Fortune finally smiled on Dev at age eleven. A passing army scout witnessed the boy's raw strength during a street brawl where Dev defended his siblings from older bullies. Impressed, the scout recommended him to a gritty, low-caste military gurukul, not the elite academies reserved for noble Kshatriya sons, but a harsh barracks for commoners hoping to rise above ordinary sainiks. Dev thrived there. He learned swordplay, archery, spear techniques, and battlefield tactics under brutal drills that left him bruised and bleeding yet unbreakable. By seventeen he had risen to lead a small squad on dangerous border patrols. His simple iron cuirass and helmet gleamed with hard-earned pride. Through battlefield valor he forged connections with higher officers who dined with minor nobles. "My little brother deserves a better fate," Dev often declared. Using his growing influence, he secured a precious recommendation from a sympathetic noble for Laxman to enter the prestigious Royal Gurukul of Martial Dharma, an elite academy perched on a hill overlooking the city, its towering spires and packed-earth training grounds reserved for those endorsed by the highborn.
Laxman, now fifteen, stepped through those guarded gates carrying fragments of past-life wisdom and the fierce support of his siblings. With Bharat's stories of resilience, Gita's gentle encouragement, and Dev's weekend training sessions drilling stances and strikes, he endured the grueling entrance trials; endless endurance runs under the scorching sun, savage mock combats with wooden weapons, and riddles testing both wit and dharma. He passed. Once inside, while wealthy classmates formed arrogant cliques, flirted shamelessly with visiting noble daughters in flowing silk saris, or sneaked wine into the dormitories, Laxman trained with relentless focus. Dawn brought sword drills that made his arms burn like fire. Afternoons were spent with bow and arrow until his fingers bled. Evenings he studied strategy and ancient codes of honor. His body forged itself into lean, powerful muscle; his mind grew sharp as a freshly whetted iron blade. Mentally far older than his years, he viewed youthful distractions as meaningless illusions. "Why chase fleeting pleasures of the flesh?" he thought, the immortal challenge echoing faintly in his soul like distant temple bells.
Despite starting late, he caught up through sheer will and graduated at twenty-one as the top student of his batch, his name carved upon the academy's stone of honor.
Soon after, the same noble who had recommended him, Lord Ravi, a portly man whose villa boasted marble columns and lush gardens scented with jasmine, took Laxman into service as a personal Kshatriya guard. Such warriors ranked just below true nobles, clad in polished armor and sworn to protect their lord's household with their lives.
By then, his family had risen modestly from the slums. Bharat and Gita had pooled their savings to open a small but respectable eatery in a better district, serving fragrant spiced curries and fresh rotis to passing traders. Bharat had married a kind weaver woman and fathered two chubby, laughing children who toddled about the courtyard. Gita wed a loyal sainik friend of Dev's and bore three lively children of her own. Dev, now a respected senapati praised for battlefield courage, hosted warm family gatherings where laughter finally drowned out the ghosts of past sorrows.
On his first day of duty, Laxman was assigned to guard Lord Ravi's fifth daughter, Lady Meera.
She was a vision of grace, like a cool evening breeze moving through jasmine vines. Calm and soft-spoken, she possessed raven-black hair that cascaded like a midnight waterfall, eyes deep and serene as sacred temple pools, and skin as fair as moonlight on still water. Her embroidered silk garments whispered softly as she walked, carrying the delicate scent of sandalwood and roses. Noble-born, she embodied refined beauty, reading ancient poetry in the garden, playing the veena with elegant fingers that seemed to coax music from the air itself, and tending to temple orphans with genuine compassion.
Laxman fell under her spell without resistance. Her gentle laugh rang like temple bells. Her thoughtful words on beauty, dharma, and the quiet sorrows of life stirred something profound in his heart. Yet even as gods themselves might have yielded to such allure, the fragments of his immortal vow held him back from any impure desire. He resisted the pull toward carnal longing with iron discipline.