The sun no longer rose the way it used to.
It bled through the clouds instead — red, dull, heavy — as if even light had grown tired of this world.
---
Somewhere Beyond All Maps — Shambhala
Hidden deep beneath the snows of forgotten ranges, where no satellite dared to scan, a small valley still breathed.
The wind there carried mantras instead of dust.
The rivers still flowed clear, untouched by poison or machine.
And within an ancient monastery — half-buried in frost, half-lit by prayer lamps — a man sat cross-legged before a Shivling.
The air around him pulsed with a strange divinity, a rhythm older than heartbeat.
His body was lean, carved by discipline. His eyes were closed — yet behind the lids, storms turned.
Beside him, a woman poured water over the shivling, whispering verses lost to every tongue but faith.
Her face glowed in the lamplight — gentle, resolute, eternal.
The man finally opened his eyes.
They were not the eyes of a monk.
Nor of a ruler.
They were the eyes of a being remembering his purpose.
> "The time of silence is ending," he murmured softly.
The woman looked up.
> "The world isn't ready."
He smiled faintly. "The world never is."
The lamps flickered, as if bowing.
---
Meanwhile,
The wind smelled cleaner the further north they went.
Less salt. More dust. More smoke from the cities that still burned at night.
Weeks had passed since they'd left the ruins of Lanka. The south was lost — drowned under waves that refused to recede. They had crossed wastelands, refugee camps, and checkpoints run by drones instead of men.
Now, the neon towers of New "Indraprastha" (Delhi) shimmered before them — part miracle, part mirage.
---
Inside the City
New Indraprastha was no capital of wisdom anymore.
It was a fortress of glass and greed — cities stacked on cities, guarded by steel skies and slogans like "Progress is Purity."
The three travelers — Parth, Aarav, and Neel — walked through narrow alleys between holographic billboards flashing luxury ads. Human eyes glowed faint blue from implants. The poor lived underground now, in the veins of the megacity.
Parth's face was hidden beneath a hood. "This doesn't look like the place for a sage."
Neel half-smiled. "Then that's exactly where he'd hide."
They followed a string of whispers — from a street monk, to a librarian, to a tea-seller — each speaking of an eccentric old teacher in a prestigious institute who preached about karma and dharma to bored students.
And so they arrived at The Aryan Institute for Cognitive Excellence, a dome-shaped academy gleaming under sterile light.
---
The Classroom of Disbelief
A group of teenage elites lounged in their seats as a frail old man stood before a smartboard. His long hair, streaked with silver, was tied loosely behind his back. His clothes were simple, outdated — he didn't even wear the standard AR lenses every instructor did. He suddenly felt a pen like object hit the back of his head.
> "Actions," he said, "do not end when performed. They echo. Like algorithms, they repeat until balanced. That is what your ancestors called karma."
The students chuckled.
One boy with designer implants muttered, "That's superstition, sir. No karma can survive quantum logic."
Another girl added with a smirk, "Maybe if we meditate hard enough, our debts will pay themselves?"
Laughter rippled through the room.
The old man only smiled faintly — patient, unoffended. His gaze was deep, steady, as if he had watched the rise and fall of centuries and found mockery too small to matter.
> "You will understand," he said softly, "when you watch the world repeat itself once more."
Just then, the doors at the back opened.
Three strangers stood there — dust-covered, silent, their presence oddly still.
Flashback: Entry Through the Gate
The Aryan Institute for Cognitive Excellence wasn't a place just anyone could walk into. It was a fortress of privilege — towering walls lined with razor wires, cameras at every corner, and security personnel who looked more like mercenaries than guards.
The three of them stood by the gate, blending into the crowd of uniformed students. Every student had sleek ID bracelets, clean hair, sharp eyes — nothing like the dust-streaked travelers standing among them.
"Visitors aren't allowed without prior clearance," one of the guards barked, stepping forward. His tone carried the weight of someone who had turned away hundreds before.
Parth offered a calm smile. "We're not visitors. We're here to meet someone."
"Name?"
"Professor… Vyasa..."
The guards exchanged a confused glance, then one laughed. "Old fool still teaches here, huh? He is as strange as his name. Nobody meets him unless you're on the list." He gestured to the biometric scanner beside the gate. "Show your code, or move along."
Parth sighed softly. "That won't be necessary."
The guard's hand twitched toward his baton. "I said—"
Before he could finish, Parth stepped forward.There was no aggression in the movement — just speed and precision born from training far older than guns.
He caught the guard's wrist midair, turned it gently but firmly, and the baton clattered to the ground.
In the same motion, he sidestepped the second guard, whose swing went wide, and pressed two fingers to a nerve near his neck. The man froze — not unconscious, but unable to move.
Aarav winced. "We're supposed to be undercover, you know."
Parth exhaled. "We are. They'll be fine in a minute."
Neel bent down, placing the fallen baton back on the ground carefully. "You really should give warning before doing that."
"I did," Parth said simply, walking toward the gate.
He looked up at the third guard — a younger man who hadn't drawn his weapon yet. Their eyes met, and something in Parth's calm stare made him hesitate.
"Let us through," Parth said quietly. "We won't cause trouble."
The man swallowed hard and stepped aside.
As they entered, the two disabled guards blinked, realizing what had happened. By the time they turned, the trio was gone — swallowed by the crowd of rich students streaming into the courtyard.
Inside, the institute gleamed with cold light. Digital vines climbed glass walls; students in flawless uniforms tapped at holo-screens as instructors' voices droned in the air.
Neel muttered, "Looks more like a palace than a school."
Parth's gaze swept the hallways. "Some palaces hide gods. Some hide ghosts."
And that was when they heard it — the quiet, firm voice of an old teacher speaking words that didn't belong to this age.
"Actions do not end when performed…"
(End of flashback)
The laughter died.
The old man turned, his eyes meeting Parth's — and in that instant, the years between them vanished. The air trembled with something ancient, something remembered.
> "Class dismissed," the teacher said quietly.
The students hesitated, confused, but the tone in his voice left no space for argument. They left, whispering.
When the door finally closed, the man spoke again — this time not as a teacher, but as someone who had waited lifetimes.
> "My three grandsons have grown so well."
Parth lowered his hood. His voice was softer than usual.
> "And you haven't aged at all, Maharishi Ved Vyasa."
The old sage smiled. "This world still writes, still sins, still forgets — so I remain."
---
They sat on the floor instead of chairs. The classroom lights dimmed. The AI assistant of the room flickered, briefly recognizing something beyond protocol — a divine presence cloaked as human.
Vyasa's voice carried warmth and weight.
> "You've met the others, then? Hanuman, Vibhishan, Kripa."
Parth nodded. "They all said the same thing — that compassion and restraint are the last weapons left. We also got a subtle hint of, who Kali might be in disguise."
Vyasa's expression darkened slightly.
Parth continued, "We need to know where to go next. Guru Kripacharya sent us to you."
Vyasa's eyes gleamed with the patience of a thousand lives.
He leaned back, gaze distant. "Listen well, children of light. There are still those untouched — still pure in heart. They live far from cities, in a hidden land known only to destiny itself. A place called Sambhala."
Aarav frowned. "Is it real?"
Vyasa smiled — a knowing, bittersweet smile. "Real enough to matter when the world burns. Sambhala shelters those few who still remember compassion when all else decays. But when the great war begins, they will be the first targets. Their guardian will leave for the final battle, and they will stand unprotected. You must find them before that happens."
Neel stepped forward. "Then tell us where to find it. Please."
Vyasa's eyes softened. "You can't find Sambhala, my child."
A long pause. The hum of the lights seemed to fade around them.
"Sambhala will find you."
The words lingered in the air like a bell that didn't quite fade away.
He rose slowly, his age suddenly seeming divine rather than frail. "Before that day, you must seek another — the teacher who remembers the art of divine warfare. Go north, beyond the plains, past the borders of comfort. In the silence of Nepal's mountains, you'll find Parashurama. He waits, as he always has, for the next storm."
Then, as if their time was done, he turned back to the blackboard and began writing ancient Sanskrit verses amid modern equations — karma written beside calculus, dharma beside DNA.
And the three of them understood — this was not just a lesson.
It was a prophecy.
---