The village lay bruised under the weight of night.
Huts leaned like broken bones. The air stank of smoke and old fire. Children slept curled in corners while mothers kept quiet watch with tired, swollen eyes. No rooster had crowed yet. Even the moon hid behind a veil of grey.
And then came the boots.
Twelve of them — armored men, faces smudged with ale and arrogance, torches raised like threats. They carried the crest of Veerkund's estate on their chests.
"Where's the tax silver?" one barked.
"Who hid the grain?" said another.
"Didn't we warn you last time?"
One soldier kicked over a pot of drinking water. Another grabbed a young girl by the arm and shoved her aside. Her mother screamed. A third man dragged a shopkeeper by the collar, accusing him of lying about his livestock.
That's when the masked figure stepped forward.
Clothed in ash-toned fabric, with a turban and scarf covering all but the eyes, the stranger held a blade low, unshaken.
"Enough," the voice rang out — steady, quiet, firm.
The soldiers turned.
"Who are you?"
"One of those local cowards with a toy sword?"
"Go home before your neck bends."
The masked fighter said nothing.
The blade answered for them.
The nearest guard lunged — but fell to the ground with his arm twisted and disarmed in a blink. Another tried to attack from the side — only to have his legs swept from under him.
The villagers froze in disbelief.
The fighter moved like a storm held back too long — fast, balanced, precise. Every strike landed where it should. The sword cut clean, never wild. Dust kicked up around their boots as they spun, parried, and knocked down man after man.
But then came a misstep.
One guard slashed forward — and the blade grazed the fighter's upper arm.
Blood.
It stained the sleeve deep red, spreading fast.
Still, the warrior didn't stop.
With a grunt of effort, they disarmed two more, kicked down a third, and leapt over a broken cart. The remaining soldiers, spooked by the ferocity, hesitated.
"That's no ordinary village fighter…"
"Who the hell is he?"
The masked warrior threw a final blow — sending a torch flying into a puddle — and ran.
The narrow lanes of Padmavati closed around them. The pain in the arm was sharp now. Each breath came harder, heavier. But still they ran — swift as wind, unseen in the shadows.
And high above, crouched on a slanted roof, Harisena watched.
He hadn't moved. Not when the sword first flashed. Not even when the blood struck ground.
His gaze followed the fighter until they vanished into the black.
He pulled a small scroll from his bag and dipped his pen.
"A ghost walks Padmavati. Brave. Silent. Deadly."
"Not a soldier. Not a spy."
"But something far more dangerous."
He tied the message to a falcon waiting nearby.
"To Samudragupta," he murmured. "He'll want to see this himself."
note: Harisena, the court poet and chief minister of Samudragupta, played a significant role in the Gupta Empire, particularly in the life of Samudragupta. While Harisena is known for composing the Allahabad Pillar inscription (Prayag Prashasti) praising Samudragupta's achievements, he also played a part in Samudragupta's marriage to Dattadevi.