The academy courtyard fell silent without warning.
It wasn't fear that caused it—not at first. It was instinct. The kind that made birds stop mid-flight and awakened cores quiet themselves without command.
A man stood beneath the old banyan tree.
Simple saffron robes. Wooden sandals. A shawl patterned faintly with peacock feathers draped over one shoulder. He looked almost out of place among reinforced buildings and modern surveillance towers.
He was smiling.
Not arrogantly.
Not mockingly.
But as though he had already seen tomorrow—and found it amusing.
Aarav felt it instantly.
His Lightning core didn't flare.
It didn't resist.
It bowed.
Space around the man felt calm, corrected, as if reality itself adjusted its posture in his presence. Even Ether—subtle and omnipresent—seemed to pause, attentive.
"Why do I feel like I'm about to get scolded by the universe?" Kunal whispered.
Professors noticed next.
Seasoned awakeners—some A-rank, some rumored S-rank—froze where they stood. One of them unconsciously folded his hands. Another swallowed hard, sweat forming along his temple.
The Headmaster hurried forward, his composure cracking.
"L-Lord Mādhav," he said, bowing deeply. "We were not informed of your arrival."
Mādhav chuckled softly.
"Since when," he asked gently, "did I begin announcing myself?"
The Headmaster said nothing.
Mādhav's gaze shifted—and locked onto Aarav.
Those eyes were deep, endless, holding mirth and gravity in equal measure. Aarav felt as though every choice he had ever made was being gently acknowledged.
"So," Mādhav said casually, "you are the boy who commands lightning yet refuses to dominate."
Aarav stiffened. "Sir, I—"
Mādhav raised a finger.
"You stepped forward when fear spread. You restrained power when destruction was easier. That is not weakness."
He tapped Aarav's chest lightly.
Lightning stirred—then calmed.
"You carry Indra's authority," Mādhav continued. "You carry Ākāśa's freedom."
His finger moved to Aarav's forehead.
"And one day," he said softly, smile thinning, "you will carry Mahākāla's burden."
Aarav's breath hitched.
"Why me?" he asked quietly.
Mādhav laughed.
"I once asked the same question," he said. "Standing between duty and despair."
Kurukshetra echoed unspoken.
Mādhav turned, beginning to walk away.
"From today," he said over his shoulder, "you are my śiṣya."
The word struck like thunder.
Not student.
Not subordinate.
Disciple.
"Training begins at sunrise," Mādhav added. "By the river. Come alone."
He paused, glancing at Kunal.
"And you," he said with amusement, "will survive because you laugh."
Kunal blinked. "I have never felt more spiritually validated."
Mādhav vanished—not in light, not in shadow.
The world simply decided he no longer needed to be there.
Aarav stood unmoving.
For the first time, the path ahead was clear.
And terrifying.