The High Asura did not rush forward.
It stood at the edge of the rift, massive frame wrapped in black-violet armor that seemed grown rather than forged. Six eyes opened one after another along its helm, each glowing with a different hue of malice. Its presence alone distorted the folded space of the Heaven-Severing Arena, forcing the imperial formations to scream in silent protest.
"Too early," it rasped, voice echoing directly inside the minds of every living being present. "The harvest is… smaller than promised."
A ripple of fury coursed through Siddharth's chest.
Promised.
So the betrayal was deliberate. Calculated. Negotiated.
Not desperation—but ambition.
On the outer platforms, several competitors broke.
One tried to flee, hurling himself against the void barrier in panic. The barrier rejected him violently, snapping his body back like a discarded toy. Bones shattered. His scream cut short.
Another unleashed a forbidden technique, burning his own lifespan to summon a blazing avatar of flame. He managed to kill two lesser Asuras before collapsing into ash.
The arena was thinning.
Too fast.
Siddharth moved again.
Space folded.
He reappeared beside a wounded competitor—a girl from a minor academy, barely holding herself upright. An Asura blade descended toward her neck.
Siddharth caught it with two fingers.
The blade cracked.
The Asura froze, confusion flashing across its warped face before Siddharth twisted his wrist and erased its head from existence.
The girl stared at him, eyes wide.
"Stay behind the platform anchors," he said calmly. "Do not move unless I tell you."
She nodded frantically.
Siddharth vanished.
Across the arena, Crown Prince Aryavardhan Varma was fighting like a living embodiment of imperial will.
Golden light radiated from him in layered waves as he moved with terrifying precision, spear thrusts punching holes through Asura ranks. Each strike was efficient—no wasted motion, no wasted energy.
Yet even he was beginning to feel pressure.
The High Asura took a step forward.
The entire arena groaned.
Aryavardhan Varma's spear trembled.
So did Rudraksha Mishra's smile finally fade.
"That thing," He muttered, wiping blood from his mouth, "is not meant to be here."
"No," Aryavardhan Varma replied coldly. "It was invited."
Siddharth reached the formation core.
It existed as a crystalline structure suspended within a lattice of imperial script, rotating slowly like the heart of a living machine. Threads of golden authority intertwined with darker, jagged lines—Asura inscriptions grafted into the system with obscene elegance.
At the center floated a blood-marked seal.
Imperial.
Ancient.
Siddharth read it.
And exhaled slowly.
Mahendra Varma the Third Imperial Uncle.
A man who had vanished decades ago. Declared dead during a border conflict with the Asuras.
A corpse that never existed.
A shadow that had been patiently waiting.
"So this is how you returned," Siddharth murmured.
The seal pulsed, reacting to his presence.
It tried to lock him out.
He smiled faintly.
"You never accounted for space."
Siddharth reached out—not physically, but conceptually—and displaced the seal half a breath sideways.
The formation screamed.
For the first time since the invasion began, the Asuras hesitated.
The High Asura snarled.
"Interference detected."
It raised one clawed hand, chanting in a tongue older than empires. The rifts widened, bleeding more corrupted prana into the arena. Lesser Asuras surged forward in a wave meant to drown resistance through sheer numbers.
Rudraksha Mishra laughed wildly.
"Good," he said, flames coiling around his blade. "I was getting bored."
Aryavardhan Varma did not laugh.
He stepped forward, imperial bloodline blazing, and drove his spear into the ground.
A massive golden formation flared to life—one that should not have activated under the compromised system.
Yet it did.
The arena stabilized—slightly.
Just enough.
Aryavardhan Varma turned his head.
"Siddharth," he said quietly.
Not a question.
A statement.
Siddharth appeared beside him.
Rudraksha Mishra's eyes sharpened.
"So it was you," he said. "I wondered who the third pillar was."
"There's an imperial traitor," Siddharth said. "High-ranking. The invasion is anchored to the formation core."
Aryavardhan Varma's expression did not change—but the air around him grew colder.
"I suspected as much."
Rudraksha Mishra clicked his tongue. "Figures. Empires rot from the inside."
Siddharth met their gazes.
"I can sever the anchor," he said. "But it will expose the truth."
Aryavardhan Varma understood instantly.
If the betrayal became public—
The imperial family would fracture.
Civil war would follow.
The Asuras would not need to invade again.
The empire would destroy itself.
Aryavardhan Varma closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Then opened them.
"Do it," he said. "I will bear the consequences."
Rudraksha Mishra raised an eyebrow. "Bold of you, Your Highness."
Siddharth shook his head slightly.
"There is another way," he said. "But it requires trust."
He explained quickly.
Too quickly for lies.
Too precisely for deception.
Rudraksha Mishra listened, expression unreadable.
Aryavardhan Varma listened, fists clenched.
At the end, silence fell.
Rudraksha Mishra exhaled slowly.
"So," he said, "we erase the evidence, kill the Asuras, and let the traitor remain hidden—under watch."
"Yes," Siddharth said. "The empire survives. The Asuras gain nothing. And the debt… becomes leverage."
Aryavardhan Varma looked toward the High Asura, now advancing again.
"Then we act," he said.
They moved as one.
Aryavardhan Varma charged head-on, imperial spear blazing like a miniature sun, drawing the High Asura's attention. Rudraksha Mishra flanked, carving through the rift-spawned reinforcements with ruthless efficiency.
Siddharth vanished.
He reappeared inside the formation lattice.
Time slowed.
Space bent.
He reached the corrupted inscriptions and rewrote them—not deleting, not destroying, but redirecting.
The rifts shuddered.
Then collapsed.
One by one.
The High Asura roared in fury as its supply was severed.
"No—this pact—!"
Aryavardhan Varma's spear pierced its chest.
Rudraksha Mishra's blade severed its head.
The body dissolved into ash before it could hit the void.
Silence fell.
The arena stabilized.
Imperial formations reasserted control.
The surviving competitors collapsed in exhaustion, confusion etched across their faces.
Above them, the golden rankings still glowed.
Unchanged.
No one would know how close the empire had come to annihilation.
Later.
In a sealed imperial chamber.
The Fifth Princess stood quietly, hands folded, eyes sharp.
Aryavardhan Varma sat across from Siddharth, imperial officials dismissed, guards sworn to silence.
"You saved the empire," Aryavardhan Varma said.
"I preserved balance," Siddharth replied.
Rudraksha Mishra leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. "Same difference."
Aryavardhan Varma nodded.
"The traitor will be watched," he said. "Bound. Neutralized."
"And the records?" Siddharth asked.
"Erased," the Fifth Princess said softly. "By my authority."
Aryavardhan Varma looked at Siddharth intently.
"What do you want?"
Titles?
Land?
Power?
Siddharth shook his head.
"Nothing public," he said. "Only a favor."
Aryavardhan Varma smiled faintly.
"A dangerous man," he said. "Ruling without ruling."
Siddharth turned toward the window, where the imperial capital glittered beneath the night sky.
"I do not rule," he said quietly.
"I remain."
Far above Ayodhya.
Far beyond the reach of rumors.
A shadow stood watching the empire breathe.
And for the first time—
The empire did not know whether to fear the Asuras more…
Or the cultivator who had defeated them without ever taking the throne.