One year.
In the cultivation world, a year could mean stagnation—or rebirth.
For Ayodhya Gurukul, it had been a year of relative calm. The Genius Class continued to dominate inter-academy exchanges, the Expert Class competed fiercely for resources, and the Normal Class struggled endlessly at the bottom. Names rose and fell, rankings shifted, and ambitions clashed daily beneath the ancient towers of the Gurukul.
Yet throughout the year, one name was spoken less and less.
Siddharth.
Not because he had fallen.
But because he had vanished.
The gates of Ayodhya Gurukul stood tall as ever, carved with ancient mantras and formations that repelled malice and measured intent. On the morning of the Year-End Evaluation, they opened wide to welcome students returning from missions, training grounds, and distant valleys.
Among the steady stream of disciples, a lone figure walked calmly up the stone path.
He wore simple robes—clean, unadorned, without insignia. No clan emblem. No sect badge. No display of wealth or authority. His steps were light, unhurried, yet every movement carried a quiet confidence that did not belong to ordinary cultivators.
Siddharth had returned.
Those near the gate did not recognize him immediately.
Then someone did.
"Wait… isn't that—?"
Whispers followed him like a ripple across still water.
"That's Siddharth, right? The one who challenged Kartik and disappeared?"
"No, that can't be him. I heard he died in the Forbidden Valley."
"I heard he offended an ancient family and ran."
"I heard he was taken in by some hidden sect."
The rumors contradicted each other wildly, yet all shared a single truth:
No one knew where Siddharth had been for the past year.
And no one knew how strong he had become.
Siddharth walked past the registration stone without pause, placing his token upon it. The formation flared briefly, confirming his identity.
Name: Siddharth
Affiliation: Ayodhya Gurukul
Nothing else appeared.
No realm.
No rank.
The surrounding disciples stared.
"That's… strange," a registrar muttered. "The stone always displays cultivation realm."
Siddharth merely nodded politely and moved on.
By midday, the evaluation grounds were filled.
Students gathered by class—Normal, Expert, and Genius—each occupying their respective platforms. The Genius Class stood highest, their expressions relaxed, even bored. To them, the year-end evaluation was rarely a challenge. It was a formality.
Until today.
Eyes followed Siddharth as he stepped onto the Expert Class platform.
Some looked curious. Others wary.
A few looked… unsettled.
Shraddha spotted him first.
Her breath caught.
"Siddharth?" she whispered.
Arjun followed her gaze and stiffened. "He's… different."
He couldn't explain it. Siddharth wasn't releasing his aura. His prana fluctuations were perfectly concealed. Yet something about him felt heavier, deeper—like staring into a calm lake whose bottom could not be seen.
Across the arena, members of the Genius Class noticed him too.
Kartik Yadav was not among them.
That absence did not go unnoticed.
At the highest observation platform, several elders sat silently, their gazes sharp.
Elder Brahmanand leaned forward slightly. "That is the boy Drona favored."
Another elder, Devraj, frowned. "I sense nothing from him."
"That," a third elder murmured, "is what troubles me."
At the center of them all stood Drona, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
His eyes followed Siddharth alone.
The evaluation began as it always did.
Physical tests. Speed trials. Raw power measurement.
Siddharth participated without refusal—and without display.
His punches cracked the testing machine, but stopped short of shattering it. His sprint times were fast, but not impossibly so. His jumps cleared the mark comfortably, not spectacularly.
To the average observer, he looked… strong.
To the elders, he looked deliberate.
"He's controlling every output," Devraj muttered. "Perfectly."
"Like a blade sheathed in velvet," Brahmanand replied.
The murmurs among the students grew louder.
"He's holding back."
"No way. If he was that strong, we'd feel it."
"Then why does it feel like he's watching us instead?"
By the time preliminary rankings were announced, confusion reigned.
Siddharth was placed high—but not first.
Yet not a single Genius Class disciple looked relieved.
They looked uneasy.
Then came the prana revelation stage.
At Drona's signal, one by one, students stepped forward and released their cultivation aura fully. The air trembled as realms were revealed—Shishya, Sadhak, Yogi.
When Siddharth's name was called, the arena fell silent.
He stepped onto the platform and inhaled slowly.
Then—
He released his prana.
The ground hummed.
Invisible pressure swept outward like a tide. It wasn't violent. It wasn't overwhelming.
It was dense.
The formation stones flared brilliantly.
Yogi Realm — Rank 1
The words burned into the air.
For a heartbeat, no one reacted.
Then—
"What?!"
"He's a Yogi?!"
"At his age?!"
"That's impossible—he was Sadhak Rank 2 when he fought Kartik!"
Shraddha's hands trembled.
Arjun swallowed hard.
The Genius Class erupted into chaos.
Yet the elders were not focused on the realm.
They were focused on the weight behind it.
"This… isn't normal Yogi Rank 1," Devraj said slowly.
Drona's eyes narrowed imperceptibly.
Siddharth's prana withdrew just as smoothly as it had emerged.
The arena remained silent long after.
Behind the whispers lay a truth no one could yet see.
During his disappearance, Siddharth had refined and consumed the blood essence of Bhim Vaanar, a legendary Rishi-rank beast whose strength was said to rival mountains.
Though his cultivation now rested at Yogi Rank One, his physique told a different story. His raw physical power was at twice that of any cultivator in the same realm, an anomaly that defied common sense.
The final rankings shifted dramatically.
Challenges were issued. Battles erupted.
Siddharth accepted every challenge.
And won every one.
Without injury.
Without spectacle.
Without mercy.
By dusk, the result was undeniable.
Rank One — Year-End Evaluation
Siddharth stood at the top.
No cheers followed.
Only stunned silence.
Drona stepped forward, his voice carrying across the grounds.
"By Gurukul decree," he announced, "Siddharth is granted qualification to participate in the Empire-Level Annual Competition."
The words sent shockwaves through the disciples.
Empire-level.
A stage where monsters were forged—or crushed.
Siddharth bowed once.
Nothing more.
As the crowd slowly dispersed, whispers followed him like shadows.
Who was he now?
How far had he gone?
What had he become?
High above, Drona watched him leave the arena.
For the first time in a year, a faint smile touched the old master's lips.
"Good," he murmured.
"The unseen has returned."
And the world would soon remember why it feared the shadows.