One week later…
Devraj Gurukul — Morning
The chariot came to a slow halt before the colossal gates of Devraj Gurukul.
Towering stone walls rose into the pale morning sky, their surfaces carved with ancient inscriptions—symbols of discipline, wisdom, and traditions older than memory itself. Time had weathered the stone, yet the aura of the place remained untouched, heavy with purpose, as if the land itself remembered every warrior it had ever shaped.
Dhruva stepped down carefully from the chariot.
The moment his feet touched the ground, a strange stillness settled around him. The air was cool, carrying the soothing fragrance of sandalwood mixed with the soft sweetness of blooming marigolds. It was not merely a scent—it felt ceremonial, almost sacred, as though every breath demanded reverence.
He slowly lifted his gaze.
Students in simple robes moved across the courtyard with quiet discipline. Stone pathways led deeper into the Gurukul, disappearing between ancient pillars and shaded corridors. Prayer bells chimed faintly somewhere in the distance, their sound blending with the rustle of leaves and the low murmur of morning chants.
And then—
A feeling stirred inside him.
Something old.
Something buried.
Dhruva's steps slowed as his eyes scanned the surroundings, his heart beating with an unexplainable familiarity. His chest tightened, not with fear, but with recognition—as if the stones beneath his feet knew him… and he knew them in return.
He frowned slightly, his brows drawing together in quiet confusion.
Why does this place feel so familiar? he thought.
A soft whisper escaped his lips, more to himself than to anyone else.
"Why does this place feel so… known?" Dhruva murmured.
"I'm sure… I've been here before."
As his eyes continued to wander across the vast courtyard, Dhruva noticed a group of young princes standing in disciplined rows. Their backs were straight, their expressions focused, every ounce of their attention fixed on the man standing before them.
The Gurudev.
He was tall, with long black hair tied back loosely, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and an aura that demanded silence without ever asking for it. In one hand, he held a sword—its blade worn, not decorative. With the other, he gestured firmly, correcting stances, guiding movements, shaping raw potential into discipline.
The air around him felt charged, alive with authority and purpose.
Dhruva's breath caught.
Recognition hit him like a sudden memory breaking the surface of still water. His eyes widened slightly, and a faint, incredulous smile appeared on his lips.
"Guru Shiv…" he whispered to himself.
The name unlocked everything.
Memories rushed back—standing at a distance, hidden behind pillars and trees… watching silently… absorbing every movement, every word, every lesson that was never meant for him.
"Of course," Dhruva murmured, his voice filled with awe and certainty.
"This is the same Gurukul… the place where I used to watch the lessons in secret."
His fingers curled instinctively, as if remembering the weight of an invisible sword.
"How could I ever forget?" he thought.
The realization washed over Dhruva like a quiet tide, warm and undeniable. A faint smile curved at the corners of his lips—small, instinctive, as if a missing piece inside him had finally slipped into place.
Ahead of him, Commander Bhanuraj stood tall and imposing, authority written into his posture. With a firm gesture, he motioned for Dhruva—and the young princes Rudra and Taksh—to follow him. The three boys fell in line behind the commander, their footsteps echoing rhythmically against the ancient stone pathways as they moved deeper into the heart of Devraj Gurukul.
The air grew heavier with reverence the farther they walked.
As they approached the inner sanctum, Guru Shiv turned away from his students. His movements were unhurried, deliberate. The folds of his robes stirred gently in the cool breeze as he stepped forward, his presence commanding silence without effort. He came to a halt before the group, his sharp, discerning gaze settling on Commander Bhanuraj.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to pause.
Then Guru Shiv inclined his head respectfully and spoke, his voice calm yet resonant.
"Ah, Commander Bhanu," he said with composed warmth.
"It is good to see you—and the young princes as well."
His eyes briefly flicked toward Rudra and Taksh, acknowledging them, before resting—just a fraction longer—on Dhruva, as though sensing something unspoken.
"The Maharaj wrote to us a week ago," Guru Shiv continued evenly,
"informing us of their arrival."
As Guru Shiv's sharp gaze swept across the young princes, it slowed—then stopped—on Dhruva.
The Guru inclined his head slightly, a faint spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes. There was something about this boy that did not fit neatly into the pattern he knew, and that alone demanded attention.
He spoke calmly, yet with quiet scrutiny.
"Commander Bhanu " Guru Shiv said,
"I recognize Prince Rudra at once… but this boy here—"
Before Dhruva could even think of responding, Commander Bhanuraj stepped forward. A knowing smile touched his lips, one that carried both pride and calculation.
"Guru Shiv," Bhanuraj said smoothly,
"have you truly forgotten Taksh?"
He placed a firm, possessive hand on the young boy beside him.
"He is my son—Takshraj."
A soft chuckle escaped Guru Shiv's lips, and he nodded as realization dawned on him.
"Oh—so this is Prince Taksh," he said with a warm smile.
"Yes, yes… now I remember."
He looked Taksh up and down, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes.
"But I must admit," Guru Shiv continued lightly,
"the last time I saw him, he was much rounder. No wonder I couldn't recognize him at first."
Laughter rippled through the group. Taksh flushed, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, his confidence momentarily replaced by the awkwardness of youth.
Taking the moment, Commander Bhanuraj turned toward his son, a hint of pride hidden beneath his playful tone.
"Taksh," he said teasingly,
"do you know that this great Guru of yours was once one of my closest friends?"
He gestured around them, toward the ancient walls of Devaraj Gurukul.
"We studied side by side in this very Gurukul. Fate took us on different paths—
I became the Commander of the empire, and he became the guiding force of this sacred place."
Hearing this, Guru Shiv burst into hearty laughter, the sound rich and unrestrained. For a brief moment, the weight of years melted away, and memories of his youth flickered across his face like sunlight through old leaves.
"And since we are already sharing stories," Guru Shiv added, turning toward the young princes with a glint of mischief in his eyes,
"there is something else you should know."
He nodded toward Commander Bhanuraj, his voice tinged with admiration.
"In those days, there was no one in this Gurukul who could wield a double-bladed axe like your father. No one. He could face thirty warriors alone—and still stand victorious."
The words carried the echo of legends long past.
Bhanuraj immediately waved a hand in dismissal, though his laughter betrayed the fondness of old memories resurfacing.
"Ah, Shiv," he said with a chuckle,
"those were the reckless days of youth—days fueled by fire and pride. That strength now survives only as a memory."
During the ongoing conversation, Guru Shiv turned once more toward Commander Bhanuraj, his expression thoughtful.
"By now, I know this is Prince Rudra," he said calmly, his gaze shifting briefly to the confident boy, "and this must be Prince Takshraj. But this boy here…"
His eyes settled on Dhruva.
"Who is he?"
For a moment, the question hung in the air.
Dhruva shifted uncomfortably, instinctively straightening his posture, his heart tightening as attention turned toward him.
Commander Bhanuraj answered before the boy could even breathe.
"Oh, him?" Bhanuraj said dismissively, a faint edge of contempt in his tone. "His name is Dhruva. He is no prince—just a servant. Maharaj has sent him here solely to attend to Prince Rudra. Treat him like a servant if necessary."
His gaze hardened slightly as he continued,
"But remember this—there must be absolutely no compromise in the education of Prince Rudra and Prince Takshraj. These two are the future of our empire."
The sharpness of Bhanuraj's words sliced through the moment, leaving a brief but heavy silence in their wake.
Dhruva lowered his eyes. His fingers curled slowly into tight fists at his sides—not in anger, but in quiet resolve. He said nothing. He endured.
Guru Shiv observed him for a fleeting second longer than necessary.
Then, bowing respectfully toward the commander, he spoke in a composed, professional tone.
"I understand, Commander Bhanu," Guru Shiv said. "You have my word. I will ensure their education is conducted with the utmost care and discipline."
After a few more formal exchanges, Commander Bhanuraj turned toward his chariot. Casting one final, measured glance at the Gurukul, he addressed Guru Shiv with the authority of a man accustomed to command.
"Very well," Bhanuraj said. "I take my leave now, Guru Shiv. From this moment onward, the future of our empire rests in your hands."
With a soft creak of wood and the sharp snap of reins, the chariot lurched forward. The wheels rolled against stone, gradually picking up speed. Guru Shiv stood still, watching until the chariot became nothing more than a distant shape on the horizon, swallowed by drifting dust.
As the sound faded, a quiet weight settled on his shoulders.
The responsibility of shaping young lives—future kings, warriors, and leaders—pressed heavily upon him.
Turning back, Guru Shiv gestured for the boys to follow.
"Come," he said simply.
He led them inside Devaraj Gurukul.
The interior unfolded like a vast labyrinth of purpose and discipline. Grand stone corridors stretched endlessly in every direction, their walls etched with verses of wisdom, battle maxims, and symbols of ancient knowledge. Sunlight filtered through high arches, casting long patterns across the floors worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Young princes from many kingdoms moved through the halls with intent. Some walked in tight groups, quietly debating strategies of war and governance. Others passed in solemn silence, eyes inward, minds fixed on philosophy and the nature of the Supreme. From somewhere deeper within the Gurukul came the rhythmic clash of wooden swords—steady, controlled—echoing faintly like a heartbeat.
Prince Rudra took in the scene with wide, shining eyes. Turning toward his companion, his voice brimmed with excitement.
"Taksh, look at this place!" he said eagerly. "So many princes… all of them learning to become warriors and kings. Just imagine what we'll be when we leave this Gurukul. We'll return as kings, won't we, Taksh?"
Taksh—ever loyal, ever grounded—chuckled softly at Rudra's boundless enthusiasm. He nodded, a calm smile settling on his lips.
"Yes, Prince," he replied simply.
At that moment, Dhruva's attention was pulled elsewhere.
His eyes widened as they fell upon a glass case set carefully against the stone wall. Inside it rested a suit of armor unlike anything he had ever seen. Its surface shimmered with a golden radiance, catching the light and reflecting it back as though the armor itself were alive. The craftsmanship was exquisite—every curve, every engraved line whispering of battles long past and legends etched into time.
To Dhruva, it did not look like mere armor.
It looked like a relic of destiny.
Drawn forward by pure curiosity, he stopped before the glass case, his breath unconsciously slowing. Then, unable to contain himself, he turned toward Guru Shiv.
"Gurudev," Dhruva asked softly, awe clear in his voice,
"what is this?"
Guru Shiv came to a halt and slowly turned back. The moment his eyes settled on the armor, a quiet pride lit up his face—an expression reserved for things held sacred.
He spoke with reverence, his voice lowered almost instinctively.
"Ah… this," Guru Shiv said, gesturing toward the radiant armor,
"is the symbol of our Gurukul."
He stepped closer to the glass case, the golden glow reflecting faintly in his eyes.
"Each year, when the princes complete their training, we hold a grand competition," he continued. "It is not merely a test of strength, but of discipline, honor, and mastery. The one who proves himself the finest among all is awarded this armor—an emblem of excellence, courage, and rightful supremacy."
The words seemed to settle heavily in the air.
Rudra's eyes flared with fierce determination.
He stepped closer to Dhruva and placed a confident hand on his shoulder, his lips curving into a self-assured smile.
"Do you see that, Dhruva?" Rudra said, his voice filled with certainty.
"I will win that armor. Just wait and watch."
Nightfall at the Gurukul
Night had fully descended upon Devaraj Gurukul.
The air was cool and still, carrying a silence so deep it felt deliberate—as if the ancient walls themselves were listening. The princes had just finished their evening meal. Now, they stood in neat, disciplined rows, backs straight, senses alert, eyes fixed forward. No one spoke. No one dared to shift their weight.
Then—
Footsteps echoed.
Slow. Measured. Heavy with authority.
The soft crunch of sandals against stone rippled through the courtyard, and an almost sacred hush settled over the gathered students. From the shadows emerged a figure whose presence alone commanded reverence.
Mahaguru Baikunth Srivastava.
Tall, composed, and unshaken by age, he walked with the calm certainty of a man who had seen generations rise and fall. His eyes were deep pools of wisdom, sharpened by years of discipline and truth. The faint glow of torches reflected off his serene face, giving him an almost timeless aura—as though he did not merely belong to the Gurukul, but was the Gurukul.
He stopped before the assembled princes.
The night itself seemed to pause.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and steady—powerful without being loud, commanding without needing force. It carried effortlessly through the still air.
"I welcome the new princes who have arrived today," Mahaguru Baikunth Srivastava said, his tone authoritative yet not unkind.
His gaze swept across the rows—over Rudra's confident posture, Taksh's composed stillness, and finally, lingering for a heartbeat longer on Dhruva, who stood quietly among them.
"But before we go any further," the Mahaguru continued,
"it is only right that I introduce myself."
He placed one hand behind his back, the other resting calmly at his side.
"My name is Baikunth Srivastava. I am the Mahaguru of this sacred Gurukul."
A subtle weight settled into his words.
"And as your teacher," he said, eyes sharp and unwavering,
"there are certain truths you must understand—truths far more important than swords, strength, or titles."
He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his presence—and his words—to settle into the silence. His eyes moved slowly across the assembled group, studying each face as if measuring not who they were now, but who they might one day become.
Then Mahaguru Baikunth Srivastava spoke again, his voice firm with unshakable resolve.
"This place is not your palace," he said plainly.
"Here, you will not find toys to amuse you. There will be no lavish feasts laid out before you, no servants waiting to fulfill your every command."
A subtle tension passed through the line of young princes.
"There will be hardship," he continued.
"There will be discipline. And there will be days when you will question why you ever came here at all."
He let that truth breathe before going on.
"But hear me well," the Mahaguru said, his voice deepening with certainty.
"I give you my word—after seven years, when you walk out of this Gurukul, you will not be the same."
His gaze hardened, sharpened by conviction.
"You will not leave as pampered princes raised in comfort. You will leave as true warriors—wise in thought, skilled in action, and powerful in spirit."
The torches flickered as if responding to his vow.
"Within these walls," he declared,
"you will receive the highest training known to mankind. You will master every weapon forged by human hands. You will learn not just how to fight—but why to fight."
His voice rose just enough to stir the air.
"You will become warriors capable of shaping the world itself."
The Mahaguru's words lingered in the air long after he fell silent, settling deep into the hearts of the young princes. Fear and awe intertwined within them—an unspoken realization that the comfort of their former lives had truly ended.
Mahaguru Baikunth Srivastava cast one final, measuring glance across the assembled faces, as though committing each soul to memory.
Then his expression softened—only slightly.
"Now," he said in a calmer tone, "return to your quarters. Rest well."
He paused, allowing the significance of his next words to sink in.
"Because tomorrow marks the beginning of a new chapter in your lives. A chapter that will shape you… and one you will remember for as long as you draw breath."
With a final nod of approval, the Mahaguru turned away. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the stillness as he walked toward his chambers, each step carrying the weight of centuries-old tradition.
The princes stood in silence for a moment longer, absorbing what they had just heard. Slowly, they began to disperse—some thoughtful, some anxious, others burning with ambition—as they made their way toward their assigned rooms.
Above them, the night sky stretched wide and watchful, stars glittering like silent witnesses. Devaraj Gurukul stood unmoving beneath their gaze—ancient, disciplined, and ready.
Tomorrow, the trials would begin.
Some time later…
The night lay calm and undisturbed, a deep stillness wrapping Devaraj Gurukul in silence. Inside the dormitory where the young princes slept, Dhruva stirred restlessly. His throat felt dry, each breath scratching like sand. The thirst became unbearable.
Careful not to wake anyone, he slipped quietly from his bed and padded into the cold corridor outside. The stone floor sent a chill through his feet. A clay water pot rested near the wall, placed there for the students, and pale moonlight spilled through the high windows, guiding his steps.
Just as Dhruva reached out toward the pot, a faint sound pierced the silence.
A soft rustle.
The kind that did not belong to the wind.
Dhruva froze.
Every sense sharpened at once. His fingers curled slowly into his palm as his eyes darted toward the direction of the sound. From the shadowed corridor near the kitchen, he saw it—a dark, crouched figure slipping inside, moving with deliberate caution.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Fear whispered in his mind, urging him to retreat. But curiosity—stronger, louder—pushed him forward. Holding his breath, Dhruva followed the shadow at a distance, keeping close to the walls, careful not to let his footsteps betray him.
As he reached the entrance of the kitchen, his heartbeat thundered in his ears. The air smelled faintly of ash and cooked grain. The figure ahead paused.
Summoning every ounce of courage he had, Dhruva straightened his back.
His voice trembled—but it did not break.
"Who are you?" he demanded, forcing strength into his words.
"If you value your life, stay exactly where you are… and don't move."
The figure suddenly stopped, frozen in place. In the dim light, the intruder's outline was visible, but Dhruva still couldn't make out who it was. He braced himself for what was about to happen, his breathing quickened, and his fists clenched tightly at his sides.