Naimisha blinked again, the sterile white ceiling above her slowly giving way to sense and shape. Her breath was shallow, her limbs numb, but not from pain—rather, a strange lightness, like she'd floated just outside herself and was now trying to stitch the pieces back together.
The soft hush of paper fans turning. The scent of sandalwood and healing salves. The distant echo of mantra recitation from a neighboring hall.
And beside her—
A silhouette.
She turned her head, and there he was. Sitting quietly on a low stool near the bed, spine straight, eyes focused—Pralay.
He looked tired. Dark circles framed his eyes. His robes were wrinkled. But he was there.
Watching. Waiting.
Naimisha (groggy): "…What are you doing here?"
Pralay (quietly, without hesitation): "You… kinda stopped me from exploding at the Dharmganj gate. So I figured… maybe I owed you."
He paused, as if unsure whether to say the next part.
But he did.
Pralay: "I mean… I don't really know anyone here. I don't trust many people.
But that day—you didn't just calm me down. You… saw me.
So yeah. I stayed.
Because I consider you… a good friend."
The words hung in the air, simple but unpolished. Honest in a way most things at Nalanda weren't.
Naimisha turned to face him fully now, her lips parting as if to speak—but the words didn't come right away. Instead, she just looked at him, truly looked.
The tension between them softened—not romantic, not yet—but something real.
A thread forged through fire and silence, not shaped but earned.
Naimisha (softly, after a beat): "…You talk too much for someone so quiet."
Pralay (smiling faintly): "First time I've heard you call me quiet."
A silence followed—not awkward, but gentle. The kind that holds space, not fills it.
Their eyes met again, and something passed between them. Not a moment of grandeur or swelling emotion—just presence. Understanding. Mutual survival.
Then—
A firm knock on the wooden frame of the door.
Both turned.
Yogi Agnivesh stepped in first, his saffron robes flowing, eyes sharp beneath the weight of a hundred generations of wisdom. Beside him walked Yogi Arjun Devendra, still carrying the same immovable stillness that had brought Naimisha's fury to its knees with a thunderclap.
Yogi Agnivesh (soft but firm): "You're awake. Good."
Yogi Arjun (calmly, to Pralay): "And you stayed."
Pralay rose to his feet respectfully, nodding.
Pralay: "She needed someone."
Yogi Agnivesh's expression remained unreadable as he stepped closer to Naimisha's bedside.
Yogi Agnivesh: "We will speak with her privately now."
His voice was calm but final.
Yogi Arjun gave Pralay a quiet nod—not of dismissal, but of acknowledgment. Perhaps even gratitude.
Pralay stood, straightened his robe, and gave Naimisha one last glance.
She looked back—not with fear or confusion this time, but quiet strength. Something had shifted.
He stepped out silently, closing the carved wooden door behind him.
The cool air of Nalanda's eastern wing hit his face, fresher than the thick incense of the nursing wing.
He didn't know why he was being dismissed. But he also didn't question it too much. Some things were meant for their eyes only.
As he stepped into the courtyard, faint voices drifted toward him—disciples gathered under the banyan arches, speaking in hurried whispers.
He slowed as he passed them.
Disciple 1 (whispering): "Did you hear? A Vanguard guard was killed. At the Gwalior Tower."
Disciple 2 (wide-eyed): "The woman? The one they say was close to Pandit Karunesh Kavachendra?"
Disciple 3 (leaning in): "More than close. Some say… she was his mistress."
Disciple 2: "Whatever she was, she's dead now. They found her with her chakra core ruptured. No signs of a fight. No alarm glyphs triggered."
Disciple 1: "And here's the worst part—someone spotted him."
A beat of silence.
Disciple 3 (lowering his voice): "The Bloodborn King. On the Gwalior Port.
Not more than a day after she died."
Disciple 2 (whispering): "He was seen… and then vanished. Just like that."
That name hit Pralay's spine like ice.
He stepped toward them now, gaze steady.
Pralay (firmly): "The Bloodborn King…
You mean the one Dharmpal Ahaman defeated? Eight years ago?"
All three disciples turned toward him, a bit startled.
Disciple 1: "Yeah. The same.
That rogue yogi.
He was locked in Nalanda's depths for years.
Escaped two years ago."
Disciple 2: "And now he's back. Wandering the empire.
Whispers say he's looking for something. Or someone."
Disciple 3 (nervous): "Either way, Dharmpal Ahaman will return. He has to.
If anyone can face that man again… it's him."
They moved off as a bell chimed across the gardens—time for breath alignment class.
But Pralay stood still.
The name still echoed through him.
Not just the Bloodborn King.
But the one tied to that story—Ahaman.
His mind rewound to the promise from his grandfather.
The promise.
The journey.
And now—finally—
Pralay (inwardly): "At last…The time is not far.
I will meet Dharmpal Ahaman.
And I will get my answers."
Meanwhile… in the Parliament of Aryavarta
Within the towering dome of the Hall of Confluence, the colored glass light bathed the four Pandits in hues of saffron, indigo, emerald, and gold. Each sat beneath their respective sigils—Ayodhya, Gwalior, Mathura, and Magadh—etched into the sandalwood canopy above.
Before them stood an elite informant from the Vanguard Intelligence Bureau, cloaked in travel-worn ochre, his forehead still beaded with dust and urgency.
Pandit Vishvanemya Maurya (Councilor of Rajya): "Speak."
The informant bowed deeply.
Informant: "An incident has occurred at the Gwalior Tower, honorable Panditgans.
A Vanguard sentinel—a woman long stationed near the restricted upper chamber—was found dead.
Her chakra core was ruptured.
And a day later—at Gwalior Port—the Bloodborn King was seen."
The hall fell into a sudden, heavy silence.
Pandit Karunesh Kavachendra (Councilor of Shastra) leaned forward sharply, his eyes hard as tempered steel.
Pandit Karunesh: "Seen where? And by whom?"
Informant: "Multiple confirmed accounts. Three merchant captains, one vanguard tracker.
All describe the same man—tall, black-robed, red eyes, with a ring of aura distortion around him.
He was accompanied by four others. All unknown. They came from Avanti Empire."
Pandit Vedanta Suryavanshi (Councilor of Dharma) exhaled slowly, fingers woven into a calm mudra.
Pandit Vedanta: "And you are certain this sighting came after the incident at the Tower?"
Informant: "Yes, Panditji. A full day later."
Pandit Ugrasen Malhariksha (Councilor of Jnana), eyes half-lidded, spoke with stillness that rippled like a windless lake.
Pandit Ugrasen: "Do we have any proof the two are connected?"
Informant: "None yet, revered one. The investigation is ongoing.
There were no breach alarms. No traces of combat glyphs. The attack was clean.
Too clean."
A beat passed. Then Pandit Karunesh gestured, signaling the informant's dismissal.
Pandit Karunesh (curtly): "Go. Keep us informed."
The man bowed and retreated.
For a moment, silence ruled the chamber.
Then Pandit Vedanta spoke, low and thoughtful.
Pandit Vedanta: "It would be… convenient, wouldn't it?
To blame this all on the Bloodborn King.
Everyone fears him. Everyone remembers the last time."
Pandit Vishvanemya Maurya (quiet but firm): "Fear is a weapon sharper than the truth."
Pandit Ugrasen: "And what truth do we hold, then?
That the scroll vault in Gwalior Tower—once thought sealed—might have been opened?"
All three turned toward Karunesh, whose jaw clenched.
Pandit Karunesh (coldly): "If the scroll we fear is missing…
Then only one group benefits."
Pandit Vedanta (quietly):
"Navdivyas."
The word settled over them like a dark prayer.
Pandit Ugrasen (voice almost a whisper): "They would do anything for that knowledge.
Even align themselves with a monster."
Pandit Karunesh (gritting his teeth): "The scroll was hidden. It was preserved. And now it may be stolen."
Pandit Vishvanemya: "And its subject…?"
A long pause.
Then Karunesh said it aloud.
Pandit Karunesh: "It contained the location and properties of the Bodhi Tree.
The ancient root.
The axis of life-force believed to be the source of pre-Kundalini Vardaan.
If Navdivyas has it… they don't seek power.
They seek to rewrite nature."
Pandit Ugrasen: "To awaken Kundalini without breath or discipline.
To reshape souls without dharma."
Pandit Vedanta (grave): "That is not liberation. That is defilement."
Pandit Vishvanemya (leaning back, eyes narrowed): "Then we must prepare. Quietly.
And until we know more—we say nothing to the empire."
Pandit Karunesh: "Not even to Gwalior's provincial council?"
Pandit Vishvanemya: "No. The Bloodborn King is too convenient a scapegoat.
Let the rumors swirl.
It buys us time."
Pandit Ugrasen (softly): "But for how long?"
A long pause followed.
Outside the Parliament dome, the wind stirred the sacred flags, and the eternal Dharma Chakra carved at the gate cast a long, watchful shadow.
Now in Nalanda Disciples' Hostel – Later That Evening,
The sun had dipped low behind Nalanda's eastern towers, casting long golden shadows over the disciple quarters. A gentle breeze rustled the linen flags strung across the courtyard, carrying the scent of neem oil and steamed rice from the kitchens.
Pralay climbed the sandstone steps to the second floor of the hostel wing, still replaying everything he had heard outside the nursing wing.
Bloodborn King. Gwalior Port. The scroll.
And now… Dharmpal Ahaman's possible return.
His thoughts buzzed like restless bees as he reached his room.
He opened the wooden door—
—and froze.
The room looked like it had been hit by a small cyclone.
One cot was buried under a pile of sweaty clothes and thick ropes. The scroll shelves had become a display of half-eaten fruit, broken mantra beads, and a chipped ceramic jug full of what suspiciously smelled like jaggery-soaked bananas. On the far wall, someone had scrawled "Pain is the price of peace" in red chalk.
And there—hanging from a thick wooden beam above the room—was Maruti Vanar, upside down, doing pull-ups with his legs crossed.
Maruti (cheerfully): "Aaaah! You must be roomie-boy!"
He dropped mid-swing, landed in a wide stance like he'd just descended from heaven, and grinned.
Maruti (offering a palm for a slap): "Maruti Vanar. Champion of chest days. Slayer of snacks. Your new bunk buddy.
Nice to meet you!"
Pralay blinked once.
Twice.
Then very slowly closed the door, reopened it—just to check—and looked again.
Still messy. Still loud. Still Maruti.
Pralay (flatly): "…Of course it's you."
Maruti (laughing): "Come on, don't look so heartbroken! You get the clean bed—I broke the other one yesterday doing somersaults. But I fixed it with bricks. Mostly."
Before Pralay could respond, the door behind him burst open—
Ravi entered, wide-eyed, holding a steel lunch thali stacked with what looked like seven jalebis.
Ravi: "Oh no. You found out."
Pralay (turning): "You knew?"
Ravi (grinning): "Of course I knew.
There's no one in Nalanda who doesn't know who Maruti's rooming with. It's a betting pool now."
Maruti (smirking): "I heard the odds were 12:1 that he'd run away within a week. I put ten gold on myself."
Pralay (deadpan): "Why am I not surprised?"
Maruti (casually tossing a dumbbell aside): "You'll love it here, trust me. I rise at dawn, scream at the sun, beat my tail on the floor to summon energy, and sometimes do backflips in my sleep.
Oh, and I eat six times a day. Want half a papaya?"
He offered a fruit that looked like it had seen war.
Ravi (whispering to Pralay): "Pro tip: never eat anything from his shelf. Even if it's glowing."
Maruti (grinning, stretching): "Well, now that we're room-souls, how about a little pre-sleep pushup challenge?"
Pralay (sighing): "I just survived an exploding girl, found out my ring wants to turn me into a weapon, and now I live with a monkey demigod.
Yeah. Totally normal day."
Ravi (laughing): "Welcome to Nalanda."
Somewhere in Vijayanagar Empire – The Den Below the Empire,
The sun was a molten coin above the marble temples of Vijayanagar, its light cascading over high towers, saffron flags, and crowded bazaars. The empire bustled with chants and chaos, merchants crying out deals, anklets jingling in alleyways layered with dust and incense.
But beneath the gold and prayer—
There were other prayers.
And other gods.
A man moved through the crowd with eyes darting—shoulders hunched, breath shallow. His robes were common, his sandals frayed, but his fear dressed him louder than wealth. He checked behind him again—then cut sharply left through a hanging cloth stall, slipping into a narrow alley shaded from both sun and virtue.
Down a twisted path lined with red lanterns and half-open doors, he reached a jade gate guarded by two men in tiger-skin dhotis. He didn't speak—just nodded, then descended.
The stairs spiraled downward. The noise of the city faded behind him.
And soon, he stepped into The Silk Crypt.
A den built beneath the bones of an ancient shrine. Once holy, now honeyed in perfume, painted in sin.
The walls were lined with mosaic tiles of dancing apsaras, and the air smelled of rose oil, cardamom smoke, and musk. Silken drapes in maroon and gold floated lazily from the ceiling like suspended desire. Candlelight shimmered off brass mirrors and the golden bangles of women moving languidly between silk couches and opium cushions.
Flute music played somewhere from a high balcony, soft and seducing.
At the center of the grand common room—seated like he ruled it—was a man in white silk pants and an unbuttoned purple shirt, sleeves rolled halfway to the forearm. He wore a thick golden bracelet etched with old war glyphs, and a long gold chain rested against his toned brown chest. His hair was chestnut and effortlessly disheveled, and his brown eyes gleamed like a tiger halfway through a joke.
He was sipping from a glass of dark beer, lounging with one leg over the other.
Beside him, the manager stood stiffly—thin, sweaty, overly polite.
Manager (smiling): "Next time you visit, you'll be met by our finest courtesan.
An import from Ujjain. Flawless posture. A smile that melts guilt."
Purple Shirt Man (grinning): "Posture's good. But can she do Bharatnatyam? I don't deal with dancers who trip over mudras."
Manager (bowing): "She's a temple girl, sir. Raised on rhythm."
Purple Shirt (laughing, sipping): "Good. Make sure she knows to start with the Pushpanjali. I like to feel worshipped before I'm wicked."
Laughter rippled from a nearby couch.
Just then, the nervous man—the one from the street—slipped in through the arched curtain. He scanned the room, found the purple-shirted man, and hurried to his side, sliding into the plush seat like he'd escaped death by inches.
As the nervous man sat, he couldn't help but glance at the purple-shirted man's left arm—or rather, where it should've been.
The sleeve was empty, pinned just below the shoulder, and yet the man moved, gestured, and commanded attention as if absence itself obeyed him.
Just as the messenger leaned in, a courtesan in a wine-red saree slid by, fingers trailing along the edge of the couch.
Courtesan (playful, purring): "Another round, my lord? Or just the pleasure of company?"
Purple Shirt (without turning): "If your company is as smooth as your entrance, I might trade my soul and my sword for it."
She leaned in, brushing his shoulder with hers.
Courtesan (laughing): "I'd ask for the sword. The soul would be redundant."
Purple Shirt (smirking): "Take both. I can always steal them back."
She winked and sashayed away into the veil of silk and shadow.
Only then did the man beside him finally speak, pulling him back to the moment.
Nervous Man (panting): "I have news. The kind you pay for."
The purple shirted man sipped slowly. Then tilted his head just slightly.
Purple Shirt (quiet): "Speak."
Nervous Man (whispering): "He's been seen. The one with the ring of red and rage.
The Bloodborn King.
Gwalior Port. Confirmed.
And this time… he's coming for Nalanda.
They say… for real."
A long pause.
Then—
Purple Shirt drained his beer. In one go.
He slammed the empty mug on the jade table.
Reached into his shirt, pulled out a pouch of gold and dropped it in the man's lap.
Then he stood. Tall. Poised. Smiling like he just heard a joke that could burn a temple down. He raised his hand high.
Purple Shirt (loudly): "Today—everyone drinks.
Whatever you want, however you want it—put it all on my name."
He turned back to the hall, voice now booming through the silk-wrapped chamber.
Purple Shirt (grinning): "Mark it all down for Ahaman."
The room fell silent. Heads turned. Courtesans froze mid-step. Flute players missed a note.
Then someone laughed.
And others joined.
And the sound rose, wild and drunken, like a bonfire at midnight.
Ahaman raised his empty mug toward the ceiling.
Ahaman (with a devil's charm): "To old enemies,
to new wars,
and to girls who know how to dance!
Cheers."
[End of Chapter]