Vikransh Singh Rathore: The King Who Feared Nothing, Except Losing Him
Power isn’t given. It’s taken. And once taken, it must be held with bloodstained hands.
The air inside the underground chamber was thick with fear. The dim chandelier flickered, casting long shadows on the trembling men gathered before him. The scent of whiskey and gunpowder lingered in the air, but nothing was stronger than the presence of the man who sat at the head of it all.
Vikransh Singh Rathore.
Legs crossed, one hand resting lazily on the armrest of his leather chair, he looked almost bored. But his silence—his unforgiving, suffocating silence—was deadlier than any spoken threat.
A man knelt before him, hands shaking, sweat dripping down his forehead. He had made a mistake. A grave one. And in Vikransh’s world, mistakes were not forgiven.
Click.
The sound of a gun being cocked shattered the silence. A man standing beside Vikransh, one of his most trusted enforcers, awaited a signal. A simple nod. A flick of the wrist. A silent order to erase.
But Vikransh did nothing.
He simply leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and looked down at the man before him.
One heartbeat. Two.
Then, in a voice so quiet it sent chills down every spine in the room, he spoke.
"Do you know what happens to men who betray me?"
The man whimpered. Begged. Pleaded. But Vikransh already knew his decision.
Mercy was not a language he spoke.
Without a word, he stood, his towering frame casting an imposing shadow over the room. A storm wrapped in silence. A king without a crown, yet ruling a world built on fear.
He turned on his heel and walked away, his answer unspoken.
Behind him, a single gunshot echoed.
And the world knew, once again, why Vikransh Singh Rathore feared nothing—but was feared by all.
---
But the palace whispered a different truth.
Inside its grand, cold walls, past the heavy wooden doors of his private chambers, another side of Vikransh Singh Rathore existed—one that only one person had ever seen.
A giggle echoed through the halls, high-pitched and full of innocence. The new workers, trained to fear their ruthless employer, paused in shock at the sight before them.
The King of Jodhpur—the man whose name was spoken with terror—was kneeling on the marble floor, his cold eyes softened as he wiped a smudge of chocolate from the chubby cheek of a three-year-old boy who came and hugged him making his clothes dirty with chocolate stains..
𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞—𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞—𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐄𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧.
To everyone’s shock, Vikransh didn’t push him away.
Instead, he bent down, scooping the boy up with effortless ease. His steel gaze melted as he softly patted the child’s back.
"You made a mess again, champ," Vikransh murmured, his deep voice nothing like the one that had just sealed a man’s fate.
The child only grinned wider, reaching up to tug at his father’s beard with tiny fingers.
One of the newly hired maids whispered, confusion lacing her voice. “Is he… adopted?”
Before anyone could answer, an older servant beside her shook his head. “No. That’s his own son.”
The group stilled.
His son?
Another worker spoke in hushed tones. "With whom? I never heard about—”
A sharp glare from one of the senior staff cut her off. “We don’t ask about that.”
The whispering stopped.
The truth was both known and unspoken. The child was his blood, the last piece of a woman whose name no one dared to speak ..
As the maids walked away, whispering amongst themselves, inside the grand room, Vikransh sat on the floor—the feared mafia king, playing with wooden blocks with his son.
The little boy stacked the blocks in silence, his tiny hands carefully placing one over another.
But not a single word left his lips.
SARANSH SINGH RATHORE
𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞-𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫-𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐧.
𝐀 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝.
𝐍𝐨 '𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐚.'
𝐍𝐨 '𝐌𝐚𝐚.'
Nothing.
Vikransh watched his son with a gaze filled with an ache no one knew existed inside him.
"Saru, dekho yeh lion hai," he murmured, holding up a small wooden lion.
(Look, this is a lion)
The boy stared but said nothing.
Vikransh sighed. A storm raged inside him.
Just then, the door swung open.
The soft laughter of a child echoed in the dimly lit room.
Vikransh sat on the floor, his hardened expression melting as he gently ruffled Saransh’s hair. The little boy clapped his hands, eyes twinkling with pure joy as his father handed him a small wooden car.
𝐀 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.
The feared Vikransh Singh Rathore, the King of Jodhpur, the ruthless mafia lord and cold-hearted CEO, was on his knees, playing with his three-year-old son—𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Saransh, his own blood, had never spoken a word.
Vikransh watched as his son played, oblivious to the burdened world around him. A storm raged inside the man's chest—𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮.
The door creaked open.
"Vikransh."
His mother’s firm yet gentle voice filled the room. The moment her eyes landed on the scene before her, a sigh escaped her lips.
She stepped closer, taking in the way Vikransh's fingers absentmindedly brushed Saransh’s cheek, his gaze distant.
"Shadi kar le."
(Get married.)
His body stiffened.
"Maa," his voice was low, edged with warning.
She didn't waver.
"Beta, is bacche ko maa ki zaroorat hai."
(Son, this child needs a mother.)
Saransh, unaware of the tension in the room, crawled into Vikransh's lap, hugging his chest tightly. The man swallowed hard.
𝐇𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰.
He knew his son needed more. But was he ready?
"Tujhe Sandhya ki kasam hai."
(I swear on Sandhya.)
His breath hitched. His hands curled into fists.
𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐡𝐲𝐚.
The woman he once loved. The woman who had begged him, with her dying breath, to promise her something.
𝐓𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐧.
To not let their son grow up in emptiness.
𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥.
Vikransh closed his eyes, inhaling sharply as the weight of the past crushed him.
His mother’s gaze softened. "Agar tu ne Sandhya se sach mein pyaar kiya tha, toh uski aakhri khwahish ko pura kar."
(If you truly loved Sandhya, then fulfill her last wish.)
A long silence stretched between them.
𝐀 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡.
𝐀 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.
𝐀 𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.
Vikransh looked down at Saransh, who had now fallen asleep in his arms.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.
"Theek hai."
(Fine.)
𝘼 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚.
He would get married.
But love?
𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫.
His mother was happy as her efforts paid off , she knew that her son deserved to be happy and the baby needed love of a mother , she immediately hugged him and went away from the room to arrange for the suitable girl and other arrangements
---
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