The talk spread faster than the actual news.
Not because it was important—because people liked talking.
Aryavardhan first heard it clearly at the market.
He was standing near a grain stall, waiting while the seller argued with someone about weight. Two men nearby were chatting, not even trying to lower their voices.
"So it's Ashoka now," one said, chewing on something.
"Yes," the other replied. "Another Magadhan prince playing king."
"Hah. Magadha always does this."
"And yet they survive," the first man said. "Like weeds."
They laughed.
Then one of them added, almost casually, "People say he's dangerous."
The other snorted. "Dangerous? Chandragupta himself couldn't touch Kalinga. Bindusara tried pressure and failed. What can a lad do?"
That sentence stayed with Aryavardhan longer than the rest.
What can a lad do?
---
He heard the same thing again that week.
And again.
Different voices. Same tone.
Sometimes respectful. Mostly dismissive.
"Magadha is noisy, not strong."
"They've always been like that."
"Ashoka is young."
"Let him settle his own mess first."
No fear.
No urgency.
Just confidence mixed with boredom.
Kalinga had earned that confidence over generations.
And that made it dangerous.
---
Aryavardhan didn't disagree with them out loud.
He understood why people felt that way.
Kalinga wasn't weak. It had ports, ships, trade routes, scholars, disciplined soldiers. It had survived pressure from Magadha before.
History—their history—supported their belief.
Even Aryavardhan couldn't argue with that easily.
But he had another kind of history in his head.
And that made him uneasy.
---
One afternoon, he was walking with Nila near the outer hall.
She seemed relaxed, almost amused.
"People are joking about Magadha now," she said.
"I noticed," Aryavardhan replied.
"One man said today, 'If Chandragupta failed, Ashoka won't even try.'"
She smiled.
Aryavardhan didn't.
"Do you think that's wrong?" Nila asked.
He chose his words carefully. "I think people confuse past limits with future ones."
She looked at him, puzzled. "That sounds like one of your thinking statements."
He shrugged. "Maybe."
---
That evening, Aryavardhan attended a small gathering. Not a council. Just officials talking after work.
Someone brought up the news again.
"Ashoka is consolidating power," one man said. "Some executions too."
Another waved his hand dismissively. "Internal Magadhan drama."
A third laughed. "Let them bleed each other. They won't look east for years."
Then someone glanced at Aryavardhan. "You've been quiet. What do you think?"
Aryavardhan paused.
This mattered.
He couldn't sound alarmist.
He couldn't sound prophetic.
So he chose the safest truth.
"I think Kalinga is strong," he said.
Everyone nodded.
"And I think strong places should stay prepared," he added.
Silence.
Then someone chuckled. "Prepared for what? A boy king?"
That ended the conversation.
---
Aryavardhan didn't push it further.
He knew better.
If people weren't ready to worry, forcing fear would only make them ignore him later.
So he did what he always did.
He worked quietly.
---
The next day, he visited another storage yard.
This one was older. Smelled worse.
The overseer greeted him politely but with confusion.
"You again?" the man asked. "Looking for strange soil?"
Aryavardhan smiled. "Something like that."
They walked past sacks of grain and jars of oil.
At the back were heaps of earth pulled from old pits.
Aryavardhan knelt, broke a clump with his fingers.
White flecks.
Not much.
But enough.
"Separate this," he said. "Dry it."
The overseer frowned. "It's useless."
"Not useless," Aryavardhan replied. "Just unused."
"For what purpose?"
Aryavardhan hesitated. Then gave the safest answer.
"Cooling experiments," he said. "Preserving things."
That wasn't a lie.
Not completely.
---
By now, a pattern had formed.
Aryavardhan wasn't collecting large amounts.
Just enough to matter later.
Enough to experiment.
Enough to not draw attention.
Saltpeter wasn't named.
It didn't need to be.
It was just "odd soil," "white earth," "waste residue."
Unimportant.
Perfect.
---
Meanwhile, life went on.
Students argued about texts.
Merchants complained about port fees.
Farmers talked about better tools.
And always, when Magadha came up—
The same sentence returned.
"Chandragupta couldn't do it."
"Bindusara failed."
"What can a lad do?"
Aryavardhan heard it so often that it stopped bothering him.
Almost.
---
One night, Samudragupta sat with him, watching lanterns flicker in the distance.
"You seem distracted lately," Samudragupta said.
"Do I?"
"You're listening more than talking."
Aryavardhan smiled faintly. "That's usually when I learn the most."
Samudragupta chuckled. "People aren't worried, you know."
"I know."
"They trust Kalinga."
"As they should."
Samudragupta studied him. "But you're still preparing."
"Yes."
"For what?"
Aryavardhan thought for a moment. "For being wrong."
Samudragupta laughed. "That's a strange reason."
"It's the safest one," Aryavardhan replied.
---
Later that night, Aryavardhan wrote in his notebook.
Not long entries.
Just small lines.
People trust history more than people.
They remember victories, not close calls.
Confidence hides slowly growing danger.
He stopped, tapping the pen against the paper.
Then wrote one more line.
If they think Ashoka is just a lad, that gives us time.
---
He closed the notebook and lay back.
Outside, someone laughed loudly.
Somewhere else, a merchant argued with a guard.
Kalinga was calm.
Strong.
Certain.
And Aryavardhan understood something clearly then—
He didn't need the public to worry.
He just needed them to keep believing they were safe.
Because while they laughed at a "lad" in Magadha,
He would quietly make sure Kalinga never faced him unprepared.