Epic Fail - Page 13

Chapter 9: Burnt Ends, Broken Thrones, and the Grand Fraud of Vivhi

So. This was a victory.

 

Lank.OS burned.And not in the metaphorical, hashtag-resistance way. It burned in the way flesh burns, in the way gold blackens, in the way empires fall without a single violin playing.

 

The monkeys were still hopping around the ruins like it was some kind of post-apocalyptic amusement park. The air reeked of charred silk and the sticky rot of dead dreams. And in the middle of this smoking crater, standing on what used to be my brother’s bones, was Vivhi—crowned, robed, polished—King of Ashes.

 

I didn’t clap.

I didn’t kneel.

I just lit another cigarette and whispered, ‘Lank.OS’s dead, babe. You’re just the guy left holding the receipt.’

 

But the victors? Oh, they love a good ceremony.

 

Ram.exe, the golden boy, the avatar of everything shiny and spotless, left as he came—untouched. Not a scratch. Not a bruise. As if none of the blood mattered because none of the blood was his. They flew him back to Ayotopia—yes, that Ayotopia, the kingdom of endless filters and algorithmic virtue—where the streets were lined with petals and slogans, and the crowd—oh the crowd—cheered until their throats bled.

 

And S-Ita?

Poor, burnt-out, glitching S-Ita?

 

She was the punchline to their entire season finale.

 

You see, somewhere between the looted gold and the monkey selfies, someone asked the one question nobody wanted to ask:

 

‘Hey, how do we know S-Ita is still... you know... pure?’

 

Yes. That.

Because what’s a woman’s worth in any age if not reduced to the status of a locked file—untouched, untainted, unopened?

 

So they built her a fire.

 

Not symbolically.

 

A literal, roaring Agnee Pariksha—trial by flame—right in the public square.

 

And the entire digital nation of Ayotopia streamed it live.

 

#SitaReturns

#PurityProven

#QueenGoals

 

I still remember her face.

 

Not scared.

Not tearful.

Just... done.

 

Like some ancient version of every woman who ever had to prove herself to men who wouldn’t survive five minutes inside her reality.

 

She walked through the flames.

The algorithm declared her ‘authentic’.

The masses cheered.

And Ram.exe? That polished, scripted, PR-perfect hero?

He took her back.

But his eyes said it all:

The virus of doubt was already inside him.

 

Of course, they don’t teach you this version.

They don’t tell you that the Agnee Pariksha wasn’t about faith or divinity or cleansing.

It was optics.

It was brand management.

It was damage control in an age where truth is whatever gets the most likes.

 

I laughed so hard I nearly choked.

 

Meanwhile, back in Lank.OS—ruins still smouldering—Vivhi was busy making it all worse.

 

You’d think after surviving the carnage, after switching sides like some shady stockbroker, he’d learn humility. You’d think the rivers of blood might stain his conscience a little. But nah. Vivhi took to kingship like a rat to leftover cheese.

 

First he rebranded.

Called himself Sri Vibhishan the Just.

Painted his face on banners.

Issued coins.

Started giving sermons.

Yes, you heard me. Sermons. About ethics. About righteousness. From the man who literally greenlit his brother’s murder to score political points.

 

The monkeys loved it. The survivors—what was left of them—nodded along. Because let’s face it: people will bow to anyone who promises safety after the bombs drop.

 

But I?

I knew the truth.

I knew Vivhi for what he really was:

 

A brand ambassador for the new Lank.OS, a hollow man in borrowed robes, a coward who mistook survival for virtue.

 

I remember one night, when the fires were still coughing smoke into the sky, I cornered him. Just me, him, the stars, and the weight of too much unsaid.

 

‘How does it feel,’ I asked, ‘to sit on a throne made of your brother’s bones?’

 

He flinched. Of course he flinched.

They always flinch when you say the thing no one’s supposed to say.

 

‘I did what I had to,’ he murmured, voice oily with self-righteousness. ‘Lank.OS must endure. Someone had to choose the righteous path.’

 

I laughed. I actually laughed.

‘You didn’t choose righteousness, darling,’ I spat. ‘You chose winning. You chose safety. You chose the comfort of being on the side of the approved narrative. Your dharma is just survival wearing a fake moustache.’

 

He tried to say something, but I was already gone.

Done. Finished.

There’s no point screaming into ears that only hear applause.

 

And as for Ram.exe and S-Ita?

Well. The honeymoon didn’t last.

 

In the sanitized press releases, they say Ayotopia glowed with harmony and truth. They say the King ruled wisely and the Queen was cherished. But I hacked the feeds. I read between the lines. I saw the glitches in the simulation.

 

They say she left him.

 

They say she vanished—swallowed by the very earth that birthed her—before she could give birth to the twins who would inherit this whole goddamn circus.

 

And him?

The golden boy?

He kept smiling.

Kept ruling.

Kept pretending that none of it haunted him at night.

 

But I know better.

 

Because the thing about war heroes is—they’re not built for the quiet. They’re not built for the emptiness that comes after the fires die down.

 

They are ghosts wearing crowns.

And Ayotopia is just a bigger, shinier prison.

 

And me?

I stayed.

Among the ashes.

Among the ghosts.

Among the ruins of men who called themselves gods.

 

I stayed because someone has to remember the real story.

 

The messy, bloody, stupid, gorgeous, pointless story.

 

The one they’ll try to rewrite.

The one they’ll try to pixelate into something beautiful.

 

But I was there.

I saw it.

I bled for it.

And I will never, ever let them forget.