Chapter 3: The Servant’s Defiance

Meera cautiously opened her eyes, only to see a familiar figure standing in front of her.

I had grabbed Kabir's wrist with one hand and said, "Picking on someone who can't cultivate—what kind of man are you?"

My own heart was pounding, but I forced my voice to stay steady. I could feel his wrist trembling under my grip, the heat of his anger meeting the cool sweat on my palm.

Kabir yanked his hand back and sneered, "Fine, I won't bully her. I'll bully you instead. I'm not afraid to tell you—I've been cultivating divine script since childhood and can write thirty-six letters now. Any letter I write can kill you!"

He puffed up his chest, as if expecting applause. The servants lurking near the kitchen door shrank back even further.

I put on an exaggerated look. "Wah, thirty-six letters? That's so many!"

I even clapped mockingly, like those schoolboys who fake praise for the class monitor. Meera Didi gave me a worried glance, silently pleading for caution.

"Scared now?"

Kabir thought I'd been frightened and looked smug.

He grinned, running a hand through his oiled hair, clearly believing the battle was already won.

The more letters one could write, the greater their power and the higher their status.

In this world, letter mastery meant everything. Even the local priest would bow to a true script cultivator.

Pravesh (Apprentice): ten letters.

Shikshit (Licentiate): thirty letters.

Suparish (Recommended): sixty letters.

Samarpit (Tribute): one hundred twenty letters.

Pratishthit (Presented): two hundred forty letters.

Those who could write four hundred eighty letters could become a Vidwan (Academy Scholar).

Here, Pravesh and Shikshit refer to cultivation realms, not exam degrees. Samarpit? In my world, that’s just a school award. Here, it’s a matter of life and death. How weird is that?

It was confusing at first—these words are so familiar back home. Here, though, they decide your entire destiny.

Above Vidwan, there is a mysterious realm called Maha Pandit. It's said a Maha Pandit can write at least five hundred letters and even combine multiple divine scripts, wielding earth-shaking power.

Some say a true Maha Pandit can make mountains tremble or bring rain with a single stroke. But such legends belong to a time when gods still walked the earth.

Sadly, for the people of Bharat, cultivating divine script is extremely difficult. There are no living Maha Pandits today.

Many start with hope, dreaming of glory, but most give up, defeated by the difficulty of even the simplest letters. Yet, the hunger to rise remains etched on every face.

Cultivators are as common as ants at a sugar jar, but countless people spend their entire lives unable to reach even the Pravesh realm. No wonder Kabir is so arrogant.

His pride had been coddled since childhood, just like the sons of our old landowners back in Lucknow.

A fierce killing intent surged from Kabir. "Die!"

His voice boomed, echoing through the marble halls. Even the old clock in the drawing room seemed to tick slower in anticipation.

He was about to raise his pen and write when I slapped him across the face.

I barely thought about it. My hand moved on its own, the sound ringing out like the temple bell on Maha Shivratri.