Kriday was still holding the midnight cloak as he walked through the aisles of Drona's base. For an underground facility, it was massive—extravagant even. The humongous walls, carved from dark gneiss, stretched upward like the bones of some ancient beast buried beneath the earth. Despite its prehistoric feel, the place had amenities one would expect in a fortress of the present age: heating vents humming faintly, pipes tucked into grooves, a strange cooling system that kept the air sharp and dry.
He had grown used to staring at these walls. They whispered of history, of something far older than Shambhala's present struggles, and yet he couldn't quite tell if they were protecting him or enclosing him.
He reached a small wooden door and pushed it open. The room inside was pitch black. Instinctively, his hand brushed against the wall until it found a switch. A bulb flared to life from the ceiling, flooding the space with a pale yellow glow.
It was simple. A single wooden bed. A desk tucked to one side. Bare walls. But on that desk sat something that instantly pulled him in.
Kriday placed the cloak and its lotus brooch gently on the table. His eyes then shifted to the globe resting beside it.
He had noticed it before, but never paid attention, it hadn't resonated with him. The globe wasn't green and blue like the Earth he knew. Instead, it glowed faintly in shades of purple and cobalt, its surface etched with lands unfamiliar to his eyes.
One word had been echoing in his mind ever since Shreesh had spoken it: Jambudwipa.
Kriday whispered it under his breath, almost like testing the weight of it.
He reached out and spun the globe. The surface shimmered as it whirled, the violet and blue blurring together until he stopped it abruptly with his palm. His finger pressed against a landmass marked in delicate script: Jambudwipa in sanskrit
Something about it struck him immediately. The outline was eerily familiar. It resembled the Indian subcontinent, and a strange landmass to the south of it. Inverted and sprawling across what, in his world, was the Indian Ocean, lay an enormous continent labeled Kumari Kandam.
Kriday's brows furrowed. "Wait… this is insane."
The continent stretched like a colossal bridge: beginning at Kanyakumari, extending westward toward Madagascar, and eastward across the seas all the way to Australia.
He laughed dryly, shaking his head. "Isn't Kumari Kandam supposed to be a myth? Just like Shambhala? Just stories, legends, epics people throw around to sound mystical. And yet… here it is, etched on a globe like it's just another country."
His voice fell quieter. "So what does this mean? That all those legends—the ones passed down in stories, in temples, in my father's old books—actually began here? Is this where the myths of Earth drew their roots from? Or… am I just making things up to convince myself?"
The name rolled in his mind again: Jambudwipa.
"I've heard that word before," he muttered. "Father used to mention it. He had this book he carried everywhere. Something about Edicts. What was it… Edicts? More like A… Edicts. I saw it so many times but can't remember it. Now it just slips away." He sighed. "God, I miss the internet. A single search and I'd have had the answer in seconds."
He leaned back against the wall, rubbing his temples. Thoughts collided inside his head.
"Dharma. Shreesh mentioned it… I think that was in the Gita. He used to quote verses—shlokas. I remember faint echoes but nothing exact. Was Shreesh speaking from the same wisdom? Or something else entirely? Is Nirvana just another interpretation of those teachings… or something older?"
Kriday chuckled bitterly. "I'll ask Drona… someday. When things calm down. If they ever do." His gaze drifted back to the cloak. "But if Nirvana leaves… does that mean she leaves too? Her. The lookalike of Shishta."
He exhaled hard, dragging his hands down his face. "It's pathetic. Even in this world, with everything new and terrifying, I can't get her out of my head. Always at the top of my mind. Always her face. What the hell am I becoming? Some… simp for her and her doppelgängers?" He laughed quietly, then fell silent, the sound hollow in the stone chamber.
His eyes returned to the cloak on the desk, the lotus brooch glinting faintly in the light. He remembered Shreesh's words: I hear that often. Keep this. When you are ready to choose your path, tell me. I am not rushing you. Not yet.
Kriday ran his fingers over the fabric, then pulled his hand back as though the weight of it was too much to hold.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the strange globe, at the lands of legend given form. Then his gaze shifted back to the cloak. At last, he reached forward again, almost reluctantly, and let his fingers curl around it—giving in to its quiet, heavy temptation.
Screeching silence hung in another corner of Drona's underground base. Behind a half-shut door, sparks crackled and hissed. Drona hunched over his workbench, welding torch in hand, a half-assembled gadget glowing faintly as its scattered parts lay strewn across the surface.
A soft knock broke his focus. The torch flickered out. For a second his brows furrowed, as though annoyed by interruption. Then he stood and opened the door.
On the threshold stood Shreesh, flanked by Anilat, Jishnu, Subha, Satyaki, Kanka, and Saanvi—seven of Nirvana's closest affiliates.
"Mind if we get a bit of your time?" Shreesh asked, voice even.
Drona simply nodded. The purpose was clear. They weren't here for pleasantries—they wanted answers.
Inside, the seven filed into the cramped chamber. It was part workshop, part laboratory: a room no larger than twenty-five by forty feet, yet packed with wonders. Gears, cogs, and mechanical contraptions dangled from hooks like ornaments. Some gleamed as finished works; others waited half-assembled, frozen in mid-invention. The place hummed with quiet life, as though the machines themselves breathed.
Even hardened fighters couldn't help but gawk.
"Man, I can never get enough of your gadgets," Anilat muttered, eyes glinting like a child's. He pointed to a polished gear on the shelf. "Any chance I could get the latest version of that perpetual gear?"
Drona exhaled, half amused, half weary. "Have I ever refused you?"
Before Anilat could grin, Drona's voice hardened. "But you didn't come here just to stare. Out with it."
Anilat straightened, the smile fading. He asked what weighed on everyone's mind. "What exactly were we supposed to retrieve?"
Shreesh, who had been silent till then, stepped forward. His scar caught the lamplight. "You gave us a hundred suvarṇarūpa in advance without telling us why. I didn't question it then—we had our due—but the mission failed. And we're left in the dark. If you trust us at all, Drona, tell us: what was that consignment?"
Drona's shoulders sagged. His answer fell like a stone.
"I don't know myself."
The room erupted in disbelief.
Shreesh snapped, "Then what was the point of this? Why send us after something you can't even name?"
Drona slumped back into his chair, face shadowed. "Because I wanted to know as much as you. To uncover what Shambhala has guarded for centuries—and to learn the price they were willing to trade it for."
"Trade?" Shreesh repeated, his eyes narrowing. "With whom?"
"As far as I've traced," Drona said, his gaze locking with Shreesh's, "with Kuru."
Shock rippled through the room.
"Kuru?" Shreesh spat. "That's absurd. They're on the brink of collapse. Shambhala is wealthier than anyone save Magadh." His fist slammed onto the table, tools clattering in protest.
"My thought exactly," Drona said quietly. "What could compel Shambhala to such a step? Stranger still, this secret is known only to Vayur, Saubal, and King Anirudhha himself."
"It's barter, then," Anilat muttered, piecing the thought aloud.
"But Kuru has nothing worth such a treasure—unless they're surrendering their kingdom outright," Shreesh countered sharply.
"They'd never," Drona interjected. "The Kuru dynasty lives by valor. They'd burn before bowing. They would defend every inch of their soil."
"Unless…" Kanka finally spoke, breaking his long silence. "Factories. Hubs. Their manufacturing is growing—perhaps they offered something forged."
Satyaki shook his head. "Those factories were funded by Shambhala, Magadh, and Kashi. Kuru merely leases the land. They own little."
Drona leaned forward, voice dropping, weight heavy in each word. "Then it must be something else. Something that could change not just Shambhala or Kuru, but the whole of Jambudwipa. Perhaps all of Dwitansh."
The room stilled.
Shreesh's voice came low. "And how did you even hear of this treasure?"
Drona's eyes glinted. "There is a book in the royal library—seen only by those it deems worthy. It opens to no one unless chosen, and even then, only the pages one is meant to see. When it vanishes, it leaves no trace. People call it The Book of Fate."
He exhaled, voice thinning. "I found it once. It spoke of a pinecone-shaped structure. Said there are only a handful in all existence. Even the book couldn't explain its purpose. I managed to glimpse only two pages before—by the careless bump of a colleague—it vanished. Yet the words, the images, remain burned in my mind."
Shreesh gave a short, incredulous laugh. "A fairy tale."
Drona smirked faintly, letting the jab pass. "Fairy tale or not—that's the truth you asked for. And that's all I know."
The air felt heavier. One by one, the affiliates drifted toward the door. Only then did Shreesh notice someone missing.
"Where did Saanvi go?" he asked.
No one answered. They only exchanged uneasy glances, each face quietly saying the same thing: we don't know.
The silence lingered too long.
Somewhere beyond the chamber, down a dimly lit corridor, Saanvi's figure slipped like a shadow through the torchlight. Her steps were quiet, steady, as though she carried both purpose and burden in equal measure.
She paused once, resting a hand against the cold gneiss wall, her ruined eye catching the faint glow of a lantern.
With a final glance back toward the halls of Nirvana, she disappeared deeper into the base.
Faint, eroded footsteps pressed along the aisle, soft enough to vanish into the hum of the underground base. They halted before a door no different from the others.
The door creaked open, just enough for a glimpse inside.
Kriday lay sprawled across the narrow bed, exhaustion pinning him down. His face tilted toward the doorway, one leg dangling, nearly slipping off the mattress. He hadn't even bothered to change—his clothes still rumpled, his hand clutching the midnight cloak Shreesh had given him, as though afraid it would be stolen even in sleep.
The lamp on the desk burned low, casting the room in a dim, honeyed glow. Shadows swayed like tired sentries.
At the threshold, sprouts—thin, green tendrils—began to unfurl across the wood. They curled delicately, alive where no soil or water should have been. A faint breeze stirred, though no vents whispered, and with it came the shimmer of a silhouette.
The outline resembled Saanvi.
The figure lingered, silent, watching Kriday's steady breathing. For an instant, the air seemed to hum with something more than presence—an enchantment, a whisper of mysticism woven into the stillness.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure withdrew. The sprouts withered back into nothing. The door closed soundlessly, leaving only the lamplight and the slow rhythm of Kriday's breath.
A moment later, Kriday stirred. His eyes cracked open, half-lidded, still blurred by sleep. A chill brushed against his skin. He thought he saw movement at the door, a shimmer caught in the corner of his vision—but when he blinked, it was gone.
He exhaled, convinced it was a dream, and turned back into his pillow. Sleep claimed him once more.
Yet the aisle beyond his door held the faint scent of earth after rain.
Then, just a moment later—
A deafening thud tore through the stillness. The walls quivered, dust drifted from the beams, and every ear in Nirvana rang with the impact.
In an instant, everyone was on edge. Weapons drawn, hearts pounding, they sprinted toward the source.
Saanvi was the first to reach it. Moments later Anilat, Drona, Shreesh, and the rest arrived, assembling outside the base where smoke still curled upward from an impact crater gouged into the ground.
At its center stood Saanvi. Both her hands clutched a small box-shaped structure—each side only slightly larger than her palm, yet heavy enough that she bore it with strained fingers.
"It's intact," Drona said at once, his eyes narrowing on both the object and the woman who held it.
"There's… a letter attached," Saanvi replied, her tone flat, almost detached. The others had long grown accustomed to her way of speaking, but curiosity burned through the silence nonetheless.
"Impossible." Shreesh's voice was sharp. "A fall like that should have shattered it—or at least burned the letter to ash."
"why are you assuming it to have fallen from the sky?" Anilat countered.
Shreesh turned on him, eyes flaring. "Look at the crater. Its diameter is five times the length of this cube. Either it dropped from an enormous height, maybe from a vimana or it was launched with purpose, with force. But not from ground level. No one slams something down like this by hand."
His words seemed as much a defense of Saanvi as an explanation—proof that her being the first on the scene was coincidence, not suspicion.
Drona crouched at the edge of the crater, studying the ground. "There was some sort of casing around it," he murmured, brushing his fingers across the soil. "The impact was absorbed. That's why the outline is so clean. Too clean."
His gaze lifted to the letter fastened against the cube. Recognition flickered in his eyes, a sudden widening that made his stern face falter.
"Give it to me," he said.
Saanvi handed it over without hesitation.
Drona unfolded the parchment with careful hands, his movements more scholar than warrior. His lips moved at first in silence, eyes scanning the words, and then Shreesh broke the quiet.
"Read it aloud," he said. A strange request, almost repentant the moment it left his tongue.
Drona lifted his head. His voice deepened, steady, carrying the weight of every word:
"Drona,
Forgive me for thrusting this upon you, but there is no one in all of Jambudwipa I can trust more. On the 30th of Jyestha, while crossing the Kuru borders, fate placed me before four travellers. They carried this box, guarding it with their lives. I took it from them or rather confiscated it by force.
Do you remember the old days, when we spoke of legends? The Wisdom Tree. The Wisdom Fruit. Our dream of uncovering the one truth. I believe this is it—the very thing whispered of in myth, now in my hands.
And yet… Why was it given to such common travellers? Was it a chance? Or was it all Saubal's plan? I do not know. What I do know is this: the pinecone-shaped fruit within is no simple relic.
Fourteen years ago, we promised to pursue this mystery together. I kept that vow. Now I ask you to keep yours. Help me unlock it. Help me see the truth before my time runs dry.
Six centuries of life have withered me, Drona. I have watched everything I loved perish. I have walked through generations like a shadow. For what little span remains, I long for one thing only—My wish to know the truth. Will you grant me that chance?
—Devaratta"
When his voice fell silent, so did the world around them.
Every face turned, confusion and dread mingling. The name alone, Devaratta—was a storm in itself.
The air grew heavier. No one spoke, no one dared. Every question that had lingered now clawed at them, demanding answers none possessed.
Drona's gaze shifted, scanning the circle of faces—until it landed on one.
Kriday.
The young man stood at the edge of the crowd, his eyes locked on Drona's, unblinking, demanding without words. Questions welled in him—about the fruit, the tree, about Dwitansh itself—but no voice could carry them yet.
The silence between them spoke louder than any cry.
What was the Wisdom Tree?
The embers of uncertainty burned hotter. And though none dared name it, everyone felt the same thing in their bones.