The Blind Sage’s Prophecy

In the mighty kingdom of Magadha, there ruled a fierce and ambitious king, Rudrapratap Singh. He was a warrior like no other, expanding his empire through blood and steel, crushing enemies without hesitation. He saw himself as invincible, destined to be remembered as the greatest ruler in history.

One day, an old, blind sage, Rishi Rishaba, arrived at the royal court. The court fell silent as the frail yet commanding figure stepped forward. The sage needed no invitation, nor did he wait for the king’s questions. Instead, in a voice that echoed through the grand hall, he declared:

“O mighty king, beware. Your own flesh and blood will be the cause of your downfall.”

A murmur ran through the court, but Rudrapratap only scoffed. “I am the master of my own fate, wise sage. No one, not even my own son, can bring me down.”

With that, the king dismissed the words as nothing more than an old man’s ramblings. He paid no further attention to the warning and continued his rule as he always had, strong, unchallenged, and feared by all.

As the years passed, Rudrapratap’s thirst for power only grew. He ruled with an iron fist, executing ministers and generals at the slightest suspicion of treachery. He crushed rebellions before they could rise, ensuring that no threat could ever challenge him.

But in his hunger for dominance, he made one crucial mistake, he abandoned his own son, Prince Aryan Singh. To him, the boy was nothing more than a weakling unworthy of the throne. Rudrapratap ignored him, refused to groom him as a successor, and cast him aside.

What he failed to see was that Aryan, though neglected, was watching and learning. The people, too, had grown weary of Rudrapratap’s cruelty. And so, when Aryan rose in rebellion, the very subjects the king had oppressed flocked to his side.

His army, made up of rebels, former royal soldiers, and oppressed citizens, prepared to strike at the heart of the kingdom. One fateful night, under the cover of darkness, Aryan led his forces to the palace. The rebels moved like shadows, slipping past the outer guards before launching their attack. Flames rose as the battle erupted within the very walls of the king’s stronghold. The sound of clashing steel, battle cries, and shouts of alarm filled the air.

In the midst of the chaos, father and son finally came face to face. Rudrapratap stood at the top of the palace steps, his sword gleaming in the firelight. His once-loyal guards lay slain around him, his grand halls overrun by rebels. But the king did not falter. He stepped forward, his eyes burning with fury as he leveled his sword at his son.

“You dare raise your blade against me?” the king thundered. “You bring an army of cowards to my gates, yet you still think yourself worthy of my throne?”

Aryan met his father’s gaze without fear. “You raised me in shadows, Father. Now, I fight for my own light.”

Without another word, they charged at each other, swords clashing with thunderous force.

Rudrapratap fought like the warrior he had always been, strong, relentless, and deadly. Every strike of his sword was precise, every movement honed by years of battle. But Aryan had been preparing for this moment his entire life. He was faster, sharper, and fueled by a purpose greater than power.

Blades met again and again in a storm of sparks. The king struck with the might of a man who had never known defeat, but Aryan countered with the skill of a warrior who had learned from every mistake his father had made.

Outside, their armies clashed in brutal combat. The king’s elite guards fought desperately to defend the palace, but the rebels, fighting for freedom, were unwilling to fall back.

Inside, the battle between father and son raged on. Rudrapratap swung his sword in a powerful arc, but Aryan dodged, twisting around to strike. The king barely blocked the blow, but the force of it sent him staggering back.

For the first time in his life, Rudrapratap felt something unfamiliar, weakness. With one final movement, Aryan saw his opening. His sword flashed forward, piercing through his father’s armor. Rudrapratap gasped, his grip loosening as his blade slipped from his hand.

The mighty ruler of Magadha collapsed, his strength fading. The great conqueror, the man who believed himself invincible, had fallen, not to a foreign invader, not to a treacherous minister, but to his own son.

As he lay dying, he had a bitter realisation.

“The prophecy… I was blind… but not to fate—blind to you, my son.”

With those last words, Rudrapratap breathed his last. As dawn broke over Magadha, the battle came to an end. The king’s forces, seeing their ruler dead, surrendered. The war was over. The throne now belonged to Aryan. But unlike his father, he did not rule through fear. He ruled with wisdom, ensuring that Magadha would never again fall into the hands of a tyrant.

And so, the prophecy of Rishi Rishaba came true—Rudrapratap’s own blood had been his downfall.
For in the end, it was not fate, nor an enemy’s sword, but his own arrogance that had sealed his doom.

-Rtr. Prathaa Soni (Rotaract Club of Vadodara, India)