Pataliputra was a jaw-dropper—wooden palaces with ivory inlays, streets packed with vendors hawking peacock feathers and Persian glass. Virat rolled in with his ashvaka, saffron tunics blazing, arbalests on their backs. Emperor Samudragupta lounged on a golden throne, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. Virat didn't flinch. He gifted a steel-alloy dhal shield, lotus-etched and light as a feather. "Steel for your armies, irrigation for your farms," he offered. "Give Chandrapur freedom." Samudragupta, half-impressed, half-wary, agreed—Chandrapur was free, but still under Gupta watch.
Virat went full beast mode. He scaled up the gurukuls, hiring scholars to teach astronomy, algebra, even basic surgery—Ayurveda mixed with Vikram's modern tricks. Hospitals popped up, using sterilized tools to slash infection rates. Paper mills pumped out manuscripts—math, poetry, whatever—spreading knowledge to every caste. Trade guilds gave artisans power, ensuring quality and fair pay. Chandrapur's muddy streets turned to stone, markets linking Persia, China, and Rome.
Samudragupta kicked the bucket, no heir in sight. Bharatvarsha went nuts—vassals fighting, Kalinga stirring trouble. Virat pounced. He rallied Magadha and smaller rajas, using rocket shows to scare off doubters. Under Chandrapur's banyan, he declared himself Maharaja, founding the Saffron Dynasty—saffron for unity, wisdom, and progress. Lakshmi, now queen, revamped taxes, making them fair for all varnas, and locked in sea trade with coastal kingdoms.
Brahmin priests threw a fit—gurukuls for Shudras? Heresy! Virat shut them down in shastrarth debates, mixing Upanishads with hard facts. "Knowledge is dharma!" he thundered, winning over scholars. He set up Silk Road caravan routes, goods flowing like rivers—silk, spices, gold. Chandrapur became Bharatvarsha's beating heart. But Virat had bigger plans. In a hidden ashram, he was cooking up something insane—a genetic revolution to make his people unstoppable.