Ayodhya's blood essence market changed—
not overnight,
but inevitably.
At first, no one noticed.
A shipment arrived earlier than expected.
Another carried slightly higher purity.
A third was offered at a price just low enough to be tempting—but not alarming.
Merchants smiled.
Sect quartermasters relaxed.
Independent cultivators spread the word.
Behind every transaction stood the same unremarkable young man—Shubham's new aide—quiet, efficient, forgettable.
No one questioned him.
And that was the point.
Within a month, the numbers became impossible to ignore.
More than sixty percent of the blood essence circulating through Ayodhya now came from a single, untraceable source.
No sect emblem.
No known hunting grounds.
No visible refining hall.
Only supply.
Endless, precise supply.
Elders began holding closed-door meetings.
"How is this possible?"
"Even ancient families can't maintain this rate."
"Is it a hidden sect?"
No answers surfaced.
Because there were none.
Prices shifted—not sharply, but surgically.
Friendly forces—sects that had traded fairly with Shubham in the past—found themselves receiving:
Slight discounts
Priority deliveries
Higher-grade essence mixed into standard batches
Their disciples advanced faster.
Their morale surged.
Meanwhile, rival sects felt a different pressure.
Prices rose by just a few percent.
Delivery times stretched.
Low-grade essence replaced higher tiers.
Nothing that could be accused.
Nothing that could be protested.
Yet within weeks, their cultivation schedules slipped.
Resources drained.
Tensions rose between elders.
Siddharth watched it all through the eyes of his proxy.
Power does not announce itself, he thought.
It rearranges the world until resistance becomes inefficient.
Shubham noticed first.
"This… this isn't normal," he said one night, staring at the ledgers. "Even the Yadav family is buying from us indirectly now."
The puppet remained still.
"Continue as instructed," he said. "Maintain neutrality in appearance. Favor only through numbers."
Shubham swallowed.
"And if someone investigates?"
The puppet's gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second.
"They will find nothing."
Far away, Siddharth's fingers traced invisible patterns in the air.
If needed—
A puppet could be moved.
A witness displaced.
A trail folded out of existence.
By the end of the season, the truth had spread in whispers:
There was no longer a free blood essence market in Ayodhya.
There was only
permission.
Siddharth did not celebrate.
He adjusted another figure in his mental ledger.
Rival sect finances weakening: acceptable.
Friendly influence expanding: optimal.
He closed his eyes.
The market no longer belonged to merchants or sects.
It belonged to the shadows between transactions.
And Siddharth ruled there—
without a throne,
without a name,
without ever stepping into the light.
And then a request came without ceremony.
No seal.
No formal envoy.
Only a single jade slip delivered to Shubham's back room—its aura restrained, its message brief.
A private meeting. Tonight. No witnesses.
The Fifth Princess of Kosala did not ask lightly.
Siddharth arrived masked, dressed in black, his presence muted to the point that even seasoned guards would struggle to remember his outline.
The meeting chamber lay deep beneath a neutral estate—ancient stone, isolation arrays humming softly.
The Fifth Princess was already there.
She did not rise.
Instead, she studied him with the sharp, assessing gaze of someone who had rearranged courts before breakfast.
"So," she said calmly, "the Man in Black exists."
Siddharth remained silent.
She continued, unfazed.
"Multiple sects. Three ancient families. Two royal-affiliated organizations. All of them are searching for the same shadow."
Her fingers tapped the armrest once.
"You."
Siddharth tilted his head slightly.
"And yet," he said, voice distorted, "they have found nothing."
The princess smiled faintly.
"That is precisely the problem."
She waved her hand, and a projection bloomed between them—trade routes, blood essence flows, price curves.
"Sixty percent market capture," she said. "Perfect supply control. No hunting teams detected. No refining halls discovered."
Her eyes met his.
"This is no longer commerce. This is strategy."
She leaned forward.
"I won't ask who you are," she said. "Nor how you do it."
Instead, she placed a single condition on the table.
"Limited cooperation. Information sharing. Quiet alignment."
Her tone sharpened.
"In return, I ensure that royal investigations never look too closely. That rumors remain rumors."
Siddharth considered her offer.
Then he spoke.
"I agree," he said, "to cooperation."
A pause.
"But not dependency."
The princess's smile widened—not offended, but impressed.
"So you keep the knife," she said softly. "Even while shaking hands."
"Always," Siddharth replied.
Elsewhere, pressure was mounting.
The Yadav family had grown impatient.
Blood essence prices refused to fall.
Their cultivation schedules were slipping.
Their juniors were falling behind.
So they escalated.
A Rishi-realm cultivator arrived in Ayodhya under the guise of negotiation—his presence heavy, his aura unrestrained.
His destination was clear.
Shubham.
The meeting was tense.
The Rishi sat opposite Shubham, fingers drumming on the table, cultivation radiating like a warning.
"Lower your prices," the cultivator said flatly. "Or your supply routes will suffer… accidents."
Shubham poured tea calmly.
"Our prices follow the market," he replied. "Nothing more."
The Rishi's eyes narrowed.
"You are in no position to resist."
Shubham smiled—just slightly.
"You misunderstand," he said. "I am not resisting."
Inside his mind, the link pulsed once.
Far away, Siddharth became aware.
Pressure had crossed into threat.
And threats required… correction.
The Rishi cultivator felt it then—a fleeting sensation, like being watched from behind a folded mirror.
But when he turned—
There was nothing.
Shubham raised his cup.
"Tea," he said gently. "Before it cools."
The game had entered a new phase.
And this time, the shadows were no longer content to remain unnamed.