Two weeks passed.
Two weeks of running until my legs gave out. Two weeks of lifting until my arms shook. Two weeks of eating sprouts and cucumbers and wondering if Trayaksh bhaiya secretly hated me.
But most importantly—two weeks of meditation.
I meditated everywhere.
In the park at 5 AM, cross-legged on the grass, while the sun rose and the city woke up around me.
In the Gurukul ground between classes, sitting against a tree, watching students walk past without seeing me.
In my room at night, after everyone else was asleep, sitting on my bed with my eyes closed, listening to my own breath.
In the library, hidden between shelves, surrounded by books that smelled like dust and knowledge.
Under a tree near the lake, the leaves rustling above me, the shade cool on my face.
Under the waterfall at the edge of the city—Trayaksh bhaiya had taken me there once, said the pressure would help me focus. The water crashed against my shoulders, my head, my closed eyes. I couldn't hear anything except the roar. And then, slowly, I could hear nothing at all.
Even underwater. I sat at the bottom of the lake, holding my breath, eyes closed, feeling the cold press against my skin. And in that silence, something stirred...
Bansi sir was writing on the board. Formulas. Derivations. Numbers that meant nothing to me.
I sat at the last bench. Getting bored. So I closed my eyes.
His voice faded. The scratching of chalk against the board faded. The whispers of students, the shuffling of papers, the hum of the lights—all of it faded.
And then—
Something shifted inside me.
I could feel it. Flowing. From the base of my spine up through my chest, spreading into my arms, my hands, my fingertips. Warm. Slow. Like honey. Like water that had been frozen for years and was finally starting to melt.
I could feel the air around me. Not as emptiness. As something alive. Something that was whispering.
A voice came from somewhere far away. But I couldn't hear the words.
The faded voice sounds like.
"Hey. Are you sleeping in my class?"
Vushhh.
Something was coming toward me.
I didn't open my eyes. I didn't think. I just tilted my head.
A piece of chalk flew past my ear. Hit the wall behind me. Cracked into pieces.
I opened my eyes.
Everyone was staring at me. Bansi sir stood at the front, his hand still raised from throwing the chalk. His face was red. The class was silent.
Behind me, chalk dust settled on the floor.
"Uhh... sorry, sir."
His voice was quiet. Which was scarier than when he screamed.
"Get out of my class."
I stood up. My legs moved easily. Lightly. Like I weighed nothing. Like the two weeks of running and lifting and meditating had hollowed me out and filled me with something lighter than air.
I walked out without saying anything.
The corridor was empty. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Dust floated in the light.
I looked at my hands.
I felt it coming, I thought. I heard it. And I moved.
I closed my eyes again. Tried to find that feeling.
Nothing. Just darkness. Just silence.
But something had changed.
I smiled.
After Gurukul, I headed to the ground to practice meditation. Mukund stayed behind.
I didn't think much of it. He'd been staying late a lot lately...
The combat training hall was empty. Most students had gone home. The lights were dim, the shadows long, the air thick with dust and the memory of violence.
Mukund stood in front of a punching bag.
His hands were wrapped. His legs too. Real wraps, the kind martial artists used, wound tight around his knuckles, his wrists, his shins. His stance was low. His weight balanced. His eyes fixed on the bag like it was an enemy.
He hit it.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. The bag swung back, then forward. He stepped into it. Knee to the center. Elbow to the side. A kick—low, fast, snapping into the bag's middle. Then another. Then another.
His movements were sharp. Clean. Nothing wasted.
He wasn't the same skinny kid who'd bounced off Mohit's stomach three weeks ago.
He leaned against the bag, breathing hard. Blood leaked through the wraps on his hands. The skin underneath was raw, cracked, healing, cracking again. He didn't seem to notice.
In the corner, Akshat leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Watching.
"Good," he said. "Your reaction time and form are getting better."
Mukund said nothing.
"Now." Akshat pushed off the wall. "Time for your dodging practice."
Mukund turned. Took his stance.
Akshat walked toward him. No warning. No countdown.
He threw a punch.
Mukund moved. Slipped to the side. The punch passed his ear.
Akshat threw another. Faster. Mukund ducked.
Another. Another. Another. Each one faster than the last. Akshat was holding back—he was human, but he was A+ rank, and his hands moved like he'd been throwing punches since before Mukund was born.
Mukund dodged. Weaved. Parried. Stepped back, stepped in, turned, ducked, slipped. His feet were quick. His body was light. His eyes never left Akshat's hands.
Akshat sped up.
Mukund matched him.
Akshat threw a combination—left, right, left, knee—and Mukund dodged all of them. The knee passed his hip by an inch. He didn't flinch.
Akshat stopped. Stepped back.
Mukund stood there. Ready.
Akshat's face was calm. But there was something in his eyes. Respect, maybe. Or surprise.
"You've improved," he said.
Mukund nodded. Didn't smile...
Mukund sat on the bench, breathing hard. His chest rose and fell. Sweat dripped from his chin.
Akshat handed him a towel. Didn't say anything. Just nodded.
Mukund took it. Wiped his face. Then started unwrapping the cloth from his hands.
The white fabric came away red.
He didn't flinch.
He stood up. Picked up his bag. Walked toward the door.
One week before the tournament.
I was walking down the hallway. It was 5 PM. The sun was beginning to set, and the corridors were painted orange from the fading light. Shadows stretched long across the floor. Somewhere outside, birds were singing their evening songs.
I was heading to the library to return the book Trayaksh bhaiya had given me. The book about Prana. The one that had changed everything.
The book felt lighter in my bag now. Not because I had finished it—because I had understood it.
I turned the corner.
And saw Mukund walking toward me.
He didn't notice me at first. His head was down, focused on his hands. He was unwrapping the cloth from his knuckles—slowly, carefully. The white fabric came away red.
Blood. His blood.
His hands were raw. The skin cracked and healing and cracking again. But he didn't seem to feel it. He just kept walking, methodically unwrapping, his face calm.
Then I looked at him. Really looked.
He looked different.
Not just the blood on his hands. His posture. His build. His shoulders were broader now, filling out his uniform in ways it hadn't before. His arms had definition—not bulky, but lean and hard. The kind of muscle that came from work, not from showing off.
The skinny kid I used to mock was gone.
In his place stood someone else.
He lifted his head. Noticed me.
His face broke into a smile. Warm. Tired. Genuine.
He raised his hand. Waved.
I waved back.
We met in the middle of the corridor. The orange light fell between us, casting our shadows long behind us.
We shook hands. His grip was firm. Strong. Different from before.
"How's your training going?" he asked.
I thought about the lake. About the water. About walking on something that shouldn't be walked on.
"It's... something," I said. "Trayaksh bhaiya wants me to walk on water."
Mukund raised an eyebrow. "Walk on water?"
"With fire."
He stared at me for a moment. Then laughed. A real laugh—tired but genuine.
"And I thought Akshat bhaiya was crazy for making me run until I threw up."
I smiled. "How is that going?"
He looked down at his wrapped hands. The blood had soaked through in places.
"I can dodge now," he said. "Not perfectly. But better. Kshitij won't touch me as easily as before."
He looked back at me. His eyes were different too. Harder. More focused.
"What about you? Can you feel it yet? The Prana?"
I closed my eyes for a moment. Reached inside.
There it was. Faint. Like a whisper. Like heat beneath the skin.
"Yeah," I said. "I can feel it."
Mukund nodded. "Good."
He glanced at my hand. "By the way, what's that in your hand?"
"Oh, nothing." I held up the book. "Trayaksh bhaiya gave it to me to learn more about Prana. I've finished it now, so I'm going to return it to the library."
Mukund nodded. "Oh. So let's go together."
We reached the library of our Gurukul.
It was huge.
Not like the small school libraries I'd seen before. This was something else entirely. The ceilings stretched high above us, lost in shadows. Shelves rose like walls—tall, wooden, carved with ancient designs. Each shelf had a long ladder attached to it, the kind that rolled on rails so you could reach the highest books.
The place was modern in some ways—the lighting was soft, the reading areas comfortable. But the books themselves... they felt old. Preserved. Like they had been sitting on these shelves since Satyayug. The pages were yellowed, the covers worn, the spines cracked from centuries of use.
The smell of dust and knowledge filled the air.
In the far corner, near the window, I saw her.
Ruchi.
She was sitting at a long wooden table, a book open in front of her. Her head was down, focused. The setting sun streamed through the window behind her, lighting up her hair like fire.
We walked toward her.
She looked the same. Same face. Same warm eyes. Same flower patterns on her palms.
But her Prana felt... different.
I said, "Hey, Ruchi."
She looked up. Her finger pressed against her lips.
"Shhhh... be quiet."
"Oh, sorry. My bad. I forgot that we're in the..." I started.
A thick wooden duster flew past my head. Full speed. I barely dodged it.
Whoosh. Thud.
It hit the wall behind me and clattered to the floor.
"These first years never know how to be quiet." A voice came from behind. Cold. Sharp.
I turned around.
An unknown lady stood there, wearing cat-eye glasses. She was levitating slightly, her feet hovering an inch above the ground. Then she landed softly, like a leaf settling on water.
"Consider that your last warning. Be quiet in the library."
She turned and walked away. Her footsteps made no sound.
"Wow... who—"
Mukund grabbed my mouth. Ruchi gestured frantically — let's go, let's go, let's go.
She picked up her book. I returned mine at the desk. We all left the library.
The corridor was silent.
Ruchi walked ahead of us, carrying her book close to her chest. Mukund and I followed behind, not speaking.
I broke the silence.
"Uh... by the way, who was she?"
Ruchi glanced back. "She's the Gurukul librarian. Katrina. She's also Aavira di's mother."
"So she has telekinesis too?"
"Yes. And she doesn't like any kind of noise in the library." Ruchi's voice dropped. "I've seen tables flying toward students who wouldn't shut up."
Mukund smirked. "Wow. Rag, you're clearly lucky. That duster almost took your head off."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Yeah. Lucky."
We walked a few more steps.
"By the way, Rag and Mukund, what were you doing in the library?" Ruchi asked.
"Nothing. Just returning the book Rag borrowed," Mukund said.
Ruchi turned around. A teasing smile on her face. "So you do read, Rag?"
Mukund laughed. I looked at her.
"By the way, Ruchi," I said, changing the subject, "what were you reading?"
She stopped walking.
Turned around fully.
"Let's go outside," she said. "I'll show you."
We were at the Gurukul garden, sitting on a wooden bench beneath an old banyan tree. The sun had almost set. The sky was a deep purple, the first stars just beginning to appear. A cool breeze rustled the leaves above us.
Ruchi placed the book on her lap.
The cover didn't look that old. Not like the other books in the library. This one was preserved. Cared for. Like someone had kept it safe for a very long time.
In the center, written in Sanskrit, was the title:
Prāvīṇya
Mastery.
She opened it.
"This book was written a few decades after the end of Dwaper Yuga," Ruchi began. "By the YODHA leader of that time."
Mukund raised an eyebrow. "That's... really old."
Ruchi agreed.
She read from the first page.
"When humans first got their elemental powers... the control was equal for all. But as time passed, humans unlocked new ways to use their powers. Variations began to appear. Even among elemental users, differences started to show."
I frowned. "So everyone wasn't equal forever."
"No." Ruchi shook her head. "Everyone controls their power differently. Uses it differently. And because of that, a new concept emerged."
She tapped the page.
"Mastery."
Mukund leaned forward. "What does the book say about it?"
Ruchi scanned the text.
"Mastery cannot be taught in Gurukul. Not anywhere. It has to be learned from within. Awakened alone."
"Alone?" I asked.
"By yourself. No teacher can give it to you. No book can teach it." She looked up at me. "But anyone can do it. Anyone. Any tier. Any power."
I felt something stir in my chest. Anyone.
Even me.
"Mastery means full control of the power you already hold," Ruchi continued. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
She turned the page. Her expression darkened.
"But then... the tier system came."
Mukund's jaw tightened. "Go on."
"Gurukul started dividing YODHAs. Tier 1. Tier 2. Tier 3. Tier 4. Tier None. They classified themselves based on birth powers. Superioring the Tier 1—the ones with elemental powers."
I thought about how people looked at me. Son of Viraj. Brother of Ayansh. Tier 1. But still... not good enough.
"Because of that," Ruchi said softly, "mastery in lower tiers slowly vanished. The last person with lower tier mastery was found at the end of Treta Yuga."
Mukund let out a breath. "That was thousands of years ago."
"Yes." Ruchi closed her eyes for a moment. "Now, lower tier YODHAs have forgotten what potential they could hold."
I looked down at my hands.
"So they gave up," I said. "Because someone told them they couldn't."
Neither of them answered.
Mukund broke the silence. "How do you awaken mastery? Just train harder?"
Ruchi turned to the next section.
"That's the thing. Mastery sounds easy to awaken. But it will never awaken by just doing practice and battle. You have to do something else."
She read aloud:
"There are countless ways to achieve mastery. A few are: pushing your limits. Receiving extreme mental breakdown—for example, losing someone precious on a battlefield. Losing all hope."
I felt my stomach drop.
Mukund's face went still. "So pain."
"Pain," Ruchi agreed. "Or the opposite."
She continued reading.
"It may also be awakened when you receive mental clarity. Divine knowledge. Or when you unlock the last chakra—the Sahasrara."
The crown chakra. The seventh gate. The one the book said was impossible to reach without mastery.
"It is suggested to first activate all your chakras to achieve mastery," Ruchi said. "But it can awaken before. Or you may have to push yourself more. It depends on the person."
Mukund rubbed his temples. "So there's no single way."
"No," Ruchi agreed. "Mastery is unique for every YODHA. According to their Prana. Their nature. Their mindset."
She turned another page.
"Mastery is like walking in you own unique path. But through so many years, there are two masteries which are found to be easier to achieve compared to others. And really effective on a battlefield."
I leaned in. "Which ones?"
Ruchi pointed at the first diagram.
The First Mastery: Akṣaya Varman
"This is called Akṣaya Varman," Ruchi said. "Imperishable Armor."
The diagram showed a figure completely covered in their element—fire, water, earth, wind, space. The element wrapped around them like a second skin. Like armor that could never break.
"The user covers his whole body with an impenetrable armor made of his elemental power," Ruchi explained. "It is achieved when the user learns high control over his power. Shaping it into armor."
Mukund studied the image. "So you're completely protected."
"Completely. And the armor design depends on the person. Everyone's looks different."
I stared at the burning figure. Fire armor. I could almost see it. Flames wrapping around my arms, my chest, my legs. Not wild. Controlled. Protective.
"Akṣaya Varman," I whispered.
"It means imperishable," Mukund said. "It cannot be destroyed. As long as you have Prana, the armor stays."
Ruchi nodded. "That's what the book says."
The Second Mastery: Bhūrikāya Roop
Ruchi turned to the next diagram.
"The second is called Bhūrikāya Roop."
I looked at the image. My breath caught.
A giant. Made entirely of element—fire, water, earth, wind, space. Towering over the battlefield. Its form was massive. Unstoppable.
"When the holder masters how to use his power explosively and powerfully," Ruchi said, "he is able to cover his body with explosive power and take the form of a giant."
Mukund adjusted his glasses. "A giant."
"It could be a human form. Or an animal." Ruchi pointed at the notes in the margin. "It also varies according to different person."
I imagined a giant made of fire. Walking through the battlefield. Unstoppable.
"How do you even fight something like that?" I asked.
Ruchi shrugged. "I don't know. But I hope we never have to find out."
Mukund was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke.
"These masteries. Armor. Giant. They're only for Tier 1?"
Ruchi shook her head. "The book says anyone can achieve them. But the families of elemental power holders have conserved these masteries. Kept them secret. Taught them only to their own."
"So lower tiers never even get the chance to try."
"No."
Silence.
The wind blew through the garden. Somewhere, a bird called out.
I looked at the book. At the two diagrams. At the words that had been hidden for so long.
"Akṣaya Varman," I said slowly. "Imperishable Armor."
Ruchi nodded.
"And Bhūrikāya Roop," Mukund added. "The Giant Form."
I looked at my hands again.
"You're thinking about it," Ruchi said. Not a question.
"I'm always thinking about it." I looked up at her. "How do I know which one is mine?"
Ruchi smiled. A small, knowing smile.
"Mastery is unique for every YODHA," she said, repeating the book's words. "According to their Prana. Their nature. Their mindset."
She closed the book gently.
"You won't know until it awakens."
I stared at the darkening sky.
The first stars were out now. Tiny points of light in the vast darkness.
Somewhere inside me, something stirred.
Not Prana. Something else.
Waiting.