The sky above the academy changed color.
Not suddenly—no thunder, no storm—but slowly, like an old memory returning to the world. The blue faded into a deeper hue, as though the heavens themselves were making space for something ancient to descend.
Aarav felt it first.
A subtle pressure settled on his chest, not hostile, but heavy with intent. The kind of presence that did not announce itself, because it did not need permission.
Beside his foot, Nandi—small in form, immense in essence—lifted his head.
"So," Nandi murmured within Aarav's mind, his voice calm but grave,
"the children of different paths return to the same battlefield."
Around them, the academy courtyard fell silent.
Even those mid-training stopped instinctively.
From the highest spire, three Śaṅkha (sacred conch shells) echoed—deep, resonant calls that carried through stone, air, and spirit alike.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
A summoning older than the academy itself.
Professor Mādhav stood at the center of the courtyard, staff resting lightly against the stone. His expression was relaxed, almost gentle—but Aarav noticed the shift in his eyes.
The smile of a teacher.
The gaze of one who remembered wars.
"Students," Mādhav said, his voice carrying effortlessly, "the Competition of Claims (Adhikāra Saṅgharṣa – contest of authority) is no longer a matter of this academy alone."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Mādhav continued, "This year, the trial shall be conducted between five Gurukuls."
Silence followed.
Then—
Shock.
THE FIRST GURUKUL — FIRE OF THE SUN
The air grew hot.
A golden disc descended from the clouds, rotating slowly like a celestial wheel. Flames licked its edges, yet did not burn the air. From the disc stepped figures clad in radiant armor, their presence commanding and disciplined.
"Sūrya Gurukul," an instructor whispered.
Students of the Sun lineage—followers of Aditya (solar deities)—whose power came from discipline, heat, and unwavering pride.
Their leader, a tall youth with molten-gold eyes, surveyed the academy like conquered land.
"Solar arrogance," Kunal muttered beside Aarav. "Classic."
Nandi snorted quietly.
"The Sun teaches life," he said. "But some only learn to scorch."
THE SECOND GURUKUL — BREATH OF THE SKY
The heat vanished.
Wind stilled.
Then bent.
A colossal lotus of compressed air descended silently, its petals unfolding into translucent stairways. Figures stepped down lightly, their feet barely touching stone.
"Vāyu Gurukul."
Masters of wind, sound, pressure, and speed. Their auras were restless—always moving, always seeking momentum.
One of them glanced toward Aarav.
And smiled.
Aarav felt the pressure ripple outward.
THE THIRD GURUKUL — WEIGHT OF THE EARTH
The ground trembled.
Stone folded upon itself, forming a massive gate that rose from beneath the courtyard. From within marched students clad in earthen robes, their steps heavy, deliberate.
"Pṛthvī Gurukul."
Earth. Metal. Gravity.
The academy itself seemed to acknowledge them, stone responding to stone.
Nandi lowered his head slightly.
"These ones understand patience," he said. "They will be dangerous later."
THE FOURTH GURUKUL — SHADOW WITHOUT NAME
The temperature dropped.
Light dimmed unnaturally.
A裂 (tear) opened in the sky—not violent, but wrong—and from it descended a broken temple wrapped in shadows. No chants. No heralds.
Only silence.
"Tāmasa Gurukul," Mādhav announced.
Whispers erupted instantly.
A Gurukul rumored to walk dangerously close to forbidden practices—those who believed darkness was merely another tool.
Aarav's chest tightened.
From the shadowed ranks, one student stepped forward.
Tall. Pale. Calm.
Too calm.
His aura felt… fractured. As though something inside him was sealed, clawing outward.
"I am Karnik Daanav," the boy said politely.
"A humble seeker of strength."
A lie.
Not spoken—but lived.
Aarav felt it instinctively.
Nandi stiffened.
"That one," Nandi warned, voice low,
"carries a wound not inflicted by this age."
For a heartbeat, Karnik Daanav's eyes met Aarav's.
And something ancient stirred behind them.
Smiling.
Mādhav raised his hand.
"The Competition of Claims shall unfold over multiple rounds," he said.
"Territory battles. Team eliminations. Resource control."
"Ancient access rights shall be awarded," he added calmly.
A pause.
"Death is forbidden."
Another pause.
"But not impossible."
The courtyard went cold.
Aarav felt Nandi's presence steady beside him.
"Wars never begin with blood," Nandi said quietly.
"They begin with rules."
Mādhav's gaze briefly found Aarav's.
Be patient, it said.
The storm comes.
That night, far from the academy's lights, Karnik Daanav stood alone.
His hand pressed against his chest.
Something throbbed beneath his ribs.
A whisper crawled through his veins—ancient, furious.
"Break them… feed me… claim their light…"
Karnik's smile trembled.
"Soon," he whispered. "Not yet."
A faint crack appeared across his pupils.
And somewhere deep within him, the fragment of the Asura Lord stirred—sensing prey, sensing destiny.
Back at the academy, Aarav sat in meditation.
Lightning hummed gently.
Space lay silent.
Time… watched.
Nandi's voice echoed softly.
"This competition will not end with rankings, child."
Aarav opened his eyes.
Above the academy, the sky darkened further.
And for the first time—
A seal, unseen for centuries, shifted.