The faint glow of oil lamps painted the stone walls of Drona's chamber in hues of amber and violet. Everyone from Nirvana sat gathered around the small box that lay upon the low oak table. The air was thick, heavy with expectation.
When Drona lifted the lid, silence took over. Inside, resting on folds of purple muslin, was a strange fruit,no longer than an index finger, its skin a deep mulberry shade, patterned like the scales of a pinecone. It pulsed faintly under the lamplight, as though alive.
All eyes turned to Drona, filled with curiosity, questions, and doubt. Even he seemed uncertain where to begin.
Before he could speak, Saanvi,usually quiet, almost detached,broke the silence.
"Why don't you tell us what this Wisdom Fruit really is?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Drona exhaled, meeting her steady gaze. "Tell me," he said instead, "how much do you know about the lore of Samudra Manthan?"
That stirred them immediately.
"Wasn't that the ancient churning between the Devas and Asuras?" Anilat replied quickly. "They sought the Elixir of Immortality, didn't they?"
"True," Drona nodded. "Fourteen treasures emerged from that churning. Among them was Kalpavriksha,the Wisdom Tree. And its fruit, the Kalpaphal, is what you see here before you."
Kriday leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "The wish-granting tree," he murmured.
Everyone turned toward him. He hesitated, flustered.
"My father used to tell the old Vedic tales," he explained softly. "That's the only reason I know."
"You are right," Drona said. "It was indeed the wish-granting tree. But the lores say it was misused,so the gods themselves took it back to their realm, to Swargaloka." His tone lowered with the weight of thought
Satyaki, leaning against the wall, arms folded, added in his calm drawl, "Wasn't it once captured by a king,and then vanished?"
Drona's head lifted sharply. "Which king are you talking about?"
"King Arjuna," Anilat answered.
"As in Mahabharata's Arjuna?" Drona's brow furrowed.
"Yes… why?" Anilat countered. "That's just folklore from ages past, isn't it?"
"Perhaps," Drona said quietly. "But Devaratta recalls the same story,word for word."
Kanka interjected thoughtfully, "Different traditions have different mythologies rooted in their customs. Devaratta originally belongs to hastinapur of Kuru Kingdom, that's his birthplace. Their traditions differ from Shambhala's. Variations are bound to exist."
"No one truly knows where the Kalpavriksha is, or if it still exists," Satyaki added, his voice drifting through the room. "That's what makes all of this so dangerous… and so fascinating."
Shreesh's gaze fixed on the box. "But right now," he said, his tone steady, "we're staring at proof of its existence. If the lore holds true, this fruit could be the real thing."
Kriday frowned, still skeptical. "So what difference does it make? It's just a fruit. Why all the reverence?"
Drona turned toward him, eyes gleaming. "It's where all of Tattva came into existence"
That sentence froze the room.
"It's said that the fruit could fulfill desire," Drona continued, "and Tattva,the force we wield,is nothing more than desire made manifest. Each of us draws upon our innermost will and shapes it into form. The stronger the will, the purer the Tattva. Lose that will, and the power fades."
"That's why we cling to Dharma," Shreesh added quietly. "It anchors the will,keeps it from bending under corruption."
Drona nodded. "The origins trace back to Samkhya,the philosophy that all reality springs from two principles: Purusha, pure consciousness, and Prakriti, innate desire. When the two unite, Tattva is born. Every living being manifests it differently, depending on the balance between thought and want."
Saanvi's tone softened. "And everything around us,environment, upbringing, passion,all of it molds that balance. It starts young, long before one even knows the word Tattva."
Drona's lips curved faintly. "Except in rare cases," he said, pride glinting behind his calm. "Some of us… awaken later."
A ripple of laughter passed through the room, lightening the dense air. For a moment, they felt like ordinary friends sharing myths by firelight instead of fugitives holding a relic of creation.
But Kriday sat quite still, his eyes lingering on the violet fruit.
He could not tell if he was staring at a relic of gods,or at something that could change the fate of both worlds.
One question that they still don't have clarity about is: For what Shambhala traded such a valuable secret with Kuru?
Though this question blurred with the lores taking over the tides but deep down each and everyone was having the same question: For What? What is the purpose of this as no one knows the true extent and potential of the artefact that lay bare in front of them.
Kriday left first, citing sleepiness. The room fell into a soft lull; only the rhythmic hum of the lamps remained.
Just as the air began to settle, a draft colder than shadow seeped through the chamber. A faint mist followed—and with it, someone stepped in.
A figure cloaked in sapphire, face hidden behind a deer-shaped mask, bowed once before Drona.
"Arms?!" Drona's exclamation sliced through the quiet.
The informant spoke, his tone mechanical, words almost detached from breath.
"There are three massive containers docked near the royal palace. Hidden from public sight. Their scale is… extraordinary. We can't fathom how they were transported without notice."
"Teleportation?" Kanka suggested, his voice low.
Drona shook his head. "Impossible. That would require a Tattva user of at least D-8 capacity—and none exist, not in Shambhala nor Kuru."
"Couldn't several have done it together?" Shreesh asked, reasoning aloud.
"Syncing is the problem," Drona replied sharply. "It's nearly impossible to align multiple Tattvas at the same frequency. That would require identical upbringing, identical desires, identical minds. Even twins fail to resonate."
He continued, pacing slowly.
"Still, if we follow theoretical progression—two users of D-7 could balance one D-8; four of D-6; eight of D-5; sixteen of D-4; thirty-two of D-3; sixty-four of D-2, and so on. But that's theory. In practice, no two Tattvas are ever truly alike."
"Unless they were engineered to be," Kanka muttered, lowering himself into a seat—only for Anilat to slide into it first, earning a sharp look of irritation.
Saanvi crossed her arms. "We can't confirm that yet. What concerns me more is what those containers hold. Nothing in our known arsenal matches that scale."
"Perpetual Gears and Guns remain the peak of weaponry—and even those were your creation, Drona," Shreesh said, stepping closer, pride and apprehension mingling in his tone.
"You were developing artillery when you left the empire," he added. "Had it been completed, Shambhala might have ruled all of Dwitansh by now."
Their eyes met—Shreesh's steady, Drona's cold, reflective. The air between them thickened, a silent duel of intellect and guilt.
Drona's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "I'm not the only one who came here carrying the knowledge of Earth's machines."
The words struck like a hidden blade. A ripple of unease moved through the room. Even Shreesh's composure faltered.
Saanvi broke the silence. "Are you implying Kriday?"
"Not even close," Drona replied, firm. "Someone far beyond our comprehension. Someone who's been here longer."
Shreesh folded his arms. "Then whoever it is must have arrived decades before you. Kuru's rise began barely a century ago. The timeline fits."
"Or perhaps he's slow to adapt," Drona mused. "Maybe time itself has distorted him."
Shreesh smirked. "There you go again—too confident, even when facing the unknown. Aren't you underestimating your opponent, Drona?"
A faint smile curved Drona's lips. "Perhaps. But confidence and foresight are born from guilt. If the knowledge of Earth's warfare truly seeps into this realm… wars will no longer be myth. They will be reality—and I will have helped light that fire."
The room fell silent again. Shadows stretched along the walls.
Finally, Drona sighed. "Saubal laid out an intricate plan. We still don't know what, when, or how. That is our loss—and his advantage."
The Royal Palace, Leisure Chambers
In a dimly lit chamber, a Chausar board gleamed under torchlight. Four hands hovered over the dice, the air scented with burnt sandalwood and strategy.
The dice rolled—wood against wood, a quiet thunder of fate.
Six. One.
A blue pawn slid home.
"I win," a calm voice declared.
Saubal leaned back, gathering his final piece with deliberate grace. The faint light traced the edge of his smile—measured, knowing.
At that exact moment, miles away, Drona's hand rested upon the sealed box that held the Wisdom Fruit.
Two moves. Two players.
One whispered victory, the other sealed silence.
Royal Palace — The Court of Shambhala
The Court of Shambhala stood veiled in silver haze. Columns of veined marble climbed toward the great dome where a thousand lamps burned like captive stars. The air smelled of myrrh and accusation.
Vrisha's boots struck the polished floor in steady rhythm, though his pulse betrayed the calm in his stride. Every echo carried memory—the clang of swords, the roar of battlefields, and the silence that followed Jishnu's retreat into the mist.
Now, that silence pursued him here.
"Commander Vrisha," the herald's voice rang out—clipped and cold—"summoned before the Imperial Council for dereliction of duty: allowing the fugitive Jishnu to escape."
A ripple of murmurs stirred the rows of ministers. Velvet robes whispered like restless wings. Vrisha stopped beneath the circle of light before the throne dais and bowed, his shadow stretching long behind him.
On the high seat reclined Vayur, Lord Adviser to the Crown—his hair bound in silver cords, his eyes sharp as the blades he never carried. Around him sat a dozen ministers, their faces half hidden behind jeweled masks that turned expression into mystery.
"So," Vayur began, his voice smooth as poured oil, "the hero returns to us. I'm losing count—how many times has it been now? I'm beginning to lose track. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
Vrisha kept his tone even. "None."
He paused, recollecting his thoughts. "Only this—had I pressed the pursuit, the collateral damage in—"
"Collateral?" Vayur interrupted, his tone soft, almost kind. "Or convenience?"
A few ministers smirked; one tapped a jeweled ring against the marble railing—tok, tok, tok—a sound of judgment masquerading as rhythm.
Another councilor leaned forward. "Reports claim you hesitated when you could have captured the rebel. Some even say you let him go."
"I acted to preserve order," Vrisha replied. "Jishnu was wounded. The terrain was unstable."
"Blatant lies!" barked Minister Rathin. "Is your title as the Strongest just for show? Or did you let him go because he's your old friend? What are you two now, star-crossed lovers from the past?"
A quiet wave of laughter rippled through the hall.
Vayur raised a hand. The room fell still.
"Tell me, Commander," he said almost gently, "do you still hold your oath of loyalty to Shambhala? Or have you pledged it elsewhere—to your old friends, perhaps? Your men still whisper his name—'Drona this,' 'Drona that.' His name slips from their tongues like prayer."
The mention of Drona cracked the air like lightning. Ministers shifted in their seats, exchanging low murmurs.
Vrisha's gaze hardened. "I serve the Empire," he said, his voice flat, his loyalty iron.
"Of course you do." Vayur smiled, though his eyes remained cold. "Yet curiously, the traitor who betrayed the Empire—Drona—still lives, still breathes, still moves pieces across the board. And you, dear Commander, always arrive a step too late to stop him. Coincidence? Or conscience?"
He leaned forward, voice tightening. "Shocked, are you? Even on record, Drona was declared dead long ago. We've learned of his survival through our Sanchari network."
Vrisha met his stare in silence. He had fought beasts, storms, and gods—but not politics. There was no armor for this.
"You're showing your true colors, Chav," Rathin sneered. "You and your men are nothing but trash. Bottom-feeders. Consider it mercy that you're allowed to walk free."
"Enough!" Vrisha's voice thundered across the hall. "Patience is the only thing keeping me from drawing my sword here and now."
He glared at Rathin, and for an instant, time seemed to hold its breath. His hand moved toward his waist—toward the sword's hilt—but stopped midway.
Yet the intent was felt.
Rathin froze, his mind conjuring the image of a clean cut across his throat, his body falling lifeless before he even saw the blade. When reality returned, he realized he was still alive—only drenched in cold sweat.
The court fell into stunned silence. The whisper of shock spread like a tide.
Vayur's smile didn't waver, though a muscle twitched near his jaw. "I admire your restraint," he said at last. "Keep it. You'll need it where you're going."
"Meaning?" Vrisha asked.
"You are relieved of independent command until further decree. You will serve under supervision. Every order you give, every step you take—recorded."
It was no surprise. Vrisha had foreseen this the moment he entered the hall. His power had grown beyond the Empire's comfort. He stood on the verge of becoming a Maharathi—a living nightmare for nations, a one-man army whose mere presence could tilt wars.
And that was precisely why they feared him.
Even after such humiliation, Vrisha's composure held. He bowed—slow, deliberate. "As the Empire wills."
As he turned to leave, the chamber dimmed slightly. The lamps swayed in a draft no one felt. The marble beneath his boots mirrored his reflection—proud yet fractured, a soldier caught between obedience and truth.
Vayur watched him depart. The ministers murmured among themselves; parchment rustled with the weight of decrees.
"Do you think he suspects?" Rathin asked quietly.
Vayur's eyes lingered on the empty doorway. "He suspects everything," he murmured. "That's what makes him useful."
He rose, straightening his robe. "Prepare the next move."
Drona's Chamber
The scene shifted from marble to stone—from incense to dust and torchlight.
In the underground base, faint chants from evening prayers echoed through the tunnels. Shreesh sat cross-legged near the inner sanctum, a small brass bowl of panchamrit cupped in his hands. The scent of honey and ghee mingled with the iron tang of forged metal.
Beyond the arched doorway, Kriday trained alone.
His silhouette moved against the flicker of firelight—each motion deliberate, every breath measured. Sweat ran down his temple; his tunic clung to his frame. The wooden blade in his hand cut through the air in patterns that seemed less attack than meditation.
All under Drona's watch. The mentor had assumed his role fully, guiding Kriday through the ways of Dwitansh.
Shreesh observed in silence. The boy had been training for hours. Others had long retired—laughing, exhausted—but Kriday remained, repeating the same sequence until every movement felt inevitable. Drona, too, turned to leave; he patted Shreesh's back—as if bringing him back to his senses—and with a simple exchange of smiles, he slipped away to his duties. Shreesh resumed his quiet watch.
Too cautious, Shreesh thought. Yet never careless.
He sipped the last of the panchamrit, its sweetness cooling his tongue. He had met men of every kind—brave, cruel, reckless, hollow—but none like this quiet storm in human form.
"You move like you're afraid to break something," Shreesh called out.
Kriday paused mid-swing, startled, then smiled faintly. "Maybe I am. I could break a bone or two if I overexert. Maybe that's what keeps me on my toes."
Shreesh chuckled softly. "You're getting the hang of it. So—have you made up your mind yet?"
Kriday set the blade down, wiping sweat from his brow. "I don't know where the line is—between control and fear. I try to push harder, but every time I do, something pulls me back. Like I'm standing on a cliff I can't see."
Shreesh studied him. "That cliff has a name—it's called doubt. You'll find it in everyone who hasn't yet chosen their path forward."
"Do you know yours?" Kriday asked quietly.
Shreesh smiled, the sound of his laughter not quite reaching his eyes. "I used to. Now I just fight to remember it."
A whisper of wind drifted through the upper tunnels, carrying the distant sound of thunder. For a while, they both listened.
"You're too hard on yourself," Shreesh said at last. "Strength isn't aggression—it's endurance. Anyone can burn bright; few can burn long."
Kriday nodded. "Then I'll just keep trying my best."
The simplicity of the answer made Shreesh smile—small, genuine.
Kriday picked up the blade again. "Will you teach me someday?"
"Perhaps," Shreesh said, standing. "When you stop fearing the fall."
As he turned to leave, the torchlight framed Kriday anew—the boy's movements slower now, but surer. Each swing carved through hesitation, shaping resolve.
At the courtyard's edge, Shreesh paused and looked back. Kriday was still training—his rhythm smooth, almost serene.
Shreesh's gaze softened. He doesn't even know what he's becoming, he thought. Or what the world will demand of him.
The last drop of panchamrit touched his tongue—sweet and solemn. He set the bowl beside the pillar and walked into the darkness of the corridor, a faint smile following him—half pride, half fear.
Behind him, the sound of the wooden blade striking air rose again—steady, relentless.
And somewhere far above, the thunder over Shambhala answered.
The thunder that rolled across Shambhala's skies seemed to ripple through time itself.
And somewhere far beyond that realm—beneath a cloud-wrapped sky on Earth—the same thunder rumbled again.
A thin veil of smoke still hung over the crash site, long after the fires had died.
Charred earth and twisted metal sprawled across the hillside like the bones of a fallen titan. Police drones hovered silently, their blue lights flickering against the blackened wreckage.
Three survivors sat near a military tent pitched against the wind—Dhrithra, pale and bruised; Shishta, quiet but alert; and Kameshva, her left arm wrapped in bandages, eyes still reflecting the chaos they had escaped.
Across from them stood Officer Sandip, a man whose face carried both compassion and exhaustion. His white uniform shirt was smeared with ash, his notepad half filled with details that made little sense.
"Start again," he said gently. "From the moment Isolated appeared."
Dhrithra hesitated. His throat felt dry, his mind replaying fragments he wished he could unsee—metal shrieking, glass exploding, light bending unnaturally.
"They're up to no good. I wish they'd all disappear from the face of the earth," he said finally, his voice low. "They killed everyone—just to serve their own goals."
Sandip sighed and drew a cigar from his trouser pocket. "You're letting your emotions take over. I understand your grief."
He stepped closer, crouched to Dhrithra's eye level. "If you truly want them gone, help me understand—clearly, in detail." His tone turned colder than the killers he hunted, a voice that could chill bone.
Dhrithra frowned. Fear washed over him, then clarity. He was still lost in the scars he could not yet carry.
Even so, he chose to speak. "I understand. But I have lapses. My best friend—my brother—sacrificed everything to keep us safe and is missing. I don't even know if he survived. How do you expect me to narrate it all… sanely?" The last words tore out of him.
Sandip took one long draw, then exhaled. Smoke spiraled up and thinned into the rain-heavy air. He tilted his face to the sky as thunder cracked and the first drops fell.
"Life doesn't offer choices," he said softly, still watching the clouds. "It orders. The only choice we get is to accept or run. No one escapes that. Keep running, and the loop owns you. I won't pressure you—heal. Then tell me." He rose and, with a final, steadying look, turned to go.
He had taken only two steps when Dhrithra found his voice. "Kriday saved us."
Sandip turned back, surprised, and leaned against the tent pole.
"He gave us Upfo auto-inflator helmets at the start of the trip," Dhrithra said—firmer now. "He insisted."
Shishta nodded. "He gave one to me too. And one spare—to share. He told me to wear it after we crossed Pangong Tso."
Kameshva's voice trembled. "I… I don't remember anything." Tears tracked silently. She was splintering.
"The boy—Kriday," Sandip asked carefully. "Part of Isolated?"
"No!" Dhrithra snapped, then steadied himself. "From childhood he… sees things. Visions. From the future."
It was difficult to accept, but not unheard of. Precognition sporadically surfaced in case files—never routine. That was what intrigued Sandip: regularity.
He locked eyes with Dhrithra. "I hope you're not lying."
Before Dhrithra could answer, a second officer approached—glasses, a neat tie, the measured air of a man who preferred files to storms. Sudrasht.
"The army base reports no unidentified personnel," Sudrasht said evenly. "No one matching that description. Are you certain there wasn't someone else?"
Sandip and Sudrashta walked away abandoning the kids to their own once again and headed to another tent nearby.
With lots of notebooks and other forms of evidence were staked inside the tent. Sudrashta handed one of the reports to Sandip
"There are no records of intrusion or damage either," Sandip added, scanning a tablet.
"They're covering something," Sudrasht replied, colder now. He handed Sandip a report. Sandip flipped through it, searching for a name that wasn't there. Kriday.
"Strange… Why list only twenty-nine students when logistics were arranged for thirty?" Sandip muttered. "Something's off."
"I find it strange, too," Sudrasht said. "But Nalanda University confirms—only twenty-nine enrolled, twenty-nine sent."
A facade? Sandip wondered. A boy conjured by trauma? Or erased by design? He closed the file. This needs a visit to Nalanda. Now.
At camp, the three survivors sat with their separate storms. Then Kameshva spoke, almost absently, and detonated the quiet.
"Who is Kriday? The name you mentioned earlier."
Dhrithra and Shishta stared at her—blood drained, breath caught. Dhrithra forced a laugh that wasn't a laugh. "What are you saying? He's our classmate. He… he has a crush on Shishta. Quiet guy. Almost invisible."
"I'm sorry," Kameshva said, confused and sincere. "I really don't know who Kriday is."
"It isn't the time for jokes, Kami," Shishta whispered. "Kriday is our classmate."
But doubt—Sandip's questions, the university's roster, Kameshva's blankness—cast longer shadows than the tent lamps could push back. Something unnatural cloaked the truth. Without knowing it, the three of them stood at the lip of a deeper chasm.
Meanwhile, in Dwitansh, the world seemed to bend around a single will.
Kriday's desires were taking root—reshaping habits, waking dormant strength. With each drill, he inched closer to the life he had once forsaken, promising himself to start anew, to bury torment, to choose meaning. His resolve drew people to him, as if fate were stitching old bonds in a new realm.
From a distant balcony, Drona watched. Awe—an emotion he thought time had stolen—returned in a quiet, startling flood. He smiled, turned to his routines, and allowed himself a rare, dangerous hope: that these new flickers would grow into a blaze neither throne nor empire could contain.
The faint thunder from the other realm—the Earth—echoed through stone once more.
Two worlds, two storms, bound by one name.
Kriday.