Chapter 5: The Trials of the White Tiger
The wind howled through the jagged cliffs above the ocean as Arinjaya and Devika emerged from the hidden exit of Rajarajeshwaram, the distant roar of waves crashing against the rocks below. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their bodies bruised and battered from the fight. Behind them, the fortress loomed like a shadowed colossus, its labyrinthine depths hiding secrets that had yet to be uncovered—and dangers they had barely escaped.
Arinjaya clutched the forbidden scroll tightly against his chest, the weight of its importance pressing down on him like an iron chain. The parchment was ancient but warm to the touch, as though the energy of the Thandavam Ore it described radiated from the words themselves.
Devika leaned against a rock, her twin blades still slick with the blood of mercenaries. “Tell me we’re done running for a while,” she muttered, wiping sweat from her brow.
“We’re not,” came a familiar voice.
Both Arinjaya and Devika turned to see Agni emerging from the shadows of the exit. His saffron cloak was torn, and his staff was stained with streaks of blue from Rudrajit’s mercenaries’ weapons, but his posture was as steady as ever.
“Agni!” Devika exclaimed, relief washing over her. “We thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Agni interrupted, his gaze sharp as it landed on Arinjaya. “We don’t have time to rest. Rudrajit will regroup, and when he does, he’ll come for the scroll—and for Simhamukha.”
Arinjaya straightened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Then what do we do? How do we stop him?”
Agni’s expression was grim. “You don’t stop Rudrajit. The White Tiger does.”
The statement hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Arinjaya stared at Agni, the reality of his words sinking in.
“Simhamukha,” Arinjaya said quietly, the name carrying a weight he couldn’t yet fully grasp. “The suit. It’s the only way, isn’t it?”
Agni nodded. “Simhamukha isn’t just armor. It’s a test. A challenge. It was crafted by your ancestors not just to protect Mayilnadu, but to ensure that its wielder was worthy of the power it contains. Without it, you’re no match for Rudrajit.”
Devika crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. “And where exactly is this mystical suit? Because I don’t think it’s going to fall out of the sky.”
Agni gestured toward the distant cliffs, where a narrow path disappeared into the mist. “The Chamber of Resonance. It lies deep within this coastal ridge. That is where Simhamukha rests.”
As they made their way along the treacherous path, the mist grew thicker, swirling around them like ghostly tendrils. The sound of the ocean became muted, replaced by an eerie stillness that made Arinjaya’s skin crawl.
Agni walked ahead, his steps sure despite the uneven ground. “The Chamber of Resonance was built to test not just a warrior’s strength, but their heart, mind, and spirit. Each trial is designed to strip away doubt, fear, and ego, leaving only what is true.”
“And what happens if I fail?” Arinjaya asked, his voice quiet but steady.
Agni stopped and turned to face him. “Then Simhamukha will reject you. And you will never leave the chamber.”
The words sent a chill down Arinjaya’s spine, but he forced himself to nod. “I’m ready.”
“Are you?” Agni said, his gaze piercing. “Because this isn’t about defeating Rudrajit or proving yourself to anyone. It’s about embracing who you are—your strengths, your flaws, your dharma. If you walk into that chamber with anything less than total acceptance of yourself, you will not succeed.”
They reached the entrance to the Chamber of Resonance, a massive stone archway carved into the cliffside. The carvings were intricate and alive with faint blue light, depicting scenes of cosmic dances and warriors wielding weapons that seemed to pulse with divine energy.
Agni turned to Arinjaya, his expression unreadable. “This is as far as we go. Beyond this point, you face the trials alone.”
“Alone?” Devika said sharply. “That’s insane! He’s not ready for this—”
“He must be,” Agni interrupted, his tone firm. “The trials are not something we can help him with. They are a test of his soul, and only he can answer their questions.”
Devika opened her mouth to argue but stopped when Arinjaya raised a hand.
“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice calm but resolute. “This is my responsibility.”
Agni stepped aside, allowing Arinjaya to approach the archway. As he did, the carvings began to glow brighter, the light growing in intensity until it enveloped the entire structure. The air vibrated with a low hum, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift, as though the chamber itself was responding to his presence.
“Arinjaya,” Agni called, his voice steady. “Remember what I taught you. Your prana is your guide. Trust it, and it will lead you to the truth.”
Arinjaya nodded, his heart pounding as he stepped through the archway.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the world changed.
The air grew impossibly still, and the light around him dimmed until he was surrounded by darkness. For a moment, he thought he was standing in nothingness, but then he felt the faint pulse of energy beneath his feet. Slowly, the darkness gave way to a faint glow, and he found himself standing in a vast, circular chamber.
The floor was inlaid with a massive yantra, its patterns glowing with a soft blue light. At the center of the room stood a statue of a tiger, its eyes carved from shimmering crystals that seemed to watch him. The air was thick with energy, and a faint vibration hummed in his chest, as though the chamber itself was alive.
“This is it,” Arinjaya whispered to himself, his voice echoing softly.
The voice that answered was not his own.
“Are you worthy?”
The question reverberated through the chamber, low and resonant, carrying with it a weight that made Arinjaya’s knees tremble.
“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Then prove it,” the voice replied.
The light in the chamber shifted, and the yantra beneath his feet began to glow brighter. The trials had begun.
The air in the Chamber of Resonance grew heavy, almost suffocating, as the light from the yantra beneath Arinjaya’s feet intensified. The patterns shifted and pulsed, creating the impression of movement, as though the symbols themselves were alive. The faint hum of energy deepened into a low rumble, and the vibrations in the chamber seemed to sync with the rhythm of Arinjaya’s heartbeat.
Then, the ground beneath him shifted.
The glowing lines of the yantra extended outward, stretching into the darkness. Slowly, the chamber transformed. The once-empty space gave way to a sprawling battlefield, shrouded in fog. The ground was uneven and littered with broken weapons and shattered shields. A cold wind swept through the scene, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and ash.
Arinjaya’s grip tightened on his sword as he turned in a slow circle, his eyes scanning the shifting mist. He could feel the presence of something—or someone—just beyond the edge of his vision.
“Face them,” the voice from earlier boomed, reverberating through the battlefield. “Face what you fear most.”
The mist parted, and from its depths emerged Rudrajit’s army.
Or, at least, they appeared to be his army. The figures that marched toward Arinjaya were strange and otherworldly, their features distorted as though they were reflections in a cracked mirror. Their armor gleamed with the blue glow of Thandavam Ore, and their weapons hummed with an ominous energy.
At the center of the army stood Rudrajit, his golden tiger mask gleaming in the faint light. He raised his hand, and the soldiers froze, their weapons poised for attack.
“You think you can protect them?” Rudrajit’s voice echoed, though his lips didn’t move. “You think you’re strong enough to carry the weight of the White Tiger? Show me.”
He dropped his hand.
The army charged.
Arinjaya barely had time to react as the first wave of soldiers descended upon him. Their movements were fast and coordinated, their glowing weapons cutting through the air with terrifying precision.
The first attacker lunged with a spear, the blade aimed directly at Arinjaya’s chest. He sidestepped at the last moment, the weapon grazing his shoulder as he swung his sword in a wide arc. The blade struck the soldier’s side, but instead of falling, the figure dissolved into mist, only to reappear moments later, whole and unscathed.
“What?” Arinjaya gasped, stepping back.
The soldiers pressed forward, forcing him to retreat. Their strikes came in rapid succession, leaving him no time to think—only to react. He ducked under a blade, parried a spear, and delivered a series of counterattacks, each one aimed at vital points Agni had taught him. But every time he landed a blow, the soldiers dissolved into mist and reformed, stronger and faster than before.
His movements grew frantic, his breathing uneven as he struggled to keep up. The weight of the battle began to take its toll, his muscles burning with the effort of fending off endless attacks. For every soldier he struck down, three more seemed to take its place.
“You can’t win like this,” the voice boomed again, this time carrying a note of challenge. “Strength alone will not save you.”
“I know that!” Arinjaya shouted, frustration boiling over as he parried another attack.
“Then prove it.”
Arinjaya closed his eyes, forcing himself to remember Agni’s lessons.
“Breathe,” he muttered to himself, blocking another strike. “Balance. Precision.”
He steadied his breathing, his focus narrowing. The next time a soldier lunged at him, he didn’t swing wildly. Instead, he stepped forward, his movements deliberate. He dodged the attack with minimal effort and struck a pressure point on the soldier’s chest. The figure froze, its glowing weapon falling from its hands before it dissolved completely, leaving no trace behind.
Arinjaya’s eyes widened. “It works…”
Emboldened, he shifted his stance, his movements becoming more fluid, more precise. He stopped trying to fight every soldier head-on and instead began targeting specific points on their bodies—the wrists, the elbows, the sides of the neck. Each strike disrupted the flow of energy within the figures, causing them to collapse and vanish.
The tide of the battle began to shift.
Arinjaya dodged and countered with growing confidence, his strikes flowing like a dance. He moved between the soldiers with grace, his sword an extension of his will. One by one, the figures fell, their glowing forms fading into the mist.
But the battle wasn’t over yet.
From the fog, Rudrajit stepped forward, his golden mask gleaming like a predator’s eyes. He moved with an unsettling calm, his blade crackling with energy as he raised it toward Arinjaya.
“This is where you fall, cousin,” Rudrajit said, his voice cold and taunting. “You’re nothing but a shadow, pretending to be a leader. You can’t stop me.”
Arinjaya tightened his grip on his sword. “You’re not real,” he said, more to himself than to the figure before him. “You’re just an illusion.”
“Am I?” Rudrajit’s voice echoed, the edges of his form shimmering like heat waves. “Or am I everything you fear most?”
He lunged, his blade moving with blinding speed.
The clash of their weapons sent a shockwave through the battlefield, the sound echoing endlessly in the vast chamber. Arinjaya struggled to keep up as the illusion of Rudrajit pressed the attack, his strikes precise and relentless.
“You’ll never be strong enough,” the illusion hissed, its voice dripping with venom. “You’ll never live up to your father’s legacy.”
“Shut up!” Arinjaya shouted, parrying a blow and countering with a strike aimed at the figure’s wrist.
But the illusion wasn’t like the others. It didn’t dissolve or falter. Instead, it stepped back and laughed, the sound sending a shiver down Arinjaya’s spine.
“You fight well,” the illusion said, its voice suddenly softer, almost kind. “But strength isn’t enough. You must let go of your fear. Your doubt. Only then will you be ready.”
Arinjaya hesitated, the words sinking in.
Let go.
He closed his eyes, his breathing steadying as he centered himself. The chaos around him faded, replaced by the rhythm of his own heartbeat. When the illusion lunged again, Arinjaya didn’t react with anger or fear. He stepped forward, his movements calm and precise.
His blade struck the illusion’s chest, and this time, it didn’t reform. The figure shattered like glass, the shards dissolving into light.
The battlefield vanished, replaced by the quiet stillness of the chamber. The glowing yantra beneath Arinjaya’s feet dimmed, and the oppressive weight in the air lifted.
“You have passed the first trial,” the voice said, its tone carrying a note of approval. “But the path ahead grows steeper. Prepare yourself.”
Arinjaya collapsed to his knees, his body trembling from exhaustion. His breath came in shallow gasps, but a flicker of pride burned in his chest.
One trial down.
The Chamber of Resonance shifted again. The air grew colder, biting at Arinjaya’s skin, and the faint glow of the yantra beneath him dimmed until it was swallowed by shadows. For a moment, there was only silence—so absolute that Arinjaya could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.
Then came the voice, low and commanding, reverberating through the darkness.
“Your strength has been tested. Now your mind must face the weight of its own chains.”
The ground beneath Arinjaya vanished, and he felt himself falling—not physically, but as though his very consciousness was being pulled downward, deeper into himself. The sensation was disorienting, and when it stopped, he found himself standing in a new space—a space that felt achingly familiar.
The royal halls of Chozhapuram.
The scene was eerily perfect, down to the intricate gold inlays on the walls and the faint scent of jasmine that always lingered in the palace corridors. But it wasn’t the bustling, vibrant place Arinjaya remembered. The halls were deathly silent, and the light filtering through the stained-glass windows was cold and gray, draining the colors from everything it touched.
Arinjaya walked forward slowly, his footsteps echoing unnaturally in the stillness. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though he wasn’t sure what he expected to fight.
“Why bring me here?” he muttered under his breath.
As if in response, a shadow moved at the far end of the hall.
Arinjaya froze, his pulse quickening.
The figure stepped into the light, and Arinjaya’s breath caught in his chest.
It was Rajendra Chola—his father.
The sight of him was like a punch to the gut. Rajendra stood tall, his armor polished and immaculate, the royal Chola emblem gleaming on his chest. His face was stern, lined with the wisdom and weariness of a man who had carried the weight of an empire on his shoulders.
But there was something wrong. His eyes, always so sharp and commanding, were empty, as though the man behind them had vanished.
“Father?” Arinjaya whispered, his voice trembling.
The figure didn’t respond. It simply stared at him, unblinking.
“Why are you here?” Arinjaya asked, taking a tentative step forward.
Rajendra’s lips moved, but his voice was not his own. It was deeper, colder—an echo of the chamber itself.
“Do you think you deserve my legacy?”
The question struck like a blade.
“What?” Arinjaya stammered. “I—no, I…”
“Do you think you deserve my legacy?” the figure repeated, stepping closer.
Arinjaya took an involuntary step back, his mind racing. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You don’t know?” The figure’s tone grew sharper, almost mocking. “You’ve spent your life hiding from it. Running from it. And now, you think you can claim the mantle of the White Tiger?”
Arinjaya clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “I never asked for this. I never wanted it!”
“Of course you didn’t,” the figure said, circling him like a predator. “Because you are weak. A frightened boy playing at being a warrior. You think you can protect Mayilnadu? You can barely protect yourself.”
The words brought back every doubt Arinjaya had ever tried to suppress, every voice that had whispered in the back of his mind, telling him he wasn’t enough.
“You don’t understand,” Arinjaya said, his voice trembling. “I didn’t have a choice. You were gone, and—”
“I was gone because I died protecting what mattered,” the figure interrupted, its voice thunderous. “And what have you done, Arinjaya? Where were you when the invaders came? Where were you when your people bled for this kingdom?”
“I—”
“WHERE WERE YOU?”
The words echoed in the air, and suddenly the scene shifted.
The halls of the palace melted away, replaced by a battlefield. Flaming ruins surrounded him, and the air was thick with the stench of smoke and blood. He could hear the cries of the wounded, the clash of steel, the roar of battle.
And in the middle of the chaos, he saw himself.
The younger version of himself stood frozen, his sword dangling uselessly at his side. Around him, soldiers fought and died, their faces twisted with pain and desperation.
The real Arinjaya stared at the scene, his chest tightening. He remembered this moment. It was one of the first battles he had been sent to observe as a prince. He had been told to stay back, to let the soldiers handle the fighting. But when the enemy had broken through the lines, he had frozen.
He had been too afraid to move, to fight, to lead.
“You abandoned them,” the voice said, and he turned to see the shadowy figure of Rajendra standing beside him. “You let them die because you were too afraid to act.”
Arinjaya shook his head, his fists trembling. “I was a child. I didn’t know what to do!”
“You still don’t,” the figure replied coldly.
The scene shifted again. Now he was in the royal council chamber, standing before a table of angry advisors. Their voices overlapped, shouting accusations, questioning his fitness to lead.
“Your father would have never allowed this!”
“How can he protect us? He can’t even protect himself!”
“He’s a disgrace to the Chola name.”
The words pierced through him like daggers, each one reopening a wound he thought had healed.
“I’ve tried,” Arinjaya whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ve tried to live up to him. But I’m not him. I’ll never be him.”
The figure of Rajendra stepped closer, its shadow looming over him.
“Then stop trying to be me,” it said, and for the first time, the voice softened, carrying a note of something almost like compassion.
Arinjaya blinked, startled. “What?”
“You were never meant to be me,” the figure continued. “My legacy isn’t a shadow for you to hide in. It’s a foundation for you to build upon. Stop running from it. Stop letting your fear control you. Only then will you be free.”
The battlefield dissolved, and Arinjaya found himself back in the Chamber of Resonance, standing before the glowing yantra.
The voice spoke again, quieter now.
“You have faced your doubts and your regrets. Do not let them define you. Let them shape you. Only then will you find your path.”
Arinjaya took a deep breath, his mind clearer than it had been in years. The weight in his chest began to lift, replaced by something steadier, stronger.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
The yantra beneath him flared with light, signaling the end of the trial.
The Chamber of Resonance transformed once more. The glowing yantra beneath Arinjaya’s feet expanded outward, its intricate geometric patterns spiraling into the dark void around him. The air grew warm, humming with an energy that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Yet this rhythm was not his alone—there was something vast and ancient in it, a cosmic cadence that seemed to ripple through existence itself.
Arinjaya looked up, and the void above him lit up with stars, their light forming constellations that shifted and danced. The stars moved in intricate patterns, merging and splitting like the steps of an eternal dance.
“You stand at the edge of creation,” the voice intoned, now softer, almost reverent. “The rhythm of the universe flows through all things. It is the dance of life, death, and rebirth. To awaken Simhamukha, you must join this rhythm. You must become one with the Tandava.”
The mention of Shiva’s Tandava sent a shiver through Arinjaya. He had heard the stories as a child—of the cosmic dance of destruction and creation performed by Lord Shiva, the eternal rhythm that kept the universe in balance. Now, he was being asked to join it.
“How do I even begin?” Arinjaya whispered.
“The dance is within you,” the voice replied. “Feel it.”
The stars above shifted again, their light condensing into the form of Nataraja, Lord Shiva as the cosmic dancer. The great figure was surrounded by an arch of flames, his movements fluid and powerful, each step resonating with the yantra beneath Arinjaya. The rhythmic sound of a drum—the damaru—filled the chamber, its beat pulling at something deep within Arinjaya’s core.
He stood frozen, mesmerized by the sheer power of the vision before him. Nataraja’s dance was both graceful and terrifying, a symphony of destruction and creation that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality and weave it anew.
“Follow the steps,” the voice urged. “Feel the rhythm. Surrender to it.”
Arinjaya hesitated, doubt creeping in. How could he possibly match the movements of a god? How could he find harmony in something so vast?
The damaru’s beat grew louder, vibrating through his body, his very soul. Slowly, he closed his eyes and allowed the rhythm to wash over him. He focused on his breathing, syncing it with the pulsating energy beneath his feet. The yantra glowed brighter, and he felt his limbs begin to move—not out of conscious thought, but as if guided by an unseen force.
His arms lifted, his feet shifted, and his body began to mirror the movements of the divine dance. At first, his steps were clumsy, his balance uneven. But as the rhythm pulsed deeper into his core, his movements grew more fluid, more deliberate.
He could feel the energy of the Tandava flowing through him, each step a reflection of the cosmic balance—the destruction of the old, the creation of the new.
The vision of Nataraja turned its gaze upon him, and the flames surrounding the god surged higher, encircling Arinjaya. The heat was intense, but it didn’t burn. Instead, it felt purifying, as though it was burning away everything that had held him back—his doubts, his fears, his regrets.
“You are the rhythm,” the voice said. “There is no separation between you and the dance. Let go of yourself. Become the balance.”
Arinjaya took a deep breath, surrendering fully to the rhythm. His movements became a perfect harmony of power and grace, each step resonating with the yantra and the stars above. The flames around him danced in time with his movements, creating trails of light that merged with the patterns on the ground.
The dance reached its crescendo, the damaru’s beat pounding like a heartbeat that connected him to the universe itself. In that moment, he understood what the voice had meant. The Tandava wasn’t just a dance—it was the essence of existence. The destruction of the old wasn’t an end; it was a beginning. Every step forward required the letting go of something behind.
And then, as if responding to his realization, the yantra beneath his feet flared with brilliant light. The energy surged upward, enveloping him in a radiant glow. He felt his body lighten, as though the burdens he had carried all his life were lifting away, leaving him free, clear, and focused.
The stars above aligned into the shape of a tiger, its eyes blazing with an inner fire. The vision of Nataraja raised one hand, and the energy condensed into a single point at the center of the chamber.
From the heart of that light, Simhamukha emerged.
The legendary suit floated in the air, its surface shimmering with a brilliance that seemed almost alive. It was unlike anything Arinjaya had imagined—a perfect blend of ancient Chola craftsmanship and divine energy. The armor was adorned with intricate carvings of yantras and Tamil inscriptions, its chestplate bearing the roaring tiger emblem. The eyes of the tiger glowed faintly, as if watching him.
The suit exuded power, but it wasn’t a power of dominance or conquest. It was balanced, restrained, yet brimming with potential.
“Step forward,” the voice commanded.
Arinjaya moved toward the suit, his steps slow and deliberate. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the surface of the armor. The moment he made contact, a surge of energy coursed through him, filling him with a strength he had never known.
The suit began to shift, its pieces disassembling and wrapping around him, fitting perfectly as though it had been made for him alone. The tiger emblem on the chestplate glowed brighter as the armor locked into place, and a helmet shaped like a tiger’s face formed over his head.
Arinjaya stood in silence, feeling the rhythm of the Tandava resonate within the suit. It wasn’t just armor—it was an extension of himself, amplifying his prana, his focus, his very essence.
“You have proven yourself worthy,” the voice said. “You are the White Tiger.”
The chamber began to dissolve, the stars fading and the yantra dimming. Arinjaya found himself standing at the entrance to the chamber once more, where Agni and Devika waited.
When they saw him, their eyes widened. The sight of him in the Simhamukha suit was enough to leave even Devika speechless.
Agni stepped forward, his expression a mixture of pride and awe. “You did it,” he said softly.
Arinjaya nodded, the weight of the moment sinking in. “I’m ready now,” he said, his voice steady. “For whatever comes next.”
And in that moment, the White Tiger truly awakened.
The air outside the Chamber of Resonance was sharp and cold, a stark contrast to the searing intensity Arinjaya had felt within. He stepped out into the jagged cliffs, the Simhamukha suit gleaming faintly in the misty light of dawn. Every movement felt different—more fluid, more controlled—as though the suit were an extension of his body. The carvings and glowing yantras on the armor pulsed softly, their energy perfectly aligned with his own prana.
Both Agni and Devika turned as he emerged, their eyes widening at the sight before them.
Devika’s usual sharp tongue faltered, and she simply stared for a moment before managing, “Well… you look… terrifyingly impressive.”
“Terrifying?” Arinjaya asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“In the best way possible,” she added, regaining her composure. “Like something out of a myth.”
Agni stepped closer, his gaze sharp and assessing. “It suits you,” he said, his tone carrying more weight than the words themselves. “The armor doesn’t just amplify your strength—it reflects who you are. Remember that.”
Arinjaya nodded, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “I can feel it. Every step, every breath—it’s like the suit is alive.”
“That’s because it is,” Agni said. “Simhamukha resonates with the Tandava, the universal rhythm. It won’t move unless you move with purpose. It won’t strike unless you strike with conviction.”
The sound of distant footsteps pulled their attention to the path leading back toward Rajarajeshwaram’s entrance.
“They’re coming,” Agni said, his voice calm but firm.
Arinjaya turned toward the noise, his senses sharper than ever. He could feel the vibrations of the approaching forces through the ground, their footsteps echoing in his chest. His gaze narrowed as the mist shifted, revealing a squad of Rudrajit’s mercenaries, their glowing weapons cutting through the haze.
“Looks like Rudrajit’s men aren’t done with us yet,” Devika muttered, drawing her twin blades.
Arinjaya raised a hand, stopping her. “Let me handle this.”
Devika frowned, clearly ready to argue, but one look at the quiet confidence in his expression made her step back. “Don’t get yourself killed, prince.”
The mercenaries stopped when they saw him, their movements faltering. The sight of the Simhamukha suit seemed to unnerve them, their glowing weapons trembling in their hands.
“Who are you supposed to be?” one of them barked, trying to mask his unease.
Arinjaya stepped forward, his voice calm and steady. “I’m the White Tiger. And this is your only chance to leave.”
The mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances, but their leader—a burly man wielding a massive Thandavam Ore-infused warhammer—snarled and raised his weapon. “We take orders from Rudrajit, not some kid in fancy armor!”
Arinjaya sighed. “Then you’ve made your choice.”
The mercenaries charged, their weapons glowing brighter as they closed in.
Arinjaya moved.
The Simhamukha suit seemed to anticipate his every action, amplifying his speed and precision. His first strike came in a blur, his sword slicing through the shaft of the warhammer before its wielder could even swing it. The man staggered back, stunned, before Arinjaya struck a pressure point on his shoulder, sending him crumpling to the ground.
Another mercenary came at him from the left, swinging a glowing axe. Arinjaya sidestepped the attack effortlessly, using the momentum of his dodge to pivot and strike the man’s wrist with the back of his armored gauntlet. The axe clattered to the ground, and Arinjaya followed up with a sweeping kick that sent the attacker sprawling.
The rest of the mercenaries hesitated, their confidence evaporating as they watched their comrades fall with almost no effort on Arinjaya’s part.
“Stand down,” Arinjaya said, his voice carrying an authority that made even Agni glance at him in approval. “You don’t have to do this. Walk away now, and you’ll live to see another day.”
The remaining mercenaries looked at one another, fear etched into their faces. Finally, one of them dropped his weapon and turned to run, followed quickly by the others. Within moments, the group had disappeared into the mist, leaving only the groans of their fallen comrades behind.
Devika stepped forward, sheathing her blades. “That was… efficient.”
Arinjaya exhaled, his muscles relaxing as he turned back to her. “It wasn’t about beating them. It was about making sure they didn’t want to fight anymore.”
“Wise,” Agni said, stepping up beside him. “But don’t let your guard down. Rudrajit will send more than just mercenaries next time. He knows now that you’ve awakened Simhamukha. He’ll see it as a threat—and a challenge.”
The group moved quickly, leaving the cliffs behind and descending into the dense forests that surrounded the coastline. The Simhamukha suit, though powerful, was light and flexible, allowing Arinjaya to move as easily as he would without it. As they walked, he could feel the suit resonating with the natural world around him—the rustling of leaves, the distant call of birds, the faint hum of life itself.
“Where to now?” Devika asked, breaking the silence.
“We head back to Mayilnadu,” Agni replied. “Rudrajit will regroup, and we need to prepare for his next move. The scroll you carry,” he added, glancing at Arinjaya, “may hold the key to stopping him.”
Arinjaya nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The scroll contains instructions for forging weapons from Thandavam Ore. If Rudrajit uses that knowledge, he could create an army we can’t stop.”
“Then we make sure he never gets the chance,” Devika said, her voice fierce.
As they emerged from the forest into a clearing, the sun broke through the mist, bathing the landscape in golden light. Arinjaya paused, looking out over the horizon. Somewhere out there, Rudrajit was preparing for war, gathering his forces and twisting the ancient knowledge of their ancestors to fuel his ambition.
But Arinjaya felt no fear now. He was ready—ready to face whatever lay ahead, to protect his people, and to honor the legacy of the White Tiger.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning to his companions. “We have a kingdom to protect.”
And with that, the White Tiger began his march toward destiny.