Chapter 7: A Flicker of Hope

The sun had fully risen by the time they neared the outskirts of the small village. The journey through the dense forest had been slow and exhausting, especially with Sambhaji Raje still weakened from his captivity. The MC's body ached from the weight of carrying both Sambhaji and the anxiety of knowing they were still far from safety.

The village appeared just beyond a stretch of open land—modest huts clustered together with smoke lazily curling from a few chimneys. A quiet, peaceful place. But that peace was fragile, and danger lurked just beyond the horizon. The Mughals would be searching soon, and the sight of soldiers wouldn't be far off.

"We can rest here for a while, Raje," the MC whispered, scanning the area with his system map. No red dots of Mughal patrols appeared nearby, but that could change at any moment. "They won't expect us to stay in such a small place."

Sambhaji, though clearly fatigued, stood tall despite his blindness. His posture was that of a king—unbowed, even after everything he had endured. "Let's hope the people here still remember loyalty to the throne," he muttered, his voice tinged with both exhaustion and the quiet fury of a ruler betrayed.

The MC guided him closer to the village, careful to keep them hidden behind the cover of trees and bushes. His heart pounded in his chest, not from the physical effort, but from the mounting tension. One wrong move, one untrustworthy person, and everything could unravel.

"Do you know anyone here, Raje?" the MC asked quietly, keeping his voice low as they approached the first of the huts.

Sambhaji frowned, his brow furrowing as if reaching back through the fog of his memory. "Perhaps," he said after a long moment. "The village headman—Ganpatrao—was once a loyal supporter of my father, Shivaji Maharaj. I do not know where his allegiances lie now."

The MC nodded. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start. Ganpatrao could be their way into the village. If he was still loyal to the Maratha crown, then they would have a safe place to rest and perhaps even some allies. But if his loyalties had shifted to the Mughals, or if fear had taken hold of him, then they were walking into a trap.

"Stay behind me, Raje," the MC said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I'll talk to him first."

They approached the largest hut at the edge of the village. The air smelled of freshly tilled earth, mixed with the faint aroma of cooking food. Villagers moved about their daily chores, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that was brewing just beyond their world.

The MC knocked on the wooden door of the hut, his hand shaking slightly. He glanced at Sambhaji, who stood just a few steps behind him, his expression unreadable but his blind eyes fixed ahead with unwavering strength.

The door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man with a tired, weathered face. His eyes were sunken, lines of worry etched into his brow. He looked the MC up and down, his gaze sharp with suspicion.

"What do you want?" the man asked, his voice low and gruff.

The MC hesitated for a split second. How do I even begin to explain this? He couldn't just blurt out that he had the captured and supposedly dead Sambhaji Raje standing outside his door.

"We're travelers," the MC said carefully. "We've come a long way and need a place to rest. I was told the headman here might help us."

The man narrowed his eyes but said nothing. After a tense pause, he opened the door wider, stepping aside to let them in. "Come," he said. "But speak quietly. It's dangerous to trust strangers these days."

The MC nodded, motioning for Sambhaji to follow him inside. The interior of the hut was small but neat, with a modest hearth in the corner and a simple table in the center. The headman gestured for them to sit, his expression still wary.

"I am Ganpatrao," the man said, his eyes flicking to Sambhaji, lingering on the scars and bruises that marred his face. "And who are you?"

Before the MC could respond, Sambhaji spoke, his voice steady and commanding despite his weakened state. "I am Sambhaji, son of Shivaji Maharaj."

Ganpatrao's face paled, and for a moment, the room was filled with a heavy silence. His eyes widened, darting between the MC and the Raje, disbelief written clearly on his features.

"S-Sambhaji Raje?" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "But… but you were captured. The Mughals—Aurangzeb—he said you were dead."

Sambhaji's lips pressed into a thin line. "I am not dead, as you can see. But I have little time to explain. I need your help, Ganpatrao. The Mughals are still searching for me, and we need a place to rest."

The weight of the moment hung in the air. The headman's face twisted in conflict, fear flashing in his eyes. He was clearly torn—between his loyalty to the Maratha throne and the very real danger that helping Sambhaji posed. If the Mughals discovered that the Raje was alive, and that someone had aided in his escape, the consequences would be dire.

"I…" Ganpatrao hesitated, his gaze darting toward the door. "The Mughals… they have soldiers stationed nearby. If they find out…"

The MC stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Ganpatrao, the Mughals have already declared Sambhaji Raje dead. They don't know he's escaped, and if we're careful, they won't find out. But we need your help—just for a short time."

Ganpatrao's eyes flicked back to Sambhaji, searching his face for some sign of truth. After what felt like an eternity, the tension seemed to break. The headman let out a long, shaky breath and nodded.

"Very well," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I will hide you. But we must be careful. If anyone in the village learns of this, it will be the end of us all."

The MC nodded gratefully, helping Sambhaji to a seat near the hearth. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You're doing the right thing."

Ganpatrao moved quickly, bringing them food and water, his hands shaking slightly as he worked. The fear in his eyes never fully left, but there was something else there too—something that looked a lot like hope. The idea that the Raje was still alive, still fighting, had lit a small flame in the man's heart. A flicker of hope in the dark times they lived in.

As they ate, the MC's mind raced with thoughts of what was to come. This was only the first step—they had escaped Bahadurgad, but now they needed allies, plans, and resources. The Maratha Empire was in disarray, and they would need more than just hiding to turn the tide against Aurangzeb's massive Mughal forces.

"We can't stay here for long," Sambhaji said after a while, his voice cutting through the quiet. "The Mughals will search the villages soon enough. We need to move quickly."

The MC nodded in agreement, though the weariness of the last few days weighed on him heavily. He wasn't a fighter, not like the men who had followed Sambhaji into battle. He was just someone thrown into the past, forced to adapt and survive.

But there was one thing he did know—strategy. His time playing complex strategy games had taught him one crucial lesson: survival wasn't just about brute strength; it was about outthinking your enemy.

"We'll leave at dawn," the MC said quietly, his voice filled with newfound determination. "And we'll find the men who are still loyal to you, Raje. Men who will fight for the Maratha throne."

Sambhaji nodded, his face unreadable but his presence powerful, even in his weakened state. "There are loyal men out there," he said quietly. "And when we find them, we will strike back."

The MC stared into the flickering fire, his mind racing with possibilities, plans, and strategies. He wasn't just here to survive anymore. He was here to change history.

And with Sambhaji Raje at his side, he had a chance to do just that.