Surya's grin stiffened, Guru Arjun's words—a whispered challenge about his nightly sparring—echoing in his ears as the award ceremony commenced under the ashram's sprawling banyan tree.
The top ten shishyas were inducted fully into the Trishul of Dharma, their names chanted like mantras by the gathered crowd. The rest faced a choice: depart with nothing or stay as aides, earning meager Rupiyas, basic Kalaripayattu lessons, and brief ETC sessions—a lure to keep the ashram's chores tended, from sweeping courtyards to tending ghee lamps.
The ceremony unfolded, third place claimed by a wiry mid-grade boy who'd once held second. He received a trishul-shaped trinket, its silver gleaming as he squeezed it, shrinking it to a dagger then swelling it back—a child's sword for their small hands. Envious eyes followed him off the dais, his delight in the toy plain as he toyed with it relentlessly.
Second went to Epok, still damp from Jal Bhanu's water prison, his sullen scowl brightening as he took a saffron kurta. Plain to the eye, its weave shimmered faintly—enchanted to blunt blows. Surya gauged its worth by Epok's shift; outside, such a garment might fetch two gold Rupiyas, far pricier than the trinket's fifty silvers. Magical wares were rare treasures in Aryavarta, their shops thronged for utility charms, not combat crafts like these.
Surya's pulse quickened as he ascended to Guru Arjun, the crowd's murmurs a low hum. "For topping the ranks," the guru intoned, "you claim our most precious gift. Trinkets fade, but this endures—the Trishul of Dharma's cornerstone art, 'Trishul Prana.' Our ashram bears its name, a legacy from our first guru. Each batch's victor inherits its full scroll. Masters puzzle its depths, but its early forms suit your budding skill. Master it through your own insight—it's not taught, only grasped."
He handed Surya a trishul medallion, glass-like and warm, its transparency catching the sunlight in prismatic glints. Surya's fingers closed around it, a thrill coursing through him.
Guru Arjun turned to all, voice booming. "Your first training ends here. If these three moons broke you, seek another path. The road ahead steepens—only by casting pain aside and charging through will you climb body refining's peaks. Choose wisely." The shishyas' faces clouded with thought, the crowd's final cheer scattering them like leaves on the wind.
Surya moved to follow, but a firm grip hoisted him by his dhoti's collar—Guru Arjun, wordless, steering him to the hut. Inside, he was plopped onto a wooden stool, the guru's kind eyes now sharp as a hawk's.
"Speak, lad. What's this nightly dance in the woods? Don't dare say shadow sparring—I've watched you. The moves shift too wild, like you're battling a foe none can see."
Surya flinched, the stool creaking beneath him. Relief flickered—no one had glimpsed the white yaksha. Guru Arjun himself had spied? His carelessness stung; he'd seek darker groves henceforth. The guru's gaze bore down, a prana-heavy weight pressing his shoulders, demanding truth.
Surya wove a tale near the mark, honed on the walk. "I picture a white figure sparring me. When I focus hard, it… appears, fighting me. I thought all could do it." His breath hitched as the pressure lifted, leaving him gasping.
Guru Arjun's eyes widened, then softened. "Just as I reckoned. Blessed boy—Rajesh will pace sleepless with joy. You might bear a vayuroot!"