He squeezed. Bone ground against bone.
Dewan Rao let out a high-pitched, undignified shriek. The Prime Minister tumbled backward onto his rear, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated terror.
The glass inkwell he had been holding shattered against the marble floor. Thick black ink splashed directly across Lord Harrington's pristine, mirror-polished boots.
"What in God's name?!" Harrington barked. The British officer jumped back, his hand instinctively flying to the brass hilt of his cavalry saber.
Rudra slowly opened his eyes.
He didn't scramble away. He didn't gasp for air like a dying boy. He moved with a deliberate, terrifying calm.
He pushed himself up off the floor, his heavy, gold-threaded robes dragging against the marble. He rose to his full height. This new body was surprisingly athletic, a stark contrast to his past life. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the joints pop and lock into place with a sickeningly loud crack.
Lord Harrington was staring at him in absolute shock. All the color had drained from his face. His monocle, previously wedged firmly into his eye socket, popped loose and dangled uselessly by its gold chain.
Dewan Rao was still on the floor, crab-walking backward in the puddle of his own ink. His mouth opened and closed in sheer panic.
"Im... Impossible," Rao stammered, his voice cracking. "I watched you drink it. I saw the blood! You... you were dead!"
Rudra ignored the traitor. He looked down at the pool of poisoned blood on the floor, then down at his ruined silk robes. He clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. Damaged assets.
He reached up with a steady hand and wiped the remaining streak of black blood from his chin. Pulling a white silk handkerchief from his sleeve, he wiped his fingers clean and casually tossed the cloth onto the puddle.
"A rather sloppy assassination, Dewan," Rudra said. His voice was cold, resonant, and entirely stripped of fear. "Arsenic? It is completely untargeted. Messy. If you wanted me dead, you should have used a clean neurotoxin. But I suppose I shouldn't expect competence from middle management."
Harrington finally found his voice, though it lacked its previous aristocratic drawl.
"You... you speak English?" the officer demanded. His grip tightened on his saber. "The reports said you were an uneducated savage who barely spoke a word of it."
Rudra finally turned his gaze to the British Resident. The blue AR overlay hovered over Harrington's face. The [ ARROGANCE LEVEL: 99% ] meter pulsed a hostile, bright red.
"I speak several languages, Harrington," Rudra said smoothly.
He stepped over the puddle of ink and blood, walking directly toward the heavy mahogany desk in the center of the room, completely ignoring the armed British officer. He picked up the heavy parchment resting on the desk.
The Annexation Treaty. The wax seal of the East India Company gleamed at the bottom, waiting for his signature.
"Let's review the terms of your little bargain," Rudra said, scanning the document. He didn't read it like a terrified boy losing his kingdom; his eyes darted across the page like a man hunting for a fatal flaw in a merger contract.
"Ah, yes. Section Four. 'In the event of the Maharaja's demise without a male heir, all sovereign lands and ports default to the Honorable East India Company due to unpaid debts totaling two million rupees.'"
Rudra looked up from the parchment, meeting Harrington's panicked gaze.
"Two million rupees," Rudra repeated, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. "You valued an entire sovereign coastal state, complete with a deep-water port and untapped mineral rights, at two million rupees? That is not an annexation, Harrington. That is a rounding error."
"Listen here, you little wretch," Harrington spat, recovering a fraction of his colonial bravado. He drew his saber half an inch from its scabbard. The steel hissed menacingly in the quiet room.
"I don't know what dark trick you used to survive that cup, but it changes nothing. Your treasury is empty. Your army consists of fifty starving beggars. You owe the Company a debt you cannot pay. You will sign that treaty, or my redcoats will burn this palace to the ground and take it from your corpse."
Rudra didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the sword. He looked at the Arrogance Meter hovering over Harrington's head.
He needed to break it.
"A threat of physical violence to force a signature?" Rudra tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Sloppy. It leaves you legally exposed."
Casually, Rudra rolled the heavy parchment of the Annexation Treaty into a tight cylinder. Then, without breaking eye contact with the British officer, he reached over to the candelabra burning on the desk.
He held the tip of the treaty directly over the open flame.
Harrington's eyes bulged. "Stop! That is an official document of the Crown!"
The dry parchment caught fire instantly. Rudra held it, letting the bright orange flames chew through the thick paper. The wax seal of the East India Company melted into dripping, useless slag. He held the burning treaty until the flames were an inch from his fingers.
Then, he casually dropped the ashes onto Harrington's ink-stained boots.
[ TARGET: Lord Harrington ]
[ EGO DAMAGE DETECTED ]
Arrogance ↓ 15%
[ SP GAIN: +150 ]
Rudra felt a rush of adrenaline hit his brain as the System chime rang.
"Your offer is rejected," Rudra said. His voice dropped to a flat, dangerous register that left absolutely no room for argument. "The debt is under review. And you are currently trespassing in my home."
Harrington was vibrating with rage. His face turned a dangerous shade of plum red. He fully drew his saber, the steel flashing in the sunlight.
"You arrogant little bastard. I will cut you down right here and forge the signature myself!"
"You could," Rudra agreed, entirely unfazed. "But if you murder a recognized, living Maharaja in broad daylight without a formal declaration of war, you violate the Company's charter with Parliament."
Rudra took a single step closer to the blade.
"The Board of Directors in London will not make you a Governor, Harrington. They will hang you for unauthorized military action to protect their stock prices. Do not act above your station."
The absolute, chilling certainty in Rudra's voice hit Harrington like a physical blow. The officer froze. The tip of his saber hovered inches from Rudra's chest.
The boy was right. The EIC relied on the illusion of legality to steal land. Cold-blooded murder of a living royal, without an army backing the claim, was a court-martial offense.
[ Ding! ]
[ TARGET: Lord Harrington ]
[ LOGIC LOOP ESTABLISHED ]
Arrogance ↓ 20%
[ SP GAIN: +200 ]
Harrington slowly, furiously, sheathed his sword. The loud clack of the metal echoed in the silent room.
"You have thirty days," Harrington hissed. His voice trembled with barely suppressed fury. "Thirty days to produce two million rupees in solid gold. If you fail, the Company's army will march through those gates, and no legal charter in London will save you from the firing squad."
"Noted," Rudra said smoothly. He gestured toward the heavy wooden doors of the throne room. "Now get out of my sight, and close the door on your way out. The draft is terrible."
Harrington looked like he was about to suffer a stroke. He glared at Rudra, a vein pulsing violently in his forehead. Spinning on his heel, he stormed toward the exit.
"My Lord! Wait!" Dewan Rao shrieked, scrambling to his feet. "You cannot leave me here! He knows! He will kill me!"
Harrington paused at the door. He glanced back at the pathetic, weeping Prime Minister with utter disgust.
"The Company honors its agreements with useful men, Dewan. You failed to kill a teenager. You are no longer useful."
Harrington slammed the heavy wooden doors behind him. The boom echoed through the throne room like a thunderclap.
Silence fell over the room.
Dewan Rao was left standing alone, trembling violently, trapped in the room with the boy he had just tried to murder. The Prime Minister slowly turned, his face pale, his knees knocking together.
Rudra stood by the desk, brushing the ash from his fingers. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely, terrifyingly bored. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
The side doors of the throne room slammed open. Captain Vikram, the commander of the royal guard, burst into the room.
Vikram was covered in dust, his armor dented, holding a rusty sword. He took one look at the blood on the floor, the shattered inkwell, and the Maharaja standing alive by the desk.
"Your Highness!" Vikram gasped, dropping to one knee. "I heard shouting. Is everything secure?"
Rudra looked at Vikram, analyzing the man's AR prompt.
[ TARGET: Captain Vikram ]
[ LOYALTY LEVEL: 95% (FANATICAL) ]
Rudra smiled inwardly. Good. He had an asset he could trust.
He turned his gaze back to Dewan Rao. The traitor was weeping openly now, falling to his knees and pressing his forehead against the blood-stained marble.
"Mercy, Your Highness! I was forced! The British threatened my family! I beg of you, mercy!"
Rudra walked slowly around the desk, stopping in front of the groveling man.
"Mercy is expensive, Dewan, and you just emptied my treasury," Rudra said softly.
He looked at Captain Vikram. "Captain. The Prime Minister sold this kingdom to our enemies for British silver."
Vikram's eyes widened, then narrowed into pure, murderous rage. He gripped the hilt of his rusty sword tighter. "Your orders, Highness?"
Rudra looked down at Rao, his eyes cold and empty of any human warmth.
"His severance package is the sword," Rudra ordered.
Vikram didn't hesitate. The steel flashed.