The ruins did not sleep.
Even after Siddharth returned, the inscriptions he had seen beneath the Forbidden Valley lingered in his mind like living symbols. The fragmented Beast Emperor Scripture pulsed faintly inside his storage ring, as if urging him forward.
He finally made a decision.
If the ruins held answers—then the puppets were the key.
Siddharth entered his secluded cave and carefully reconstructed a lesser formation using the ruin inscriptions recorded within the scripture. Unlike refinement arrays, these symbols were not meant to create life, nor to bind souls.
They were meant to awaken dominance etched into blood.
He placed the three puppets at the center.
Two Sadhak-rank puppets stood to his left and right.
The Yogi-rank puppet stood directly before him.
"Begin synchronization," Siddharth said calmly.
Prana surged.
The inscriptions ignited—not with light, but with a deep crimson glow, as if the stone itself bled. The air trembled, and a pressure older than sects, older than cultivation systems, descended upon the chamber.
The puppets trembled.
Cracks appeared—not of damage, but of release.
The first change was subtle.
The Sadhak-rank puppets adjusted their stances on their own—angling shoulders, lowering centers of gravity, reacting to invisible threats.
"…Combat judgment," Siddharth whispered.
Not orders.
Not commands.
Decisions.
Then the Yogi-rank puppet changed.
Its monster core, long hidden beneath artificial flesh, began to dissolve—merging inward, spreading into veins of crimson-gold light. Its chest rose.
Once.
Twice.
It breathed.
Siddharth's pupils constricted.
"Half-living…"
Not alive.
Not dead.
Something in between.
The inscriptions dimmed.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Master."
The voice was rough, unused, but unmistakably real.
Siddharth froze.
All three puppets knelt.
Not mechanically.
Reverently.
"We exist," the Yogi-rank puppet continued slowly, as if tasting language itself, "to serve."
The two Sadhak-rank puppets followed, voices quieter but clear.
"Command us, Master."
Siddharth closed his eyes briefly.
An ethical weight pressed against his chest.
They could think.
They could judge.
They could speak.
And yet… they were bound.
"Are you suffering?" he asked quietly.
"No," the Yogi-rank puppet replied without hesitation. "Obedience is our core. Will exists only to serve you."
That answer disturbed him more than pain would have.
But Siddharth was not naïve.
This world devoured the weak without remorse.
If he hesitated, others would not.
"…Then you will not be tools," he said finally. "You will be retainers."
He pointed to the taller Sadhak-rank puppet.
"You are Rudra."
To the second Sadhak-rank puppet:
"You are Veer."
Finally, he looked at the Yogi-rank puppet—the one that breathed.
"And you… are Agniv."
The three bowed simultaneously.
"Our names are our chains," Agniv said. "And our honor."
Testing followed.
Siddharth demonstrated Bajrang Fist Arts.
Once.
Rudra mirrored the stance—imperfect, but adaptive.
Veer adjusted footwork instinctively.
Agniv watched in silence, then moved.
The air cracked.
The punch carried not only power, but intent.
Siddharth's heart skipped.
"…You can learn martial arts."
"Yes," Agniv replied. "We observe. We refine. We execute."
Without hesitation, Siddharth taught them both Bajrang Fist Arts and Garuda Wings Arts.
Not because they were weapons—
But because they were now soldiers who could think.
As night fell, Siddharth stood alone inside his cave, gazing into the darkness beyond its entrance.
He had crossed a line ancient cultivators once ruled—and feared.
He had not created life.
But he had given will to obedience.
And deep beneath the Forbidden Valley,
the legacy of the Beast Emperor stirred—
silent, watchful, and waiting.
Wrapped in a plain black robe, his face hidden behind a dark mask, Siddharth once again entered the largest trading company of Ayodhya.
The atmosphere inside was different this time.
Less curiosity.
More caution.
The masked seller of blood essence had already become a silent legend within the trading circles.
Shubham greeted him personally, his expression respectful but measured. As always, he made no attempt to probe the man's identity. In this business, knowing when not to ask was survival.
"You asked for information," Shubham said softly as they entered a sealed room.
"And for blood essence."
Siddharth placed several jade bottles on the table.
Shubham inhaled sharply.
Perfectly refined.
Pure.
Without impurities.
Shishya-rank blood essence.
After a brief evaluation, the transaction was completed cleanly. A staggering sum was transferred, yet neither man lingered on numbers.
Then Shubham hesitated.
"There is… something else," he said, lowering his voice.
"A rare item. Not listed publicly."
From a spatial container, he retrieved a crystal vial.
The moment Siddharth's gaze fell upon it, his heartbeat slowed.
The blood within was ancient.
Heavy.
Alive.
"Maharishi-rank monster blood," Shubham said carefully. "Recently obtained. I was saving it for… the right buyer."
Siddharth did not hesitate.
"I'll take it."
No bargaining.
No theatrics.
Shubham nodded, silently acknowledging that this masked figure was beyond ordinary logic.
That very evening, the trading company hosted a grand auction.
This one surpassed previous events—Yogi and Rishi-rank artifacts filled the catalog.
Siddharth entered openly.
Still masked.
Still anonymous.
But no longer silent.
The bidding floor trembled as ancient sect elders raised prices without restraint.
A Yogi-rank defensive artifact shattered expectations.
Then came the swords.
One item in particular froze the hall.
"Rishi-rank Sword Art Manual," the host announced.
"—Jal Taral Sword Art. Fluid as water. Endless as tides."
Siddharth's eyes sharpened.
This was not brute force swordsmanship.
This was adaptability. Flow. Killing intent hidden beneath softness.
He raised his paddle.
"1.2 Billion."
A sect elder scoffed and countered immediately.
"1.3 Billion."
The numbers climbed.
1.4 Billion.
1.5 Billion.
The hall grew tense as even elders began to hesitate.
Then Siddharth spoke again, calm and steady.
"1.8 Billion."
A hush fell.
The sect elder's face darkened—but he did not raise his paddle again.
The gavel fell.
"Sold."
For the first time, murmurs weren't about the item—
But about the man behind the mask.
High above, inside a private VIP chamber, a young woman watched quietly.
The Fifth Princess of Kosala Desh.
She had seen this bidding style before.
Direct.
Calculated.
Unflinching.
Her lips curved into a faint smile.
"So it's you again," she murmured.
"Blood essence… puppets… and now Rishi rank sword arts."
She did not reveal herself.
Not yet.
But interest had been planted.
As Siddharth left the auction hall, storage ring heavier than before—
Maharishi blood secured.
Rishi rank sword art acquired.
He could feel it.
The ripples were spreading.
The mask still protected him—
But the world had begun to remember his presence.
And once noticed…
There was no returning to obscurity.