and bowed. "Maharaj."

Ranvijay lifted a hand gently. "Leave us."

The moment she noticed him, she shot up from her seat, lehenga swishing in a whirl of emerald and gold.

"Pitashri!" she breathed, running toward him with the same energy she used to chase peacocks in the palace gardens as a child.

Ranvijay steadied her by the shoulders, half amused, half exasperated.
"Vishakha... must you greet your father as though you are a storm breaking into my darbar?"

Ranvijay walked to her, his expression unreadable, then crouched down so he was level with her. Even in his royal attire, even with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, here he was only a father.

"You were running through the entire palace," he said quietly. "Again."

"Vishakha," he said softly, "you are not kept inside because you are a prisoner. You are kept safe because you are my heart."

Her eyes shimmered. "But I don't want to be locked away. Not tonight."

He let out a long breath—one not of irritation, but of worry.
"Vishakha, there are matters you cannot see from the palace windows. The world outside our walls is not always safe. I want no shadow touching my daughter on a night meant to bring light."

"But I won't be alone!" she argued gently. "The guards, the ministers, my own people... they love you, Pitashri. They love our family. Should I not stand with them, even for a moment?"

Ranvijay looked at her, really looked at her. At the young woman she was becoming—courage threaded through her softness, sense burning beneath her mischief.

He cupped her cheek, voice dropping to a father's confession rather than a king's command.

"You are just like your mother," he murmured. "Brave... stubborn... and heartbreakingly right."

Her breath caught. "Then let me go?"

He sighed—defeated in the way only a father can be.

"You will attend," he said finally. "For the aarti only. You will stand beside me. And you will not wander, not even an inch."

Her face lit like the first spark of a Diwali diya. "I promise, Pitashri!"

"And Vishakha," he added, giving her a mock-stern look, "no running down corridors. Your poor maids nearly fainted chasing you."

Outside, the maids exchanged helpless smiles. Inside, the king and his daughter stood together—one all power, one all light.
And for a moment, the palace felt like it was already glowing with Diwali.

He brushed a jasmine bud back into place where it had slipped from her braid, his touch feather–light, as if she were something sacred he was afraid to disturb.

Then, with a tenderness reserved only for her, Ranvijay pressed a soft kiss to Vishakha's forehead.
For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to simply be her father—no crown, no kingdom, just love wrapped in a single gesture.

And then he turned.

The moment he stepped past the threshold of her chamber, the warmth in his eyes dimmed into something colder, sharper. His shoulders straightened, his stance hardened, and every trace of softness disappeared like mist before the rising sun.

A father walked in.
A king walked out.

Unbeatable. Unyielding.
As formidable as the ancient walls of Amar Kila that guarded his kingdom—and the daughter he loved more than life itself.

⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Yansong's private jet finally dipped through the night clouds and touched Rajasthan soil — the thrum of the landing gear almost drowned out by the storm of rage building inside him.
Every passing minute only sharpened one thought:

Divish. Dead.

The cabin door hissed open. Metal stairs unfolded.
And then he stepped out.

Tall, cold, dangerous — hands shoved in his pockets, jaw locked tight. His men descended around him like a ring of protective lionesses, scanning every inch of the runway for threats.
Lin walked beside him, phone in hand, checking Divish's last known location over and over, eyes sharp, shoulders tense.

A black Contessa waited on the tarmac, engine humming low. Yansong slid into the back seat without a word, his men holding the door like shadows trained to obey.
Lin took the passenger seat, posture stiff, senses razor-sharp — always watching, always ready.

TING... TING... TING.

The shrill ring cut through the silence.

Lin answered, his voice low. A short conversation. A pause. Then he glanced back.

"Boss."

Yansong didn't even try to hide his irritation.
"What now, Lin?"

Lin swallowed. "Boss... I just got confirmation. The Diwali procession is happening in Mewar today."

For a second, the information hung in the air.

Yansong looked away, expression unreadable. Then he muttered, almost to himself,
"Even a festival can't save that bastard from me today."

The Contessa rolled into Mewar.
The roar of the city hit them first — fireworks cracking open the sky like falling stars, children running through the streets in bright traditional outfits, laughter echoing through the lanes.

The world here was different.
Too different from the one that shaped him.

This place smelled of marigolds, sweets, and innocence.
His world smelled of blood, gunmetal, and betrayal.

He watched a little girl twirl with sparklers, her bangles chiming softly.
A boy chased her, both of them giggling, their Diwali light spilling across the darkened street.

And something inside Yansong shifted.

A feeling he couldn't name —
a pull, strange and unwelcome.

As if this wasn't just about hunting down an enemy.
As if arriving here... stepping into Rajasthan tonight...

was fate preparing him for something bigger.

Something that would change everything he thought he knew about war, revenge —
and himself.

⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Outside the palace gates of Mewar, the Diwali procession had already begun — drums rolling like thunder, conch shells echoing through the courtyard, and a river of lanterns floating through the crowds like drifting fireflies.

Inside the palace, the mood was entirely different.
Calm, sacred, expectant.

The maids moved quickly through the marble corridors, anklets whispering against the floor as they carried trays of rose petals, incense, and gleaming silver lamps for the aarti.

"Light the diyas near the inner sanctum," one of the older maids instructed, adjusting her dupatta as she hurried.
"Rajkumari should be ready in a few minutes."

Others rushed to the temple room — a carved chamber glowing with golden flicker-light.
Hundreds of diyas were already lit, their flames trembling like tiny prayers.
The scent of jasmine and sandalwood drifted in the air, soft and warm.

A young maid knelt beside the threshold, arranging marigold garlands with trembling hands.
"Did the procession start?" she whispered to another.

"Yes," the other replied, peeking out through the jharokha window where faint music drifted in. "Listen... the dhol already reached the royal road."

The maids exchanged a knowing glance.
Diwali in the palace was more than celebration — it was ritual, duty, legacy.

Brass bells rang lightly as another group entered, carrying the silver thaal prepared for the King and Rajkumari Vishakha.
Tiny bowls filled with kumkum, rice grains, ghee lamps, and fragrant flowers shone under the palace chandeliers.

"Be careful," a head maid murmured. "Maharaj will arrive any moment."

The palace felt alive — every flame, every flower, every soft footstep humming with anticipation.

Outside, the city roared with celebration.
Inside, the palace breathed in quiet devotion — waiting for the royal family to step forward and offer the first aarti of Diwali.

And somewhere deep within the corridors, destiny walked closer...
in the form of a man whose arrival would change everything.

The brass bells chimed softly as the temple doors opened —
and then, like a streak of festival light, Princess Vishakha burst inside.

Her lehenga swirled around her ankles, shimmering like spilled starlight.
Her payal sang with each hurried step — chhan... chhan... chhan — announcing her arrival long before she could stop herself.

She skidded to a halt on the marble floor, breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing with the leftover excitement of her escape.
A tiny giggle slipped out before she could hide it.

"Rajkumari!"
Three maids gasped in unison, nearly dropping the silver aarti tray.

One of them rushed forward.
"Why are you running in the palace again? You'll slip on this floor!"

But Vishakha only hid her smile behind her palm, the way she always did when she was caught doing exactly what she was forbidden to do.

"I just wanted to see the procession," she whispered, still catching her breath. "Only a little bit. It's so beautiful outside."

Her laughter still danced in the air — soft, tinkling, uncontainable.

Another maid shook her head, though a smile tugged at her lips.
"Rajkumari, please... your father will be here any moment. Come, we must fix your braid. The jasmine flowers are falling out again."

Vishakha reached up and felt the loosened blossoms.
The movement only made her giggle harder.

"I was only looking from the balcony," she insisted weakly, even though the dust on her lehenga hem told a different story.

The head maid gently took her by the shoulders.
"Come inside, child. The aarti is about to begin. Let us get you ready before Maharaj arrives."

Vishakha finally nodded, still smiling, still glowing with that unbreakable, joyous spark that no royal rule could tame.

As the maids gathered around her — fixing her braid, adjusting her dupatta, straightening the folds of her lehenga —
Vishakha continued to giggle under her breath, unable to stop.

Outside, the drums of Diwali thundered.
Inside, the princess shone brighter than any diya.

The great doors opened.

Maharaj Ranvijay Singh Rathore entered with quiet authority, his silhouette illuminated by the golden blaze of a hundred lamps.
At his side walked Princess Vishakha, her earlier mischief melted into a calm poise — though a faint smile still tugged at the corner of her lips, as if the last giggle had not entirely left her.

Her lehenga moved like liquid silk.
Her payal chimed in a soft, respectful rhythm now — a far gentler echo of the playful sound from minutes earlier.

The priest bowed.
"Maharaj, Rajkumari... aarti ke liye."

The silver aarti thaal was brought forward — polished to a mirror shine, ringed with marigolds, and carrying a single ghee lamp whose flame was steady, unwavering.

Ranvijay's hand lifted the plate.
Vishakha placed her fingers lightly beside his, her touch small against the breadth of his palm. For a second, he glanced at her — the king vanished, the father remained.

Then the chants began.

Low. Ancient. Deep as the roots of the land they ruled.

The flame circled before the deity, its glow spilling over them — painting Ranvijay's sharp features in molten gold, softening Vishakha's eyes into something tender and bright.
Petals fell from above in slow drifts, catching the light as they descended.

Behind them, the palace stood united — maids with folded hands, ministers bowed, guards steady and unmoving.

The air smelled of ghee, sandalwood, and jasmine — the fragrance of every Diwali before this one, and every Diwali yet to come.

Vishakha closed her eyes, a quiet prayer forming on her lips, the weight of tradition settling gently on her shoulders.
Ranvijay's grip on the thaal tightened ever so slightly — his own silent vow for her safety woven into the ritual.

When the final bell rang, the sound shivered through the chamber like a blessing.

The aarti ended.
The flame dimmed.
And the father and daughter stepped back together — every inch the royalty their people adored.

The Contessa slowed... then stopped.

Ahead of them, the main road of Mewar was completely blocked — a glowing river of people, lanterns, dancers, temple elephants, and musicians moving in a slow, rhythmic tide.
The Diwali procession had taken over everything.

Drums thundered.
Conch shells blared.
Torches swayed like stars caught in motion.

Lin leaned forward from the passenger seat, frustration sharp in his voice.
"Boss... the road is shut. No vehicle is getting through this."

Yansong's jaw clenched.

Of all things, a festival was delaying him.

He tapped his fingers once against his thigh — the only sign of irritation he allowed himself — then pushed the car door open.

"Fine," he muttered. "We walk."

Lin was out in seconds, already scanning the crowd for threats, hand subtly brushing the hidden weapon at his waist.

The moment Yansong stepped out, the clash of color and sound hit him like a wave.
Children with sparklers ran past him, laughing, leaving streaks of light behind.
Women in lehengas brushed by, balancing trays of diyas.
Drummers marched through the street, pounding in rhythm — dhak... dhak... dhak — the beat vibrating through the ground.

It was chaos.
Bright, loud, alive.

Nothing like the world he belonged to.

Lin moved closer, voice low.
"Boss, stay near me. Too many people."

Yansong didn't respond.
His eyes were locked ahead — sharp, focused, predatory — cutting through the celebration with the clarity of a man who had come to kill.

He walked forward, the crowd parting just enough for him to pass.
People smiled at him without knowing who he was.
Children tugged at his sleeve by accident.
A stray diya almost brushed against his arm.

This world was too... warm.

Too full.

Too loud.

And yet, something inside him tightened unexpectedly — a sensation he couldn't name, one that didn't belong to revenge.

Lin checked his phone again.
"Divish's last location is still towards the palace side of Udaipur. He won't be far now."

Yansong nodded once.

Fireworks burst overhead, lighting his face in silver and gold.
The crowd cheered.

He didn't.

But for a fleeting second, he looked up at the sky — and the strange feeling from earlier returned.

Like fate had dragged him here.
Like the festival, the lights, the crowd...
were all guiding him somewhere he wasn't meant to escape.

He kept walking.

Toward the palace. To another step to end that Divish.

The Amar Mahal rises from the stone like a living legend—its domes lit in gold, its walls gleaming under oil lamps. People gather below, palms pressed together, eyes lifted in reverence.

Yansong follows their gaze upward.

His steps still.

Because on the grand balcony—tall, proud, unshakeable—stands King Ranvijay.

Draped in royal angarkha, arm braced against the balcony rail, a guard standing at attention beside him, he surveys his people with the calm power of a man born to command.

A king carved out of authority.

A king who watches everything.

Yansong narrows his eyes.

Yansong stops at the edge of the courtyard—boots firm on the stone, breath steadying.
Lin takes half a step forward, but Yansong lifts a subtle hand.

Wait.

The aarti below is in full swing—bells ringing, flames circling, voices rising in prayer. And in Yansong's world, no matter how dark it is, one rule has always stood:

You do not walk through someone's devotion.
You wait. You honour it.

So he stands still.

Eyes lowered—not out of submission, but out of an odd, inherited courtesy.
His men fall silent behind him.

The diya flames dance in the wind. Flowers rain from the palace balconies. The crowd chants louder, rising like a heartbeat through the night.

Only after the final bell rings...
after the last circle of the aarti flame is drawn...

He looks up—slow, deliberate—straight toward the balcony.

King Ranvijay hasn't moved.

Their eyes don't meet—too much distance, too much crowd—
but Yansong feels something shift.

A king watching his kingdom.
A stranger watching the king.

Two worlds colliding—quietly, respectfully—
before fate decides the louder way.

Just as Yansong prepares to move again, something tugs at the edge of his vision.

A flicker of shadow.
A shape where no shape should be.

His gaze shifts—past the balcony, past the king's guards—higher, to a narrow terrace above the palace arch.

There.

A lone figure wrapped in black.
Still.
Rigid.
Watching.

Too still to be a servant.
Too dark to belong in this festival of light.
Too... out of place.

The fireworks behind the palace explode in gold, momentarily illuminating the silhouette—and Yansong's jaw tightens.

His instincts whisper what words don't need to:

That isn't a spectator.
That's a threat.

Lin notices the change in his expression.
"Boss?" he murmurs, barely audible.

But Yansong doesn't answer.

His eyes stay locked on the dark figure, muscles coiling, mind calculating.

And for the first time since stepping into Mewar, his rage pauses—
replaced by something sharper, colder.

Not revenge.

Warning.

Then he sees it.

The shadow on the terrace shifts slightly—and Yansong's sharp eyes catch the glint.
A sniper rifle, cradled in steady hands, aimed with terrifying precision.

Time freezes.

The world of laughter, bells, and fireworks doesn't matter anymore. The king—Ranvijay Singh Rathore—stands directly in the line of sight. Yansong's stomach drops.

Reality hits, sharp as a blade:

There is no time.
He cannot call out.
Every second wasted is a second too late.

Lin is at his side, but even a whisper would be drowned in the chaos of drums and cheering.

Yansong's mind doesn't think. It moves.

He runs.

Muscles coil and spring, cutting through the crowd like a shadow himself. Anklets tinkle faintly on the polished stones below, unnoticed. Children dart aside, women shriek in surprise, but he doesn't stop.

Every step is a calculation, every heartbeat a countdown.

The distance between him and the king shrinks in a heartbeat.
The first gunshot hasn't fired yet—but if it does, it will be too late for the king.

Yansong's body knows only one thing: stop the shot, now.

Yansong doesn't hesitate.

The gap between the palace terraces isn't meant to be crossed. No one ever does it. Stone ledges, polished and slick from centuries of festival traffic, yawning voids below. But he doesn't think.

Years of mafia-honed reflexes, balance, and instinct take over.

He leaps.

Muscles coil, arms extend, fingers claw the edge. A soft grunt escapes him as he lands, rolling to absorb the momentum. He doesn't pause. Another jump. Another landing. The crowd below has no idea what is unfolding above them.

From the palace balcony, the guards tense. One even moves to draw a weapon. But the king doesn't intervene. He watches, eyes narrowing in curiosity. Something about this stranger—this shadow moving with impossible speed—catches his attention.

Yansong's eyes flick to the sniper, every inch of the black-clad figure measured. The man clicks the aim again, a deadly rhythm. One shot. One life.

The king's pulse doesn't register to anyone else, but Yansong sees it. Time to end this.

He sprints. Every step precise, calculated, impossible. The crowd noise, the drums, the bells—they are nothing. The world narrows to two points: the king and the rifle.

Finally, he reaches the balcony.

Without hesitation, he grabs Ranvijay, pulling the king down to the floor in one smooth, violent motion.

A gunshot rings out.

The bullet tears a shard of stone from the wall, spinning smoke and sparks in its wake. Yansong's body hits the floor just inches from Ranvijay's. The king stares at him, eyes wide—part shock, part disbelief, part something he cannot yet name.

Yansong doesn't move. He only breathes, his gaze never leaving the sniper. Every muscle ready, every instinct screaming.

The festival, the lights, the aarti—they are all gone now. Only protection. Only survival. Only the kill-zone above them.

The moment Yansong hits the floor with Ranvijay, chaos erupts.

The guards snap into action, rushing toward the balcony, swords drawn, voices shouting commands that get lost in the din of the Diwali procession below.

Two bulky guards reach the king first, pushing Yansong aside and forming a human shield around him. Their eyes widen when they see the stranger on the floor, still poised, still dangerous. The crowd below gasps, whispers rippling like wildfire — someone, somewhere, has crossed every boundary of the palace and survived.

Yansong feels it almost immediately.

A burning, searing pain shoots through his right shoulder. He freezes for a fraction of a second, teeth gritted. His leather jacket is damp with blood, the edge of a sniper's bullet grazing him just enough to hurt, but not enough to stop him.

He glances down at his arm. Red seeps through his sleeve.

Hit.

He curses under his breath, sharp and low.

But there's no time to dwell.

The sniper is still up there. Every second wasted could cost the king his life.

Yansong swallows the pain, adjusting his stance. His arm screams, but his eyes—cold, calculated, unyielding—never leave the terrace.

The guards tighten their formation, the king's eyes wide with shock

The bullet's whine still echoed in the air when Ranvijay's voice cut through everything — sharp, commanding, unyielding.

"Take Vishakha inside — now! RUN!"

The guards nearest the princess froze for only a heartbeat before moving with lightning speed. They grabbed her by the arms, ushering her back toward the inner palace corridors, their armor clinking, swords swinging, voices barking instructions to clear the way.

Vishakha's eyes were wide, a mix of fear and disbelief. The flicker of the aarti flames behind her reflected in her pupils, painting her face in gold and amber.

She struggled for a moment.
"Pitashri—what's—"

But Ranvijay's arm shot out, steadying her. His gaze never left the balcony, where shadows still loomed, and his voice was sharp, final.

"Now! No questions!"

The maids scrambled to obey, clutching her skirts and guiding her through the palace halls, their hearts hammering as they ducked behind pillars and arches.

Ranvijay's eyes swept the balcony floor, landing on a figure huddled against the stone wall.

A young man.

Clutching his shoulder, blood seeping through his jacket. Pain etched across his features. But there was something else too — a calm, almost casual confidence that spoke of deadly precision.

And most of all: he had saved the king.

Ranvijay felt it in his chest — a strange mix of gratitude, surprise, and curiosity. This was no courtier, no guard, no soldier of his own. Yet here he was. A stranger. A shadow. A protector.

The king straightened, his voice cutting through the aftermath:
"Guards! Bring him inside — now!"

Two guards immediately stepped forward, moving cautiously. Yansong didn't resist. His eyes flicked once toward the king, sharp and unreadable, before letting them guide him inside.

Ranvijay watched him go, a thought forming in the recess of his mind:

This man... there is something about him. Something dangerous. And yet... he saved my life without even knowing me.

He would need answers.

Two hours passed.

The royal physician worked with practiced precision on Yansong's shoulder, cleaning the wound and bandaging it with steady hands. Pain throbbed faintly, but Yansong didn't flinch. His eyes, sharp and restless, roamed the palace around him.

Every corridor, every arch, every marble inlay glowed under the soft, golden light of countless diyas. Lamps hung from intricately carved ceilings, their flames flickering against frescoed walls. Marigold garlands draped railings and pillars. The scent of jasmine, sandalwood, and incense filled the air — rich, heavy, intoxicating.

It was a world apart from the one Yansong knew — a kingdom built on ceremony, light, and legacy. Every sound, every shimmer of gold, every delicate movement of a servant reminded him that he was a stranger here.

A soft voice broke his observation.

"Bring that young man to the darbar.Now"

Measured, deep, unmistakably regal.

He pushed himself upright, ignoring the dull ache in his shoulder. Lin fell into step beside him, silent and alert. Guards flanked them, moving with the quiet authority of trained soldiers. Yansong's gaze swept the palace as they walked — polished marble floors reflecting the light of hanging lanterns, intricate tapestries telling stories of battles and triumphs, arches leading to hidden courtyards.

Finally, they reached the doors of the darbar hall.

Two guards stepped aside. Their hands rested on the enormous brass handles, polished until they gleamed. Yansong pushed the doors open.

The hall was vast. Pillars carved like ancient trees soared toward the high ceiling. Chandeliers glimmered like frozen constellations. Courtiers, ministers, and attendants stood in orderly silence, their eyes following his every movement.

At the far end, seated on a throne carved from gold and rosewood, King Ranvijay Singh Rathore watched him. Calm. Commanding. Unflinching.

Yansong paused, absorbing the weight of the room. Here sat the man whose life he had saved. Here, the authority of a king filled the space like a living thing.

For the first time since entering Mewar, Yansong felt the full measure of the power he had stepped into — and the dangerous lines he now walked.

Yansong stepped forward, his shoulder still aching, eyes alert. The silence of the darbar pressed against him — every gaze trained on the man who had stormed a palace, defied guards, and saved a king.

King Ranvijay rose from his throne, the air around him heavy with authority. He studied Yansong for a long moment, then spoke, voice calm but edged with intensity:

"You... saved my life. And you didn't even know me."

Yansong's eyes met the king's. Calm. Direct. Unflinching.

"I... did what I had to," he said, voice low, measured. No pride. No apology. Just fact.

Ranvijay studied him, weighing each word. For a long moment, there was nothing but the echo of the aarti from earlier, the soft clatter of distant palace life, and the quiet thrum of power between them.

"You risked your life," Ranvijay continued, softer this time, almost a murmur to himself. "For someone you didn't even know. That... takes courage. Or madness."

Yansong's expression didn't change. "Neither. Just instinct."

"You know... there is always a price for saving a king."

Yansong's jaw tightened imperceptibly, his eyes flicking to the king's, measuring, calculating, aware that in this palace, even life-saving came with consequences.

"You have claimed to be a warrior... and now, I pay you back. With my heart."

A pause. Every minister, every guard, every noble in the hall stiffened, sensing the weight of the moment.

"My daughter... is yours."

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Deewangi Writess