The next morning was Sunday, the kind that promised slow hours and gentle sunlight.
Krishna woke in a quiet house, gathered his things, and prepared to leave.
Radha's parents waited for him by the door, offering kind smiles and the mild awkwardness that follows an eventful night.
He said his goodbyes with a hint of nervous gratitude, bowing his head just slightly as he stepped outside.
Radha's mother pressed a tiffin into his hand—"For your lunch," she insisted, her tone gentle but firm.
Street sounds wrapped around him as he walked home, his mind wandering from the evening's memories to the simplicity of the day ahead.
When he reached his own house, his mother called out from the kitchen, "Krishna! We've run out of rice.
Go to the market and get a 1 kg rice , please. And hurry, before the shop gets crowded.
"Obeying with a smile, Krishna tucked money into his pocket and set out once more.
The city's main market was already busy, early sunlight bouncing off metal shutters and neat stalls.
The hum of voices, the scent of spices, the bright colors of vegetables—all familiar, all grounding.
He was halfway down the street when something strange happened. A gentle glow, invisible to others, pulsed around his vision. That same system energy—the one from last night—washed over him.
Inside, his new title, "Spiritual Teacher," seemed to resonate. Krishna paused, feeling a tug, an inexplicable sense that someone nearby was in need of guidance.
He scanned the market, uncertain of the source, following intuition more than logic. That was when he noticed a small café nestled in the corner.
At one of its tables sat a young man, dressed sharply in high-quality clothes, face mostly obscured by a sleek black mask. In a way that only Krishna could perceive, a faint question mark shimmered above the boy's head, as if hanging from an invisible string.
The youth was staring at his coffee, lost in thought, fingers idly tracing patterns on the mug.
There was something unmistakable in his posture: deep concentration mixed with anxiety. Krishna knew, with certainty, this was the one the title had drawn him to.
Without hesitation, Krishna entered the café and approached the table.
"May I sit with you?" Krishna asked, voice gentle but clear.
The young man looked up, startled, but nodded.
Krishna settled across from him, eyes meeting his for a moment longer than usually expected.
After ordering his own coffee, Krishna leaned forward.
"I know who you are, Gukesh. World champion, chess prodigy—and right now, a man carrying questions heavier than any trophy.
"Gukesh stared, surprised. "You do?
"Krishna nodded. "Yes.
And I can help you—if you want any answers. I'm someone who has helped many people find clarity in times of confusion.
So, Gukesh, tell me—what's troubling your heart?
I promise, I'll listen and answer honestly. There's no judgement here
."Gukesh hesitated, but something in Krishna's presence was reassuring.
He took a slow breath, his burden suddenly feeling lighter. And for the first time in days, he found himself ready to speak, trusting in the stranger's words and wisdom.
Gukesh stared into his half-finished coffee, voice barely above a whisper.
"Everyone's talking about Magnus's reaction. Some are angry, some want me to…I don't even know what.
Take revenge? Demand respect? I never wanted any of this.
I just wanted to play my best. Now it feels like the world is watching for my anger, not my chess.
"Krishna studied him for a moment, then replied gently, "Pressure makes even the strongest hands tremble.
Enemies rise—not just on the chessboard, but within.
What is it your heart wants, when all the noise fades?
"Gukesh shook his head. "I honestly don't know. Magnus is a legend, but sometimes he acts like losing to me was an insult.
Or maybe it's just frustration. But now fans want me to fight him, prove something. I don't want to be pulled into a rivalry based on anger.
But if I stay silent, they say I'm weak. If I respond, am I just feeding fire with fire?
"Krishna nodded, and for a moment the soft hum of the café seemed to still.
"There was a time," Krishna said softly, "when a prince stood on a battlefield, facing friends as enemies.
He doubted his every choice—heart wracked by others' expectations.
In that hour, he learned: Duty is not living for the applause, nor fighting for vengeance. Duty is acting in harmony with your highest self, without attachment to praise or blame.
"Gukesh's eyes flicked up, caught in the weight of those words.
Krishna continued, "You cannot control another's heart, nor the sway of a million opinions.
Magnus's anger belongs to him, not you.
If victory brings frustration to your rival, let it pass. If the world asks for a response, give them not what they demand, but what is true to you.
"Gukesh's shoulders eased, a bit of the weight slipping away.
"So I don't have to turn this into a war?
"Krishna smiled. "Even the greatest battles are not won by anger.
You are not here to prove your worth by crushing another.
You are here to walk your own path—with skill, with courage, and with the joy that pulled you to chess in the first place.
As the Gita says, act with detachment from the fruits of action; the reward lies not in victory or defeat, but in doing your best, with a steady heart.
"Gukesh was silent for a long moment.
"But what about respect? I want to be remembered for more than just chess—a moment like this could define me.
"Krishna reached across the table, calm and steady. "Others may forget your games, but they will remember your spirit and your efforts.
Respond to anger with dignity; to rivalry with respect; to pressure with calm.
This is true mastery—not just of chess, but of life itself.
The world may chase grudge and drama, but legends last because they choose the higher road."
To be continue.