Darkness.
Not night.Not sleep.A void.
Endless. Cold. Ancient.
A lone boy drifted through it—barefoot, shirtless, breath shallow. There was no ground beneath him, no sky above, only a weightless nothingness stretching into eternity. He walked… or perhaps the darkness carried him. It was impossible to tell.
Then—A glimmer.
A figure stood far ahead, bathed in a pillar of light. Blinding rays carved a halo around him, turning the rest of the void into ink.
The boy's heartbeat quickened. His legs moved on their own. Something about that figure felt impossibly familiar—like a memory he had never lived, but somehow knew.
As he approached, the light dimmed. Shadows peeled off the figure like smoke. He stepped forward, blocking the glow with his body, and the world drowned in a deeper darkness.
The boy froze. "Who… who are you? What is this place?"
The man's voice rolled across the void—Thunder wrapped in silk.
"Does it matter?"
"I… I don't know. Are we in a dream?"
"We are wherever your fear lives," the figure answered, tilting his head. "And I…"
His eyes ignited crimson.
"…I am your death."
Steel flashed.
The blade sliced past the boy's throat, missing by inches. A soundless gasp escaped him as he stumbled back.
"What the hell?! You could've killed me!"
The man laughed. Not cruel. Not mocking. A soft, bone-deep laugh from someone who had seen far too much.
"Not yet, little one. But the day will come."
He turned away, walking back into the fading light.
"Prepare. All your answers… lie in the Gurukul."
Before the boy could reach for him, the sky cracked like shattered glass—
"Aryaman! Aryaman! Wake up!"
The darkness ruptured.
Aryaman jolted upright in his cot, breath ragged, sweat clinging to his skin. His heart hammered like a war drum.
His mother, Nalini, stood by the door—arms crossed, half-annoyed, half-worried.
"You'll miss the river again," she warned. "Don't make me drag you there myself."
The river's morning chill steadied him… but not enough. The dream clung to his thoughts like mist to a battlefield.
I am your death.
What was that place?Why did it feel real?
He didn't tell his mother. She wouldn't understand.
Aryaman walked barefoot along the riverbank, mist curling around his ankles. Fourteen winters behind him—and yet today felt like his true beginning.
A Kshatriya by birth.A warrior at heart.A dreamer above all else.
He wanted to carve his name into history. To become the greatest swordsman Aryavart had ever seen.
His name—Aryaman, noble-minded—had been chosen with intention. His father believed names carried destiny. His mother believed destiny could be rewritten.
Aryaman believed in both.
Later, he knelt before his parents. Clean. Dressed. Ready.
Sunlight poured through the window as his father returned, carrying something long wrapped in cloth.
Aryaman's breath caught.
"This," Arun said, unwrapping the cloth, "has been passed down for generations."
The blade within gleamed like moonlit water. Runes shimmered along the metal, ancient and unreadable. A soft blue glow pulsed from within the steel.
"The Vajra," Arun said. "Forged from Sarvadhari steel. A blade worthy of kings… and now yours."
Aryaman bowed deeply as he accepted it. His hands trembled.
"I name you Vajradhār," Arun declared, pressing his palm to Aryaman's shoulder. "Wielder of the Thunderblade. May your heart be steady, and your blade never unjust."
Aryaman touched the sword to his forehead. "I will make you proud."
Arun smiled, but behind that smile flickered something else—fear, perhaps. Or a memory too heavy to let slip.
Nalini pulled Aryaman into a warm embrace."Come back stronger. And come back whole."
The road to Vyomāśrama Gurukul stretched far—three days past rivers, forests, and forgotten shrines.But Aryaman felt none of the distance.
He felt the weight of destiny strapped to his back.
By noon he reached a nearby village—and chaos.
Shouts cracked through the air. A woman knelt in the dust, shielding her daughter as men towered over her.
"Your husband was a murderer!" one of them spat. "You'll pay in his place!"
A hand snatched toward her hair—
A shadow fell from the rooftop.
A figure landed silently between them.
The attacker froze.
Slim. Cloaked. Masked. Yet their presence felt sharp as a blade.
"Back away," the stranger said, voice slicing through the tension. "Unless you want to spend the rest of your life blind."
The man snarled, stepping forward—Until the stranger's blade pressed against his throat in a single, fluid motion.
"I said back. Away."
The crowd hesitated.
The mask came off.
Gasps erupted.
"P-Princess Lakshmika?!"
The King's eldest daughter. The prodigy swordswoman. The storm given human shape.
"Touch them again," she warned, "and you'll answer to my father. The murderer you seek—I'll find him myself."
The mob scattered instantly.
Aryaman stepped forward, grinning."You always did love dramatic entrances."
Lakshmika turned, eyebrow raised. "Aryaman. You're finally leaving for Gurukul?"
"Yeah. Don't tell me—"
"Of course we are too," another voice answered.
A hand tapped Aryaman's back.
"Tag. 31–30. I take the lead."
"Dammit, Varun!"
Lakshmika's twin brother flashed a smug smile. "Stay alert. Didn't your father teach you anything?"
Lakshmika groaned. "Still playing tag? At this age? Both of you are hopeless."
Aryaman laughed.
For the first time since morning, the dream felt far away.
Three warriors.One road.A legacy waiting to unfold.
None of them—not even Aryaman—could imagine what awaited them in the halls of Vyomāśrama Gurukul.