I was once a teacher in Takshashila, respected, revered. Then I stood before King Dhana Nanda and spoke truth. For that, he laughed, called me 'a beggar in scholar's robes,' and had me dragged from the court. That night, beneath a blood-red moon, I swore: the Nanda line would fall.

Now, years later, I watch a young man fight ten soldiers in a dusty village square. His name is Chandragupta. He moves like fire—untrained, unpredictable, but fearless. I see in him not just strength, but the spark of a king.

I step forward as the last soldier falls. 'You fight like a beast,' I say. 'But beasts are caged. Kings rule.'

He wipes sweat and blood from his brow. 'Who are you to tell me what I am?'

'I am the man who will make you emperor,' I answer. 'If you’re willing to obey me in all things.'

He laughs, skeptical. 'And why would I do that?'

'Because,' I say, 'I know the way to Pataliputra. And I know how to burn it down.'