The rainy season had passed, but the courtyard stones of Chandrika Mahal still bore the scent of wet leaves and sandalwood. A gentle breeze swept through the garden where Prince Adityaveer, now in his sixth year, sat in stillness.
In front of him, a clay board rested on a low stone slab—64 etched squares, 8 rows by 8 columns. Two small pebbles faced off at opposite corners. One had a crude wheel carved on it. The other bore a scratch in the shape of a crown.
Mira walked by, carrying cleaned robes, and paused.
"Another invention, my Prince?"
"A battle," he replied. "Without blood."
Adityaveer had seen it before—in visions the system gave him: A game of kings and warriors. But his mind reshaped it for his time.
No queens. No bishops. Only rathas (chariots), gajas (elephants), ashvas (horses), padatis (foot soldiers), and mantris (advisors).
At the heart of the board stood the Raja—the king. Fragile, slow-moving, but all-important.
[SYSTEM NOTE]
Strategic learning simulation engaged
Teaching tool for probability, foresight, and decision-making
High satisfaction probability among intelligent peers: 91%
"What does it do?" Mira asked.
"It shows you who you are," he said.
"How?"
He moved a pebble two steps forward.
"By how you play."
He began teaching it to the servants. They played in the evening under the courtyard lanterns—stones in hand, minds ablaze.
The guards picked it up next. Then Naina. Then Mira. Even the cook played with the grain merchant who came every fifth day.
The rules were simple to learn but hard to master. That's what made it beautiful.
By the second month, matches were being played at every break. Workers delayed meals. Some squabbled over pieces. Adityaveer intervened.
"If you argue," he said, "you've already lost. The board punishes the hot-headed."
One day, the Rajpandit's wife—a graceful woman named Sadhvika, who came to offer flowers at the palace temple—spotted the servants gathered around the board.
She watched. Then asked to play.
She lost the first game in ten minutes. But she stayed. And played another. And another.
"My daughter would love this," she said to Devika, laughing. "It's like the Mahabharata—but without death."
Devika raised an eyebrow.
"Your daughter? The one they say dreams of burning suns and flying fire?"
Sadhvika hesitated. "Yes. She has visions. Of strange machines. Words in tongues she's never studied. Sometimes... she draws sky-chariots with metal wings."
Devika was silent for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Then let her meet my son."
The Rajpandit was summoned to the main court to demonstrate the game. He didn't go alone—he brought Adityaveer's board and explained the rules to the crown prince, the generals, and even the Maharaja himself.
The game spread like wildfire through the intellectual elite.
Soon, courtiers had handcrafted ivory pieces. Nobles had jewel-encrusted versions. But everyone knew where it had started.
"The third prince," people whispered. "The one who makes soap and strategy."
At night, Devika played with her son under the jasmine tree.
"What is your favorite piece?" she asked.
"The padati," he replied. "The foot soldier."
"Why?"
"Because he can only move forward," he said. "But if he survives long enough… he becomes anything."
She smiled. "Then what does that make you?"
He looked at the board quietly.
"A foot soldier. With a plan."
As the nobles played, the merchants followed. They requested stone sets, priced at 30 copper coins. Affordable for the wealthy, desirable for the middle class.
Adityaveer oversaw production personally:
Clay molds shaped in the shed beside the soap stall
Hand-etched patterns on each piece
Smooth stones, dried in the sun, polished with cloth and oil
He made sure servants earned a coin for every set sold.
"This belongs to all of us," he told them. "Not just to me."
By the end of the year, Shatranj had spread across the region. Even temples used it to teach children patience and strategy.
And Adityaveer?
He didn't just earn wealth.
He earned respect.
But not everyone admired him.
In the royal court, whispers spread.
"Why is he building factories?"
"He makes games instead of learning scriptures."
"He's turning the palace into a marketplace."
An older prince—Adityaveer's cousin—mocked him openly.
"Should we pay him tax next time we buy a soap?"
Others laughed.
But Maharaja Devraj didn't laugh. He asked Devika to visit.
"Your son has brains," he said. "But people with brains either become scholars... or threats."
Devika smiled softly. "He wishes neither."
"What does he want?"
She met his eyes. "A kingdom where no one smells of fear or filth. Where even a maid can rest her back. Where a child learns to think before he learns to kill."
The Maharaja was silent for a long time.
Then he nodded.
"Then may the gods protect him."
"They already have," she said. "They gave him his mind."
🌠 Meanwhile, in Another Household…
In a marble chamber draped with Vedic scrolls and soft cowrie-shell wind chimes, a young girl sat hunched over a chalkboard.
Advika, daughter of the Rajpandit.
She traced a rough board—64 squares. She placed tamarind seeds and betel nuts as pieces.
"Ratha," she murmured. "Gaja. Ashva…"
She didn't know why she remembered these names. But she played every day. Against herself. Against dreams.
And sometimes, in those dreams, she saw a boy.
A boy with stars in his eyes and the scent of roses in his hands.