Chapter 3: The Ghost of the Courtroom
The blue light of the command center seemed to dim as CK's voice filled the room. He spoke of an era before satellite feeds and encrypted servers—a time when power resided in the dust of the courtroom floors and the iron grip of men who bowed to no one. As CK wove the tale of Ansh's grandfather—MMJ—the legendary criminal lawyer who could bend a judge's will with a single glance, Ansh felt a strange, cold clarity settling in his chest.
This was the man whose name was still etched into the stone of Tenjiku's Ultimate Sovereign Court. The man who fought for the "villains" and was still hailed as a deity by the common people. The man whose life felt like a collection of impossible fables, yet every word was etched in history. And that man was currently living under the same roof, at the ground floor, in his separate courtyard and room—a sanctum where not even the birds were permitted to fly without his leave.
The atmosphere down there was heavy, stagnant, and smelled faintly of aged parchment, incense, and damp earth—a sharp departure from the sterile, ozone-scented air of Ansh's digital hub. It was a place where time didn't tick forward; it settled. No modern device hummed there. No lights flickered. It was a fortress of silence where even the sparrows seemed to instinctively veer away, sensing the dormant, caged fury that lived within.
For years, Ansh had reigned supreme within his digital domain. He could map the electoral pulse of a Janapada in seconds, predict political defections before they happened, and dismantle opposition campaigns from behind a wall of code. He was a god of logic. But as his father spoke, Ansh realized his mistake. He had treated Tenjiku like a computer simulation, assuming every movement was a variable he could calculate.
He hadn't accounted for the ghosts.
"He didn't just win cases, Ansh," CK said, his eyes fixed on the sepia photograph. "He redefined the reality of the courtroom. When MMJ stepped into a case, truth became irrelevant. He didn't serve the law; he coerced it. He found the loopholes and twisted them until they strangled the opposition. That is the true definition of a lawyer."
Ansh watched the flickering data on his main screen—a complex web of political ties he had spent weeks mapping. Suddenly, the web looked fragile. If men like his grandfather existed—men who could slap a Chief Minister with a shoe and face no consequences because the state itself feared the fallout—then who was really pulling the strings in the current political landscape?
"The people you are looking for," CK murmured, as if reading Ansh's mind, "they aren't hiding in the code, Ansh. They are the architects of the ground you walk on." He paused, his gaze hardening. "Some minor characters will claim they defeated me. Ignore them. If ignorance is the bliss of a fool, they have not seen the real world yet. I hope you won't become one of them."
Once his father left, the command center felt claustrophobic. Ansh turned back to his monitors, his fingers flying across the keys. He tried to search for the names his father had invoked—his grandfather's old colleagues.
Nothing. Only slight, vague traces remained. It seemed the information had been scrubbed or curated to show only what the opposition wanted him to see. Even the dark web was silent. Ansh pushed his brain to its limits, but found only memories of his youth: fleeting, minor interactions with these powerful, sovereign figures when he had accompanied his grandfather to distant places. Being a young child at that time, he thought they were normal people—and why wouldn't he? The so-called sovereigns used to talk with their grandfather with humility and respect, not like the arrogance they displayed outside. It seemed to him now that they used to keep their attitudes and arrogance at the door before meeting his grandfather. He chuckled grimly at the thought of that.
There was no digital trail for the retired Chief Minister of Magadh, who was a friend of his grandfather. No records for the notorious Bahubali MLA whose name alone was a shadow. No specific intelligence on the other Bahubali MLAs orchestrating games across the Janapadas. The digital world was pristine, empty, and perfectly curated.
It was then that Ansh understood.
His mastery over the digital world was a weapon, yes—but he was currently firing at shadows. His enemies were physical, historical, and deeply entrenched in the soil of Tenjiku. They were the crouching tigers and hidden dragons his father had hinted at.
He pulled up a local map of Magadh. He didn't need to hack a server; he needed to go to the source. He needed to find the gate his grandfather had stood before in that old photograph. If justice were a weapon, as his father claimed, then Ansh had spent his whole life training with a wooden sword.
It was time to find the real steel.
Ansh stood up, leaving his monitors glowing in the dark, and walked toward the door. He felt a sudden hesitation. It wasn't fear—none of the family felt fear toward the old man, only a profound, heavy respect. He didn't want to involve his grandfather in this mess. He wanted to be independent, to forge his own path just like his ancestors: his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather...
Ansh hated the rumors that his achievements were mere family handouts. He had earned his place alone, yet the world refused to see it. He didn't have time for insignificance. He wanted to carve his own name into the empire.
He stood by the door, donning his usual black mask and a pair of dark goggles. He ruffled his hair, trading his casual attire for a sharp black shirt and trousers. At 5'10", he looked every bit the part of a man on a mission.
(Author's Note: Sorry, fan girls, this isn't just another romance or fantasy novel. It's an adventure—a new genre that's going to rewrite the rules of this application. Stay tuned.)
Another side of the courtyard at the Dwar of the house, CK was bidding farewell to his close allies. After everyone left, there stood only one by his side—the one who had stood with him until now, the only Rajput who remained loyal, or at least, that was how he felt.
CK walked toward the heavy wooden gate of his ancestral home. The night air was biting, carrying the scent of smoke and distant city debris. He clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, feeling the coarse fabric of his kurta and the taut tension of the muscle beneath.
"Go home, dost," CK whispered, his voice cracking just once. "Today was not our day. But the sun rises again tomorrow, and the grind begins anew."
The friend didn't offer empty platitudes or pity. He didn't look broken. Instead, he flashed a smile—a calm, predatory expression that reached his eyes. It was a smile so deeply unnerving that had an opponent seen it, they would have felt the cold chill of mortality. It was the smile of a man who didn't fear the loss; he was already planning the retaliation.