The morning sun filtered through the neem trees of Kalp Ashram, casting dappled shadows across the cracked stone courtyard. Devpura—tucked between the roaming valleys of the Wind Kingdom and the misty rivers of the Water Kingdom—was quiet, almost sacred in its stillness. The calm was broken only by the rhythmic swish of a wooden sword cutting through the air.
A boy stood at the center of the training ground. Aryan, nearly sixteen, with unruly black hair and storm-grey eyes, moved with fierce concentration. Every swing of his blade was controlled, each stance refined, though his furrowed brow hinted at dissatisfaction. Sweat rolled down his face, soaking the collar of his simple ashram robes. Still, he did not stop.
From the edge of the yard, Tarun watched in silence. A man in his early thirties with a lean but strong build, he had a steady gaze and an aura of calm that could quiet storms. Arms crossed, he finally spoke.
"You've improved. Your footwork's tighter than it was last week."
Aryan didn't turn. "Still not good enough. The academy won't go easy on me."
Tarun walked forward, his voice firm but kind. "You're strong, Aryan. At your age, you're doing better than most noble children I've seen. But strength without control is just chaos. Control is what gives strength its purpose."
Aryan's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the sword. "I've got two months. I'll awaken my aura before then."
Aura. A natural awakening that occurred around the age of sixteen. It was the manifestation of one's inner energy—a force unique to each person, shaped by their nature and affinity. While some awakened it early, most did so by sixteen. For a warrior, it was the first step to becoming something more.
Tarun's eyes softened, but his tone held concern. "Don't be in such a hurry. Aura doesn't come through willpower alone. You've already come far. Pushing too hard might do more harm than good."
Aryan lowered his blade slightly but didn't turn around. "I don't have a family name or kingdom behind me. I have to be better. I won't be looked down on when I get there."
Tarun sighed and moved to stand beside him. "Just remember, once you're at the Ashvattha Vidya Mandala, not everyone will see the effort you've put in. Some will only see your background—or lack of one."
Aryan's eyes burned with quiet fire. "Let them. Power doesn't make anyone right. If someone steps on the weak, I'll stand up. That's all I know."
Tarun gave a dry chuckle. "You always rush into storms..."
Before he could finish, a cheerful voice rang across the courtyard like the sound of temple bells.
"Aryan! Uncle Tarun! Lunch is ready!"
A young girl, not older than eleven, stood barefoot near the steps of the main hall, waving enthusiastically. Her hair was tied in two messy braids, and she wore a simple cotton dress patched at the hem.
Aryan smiled and finally lowered his blade into the grass. "Well," he said, brushing dust from his robes. "Fighting injustice can wait till after food."
Inside the hall, two more figures waited.
Ayush, lean and tall with dusky skin and thoughtful eyes, sat near the open window, a book resting on his knee. His black hair was always unkempt, and he rarely spoke unless spoken to. He had a sharp mind, and his calm, analytical nature balanced Aryan's fiery instincts.
Beside him, Abhishek leaned against the pillar, whittling a small wooden carving. Stockier than Ayush, with round cheeks and warm brown eyes, he was always smiling—often the first to break tension with a joke. His hair was short and spiked, and a faint scar curved above his left eyebrow from a childhood scuffle with Aryan involving a wooden log and a runaway goat.
They had all grown up together in Kalp Ashram, raised under the same roof, trained by the same mentors, and scolded by the same caretakers. They were more than friends. They were brothers in spirit, bonded by shared meals, bruised knees, and secret midnight adventures into the orchard.
Ayush looked up from his book as Aryan entered. "Still swinging that stick like you're chasing crows?"
Aryan grinned. "Crows move faster."
Abhishek chuckled, tossing the carving into Aryan's lap. "Here. A lucky charm for the road."
Aryan turned the small wooden eagle in his hand. "Looks like a chicken."
"That's offensive," Abhishek said with mock hurt. "It's a war eagle."
Tarun entered behind Aryan, shaking his head with a smile. "Eat before your war eagle flies away."
They all laughed, the hall echoing with the sound. For now, the worries of awakening, of future trials and distant empires, faded into the warm comfort of food and family.
But time was ticking.
And destiny, like the wind beyond the neem trees, was already shifting
Two months passed, fleeting like wind in the valley.
At the village gates, the people of Devpura gathered under the temple bell's solemn chime. Aryan stood ready, his travel pack slung over one shoulder. Beside him were his childhood companions Ayush, quiet and sharp-eyed, and Abhishek, cheerful and curious, with a perpetual grin.
Tarun tightened the strap on Aryan's bag, his hands lingering for a moment.
From the steps of the temple, Rishi Vatsal, the elderly master of Kalp Ashram, approached slowly. His wooden staff tapped rhythmically, a sound all in Devpura knew well.
"The world outside will test you in ways we cannot," Vatsal said, voice steady despite age. "But don't lose your center. That's where your strength lives."
Aryan bowed, jaw tight. "I'll return stronger, Master."
Vatsal smiled faintly. "Return wiser."
As cheers rose and the bell rang one last time, the four travelers turned away from the village toward Velgaon, and the path that led beyond
Velgaon, the border town, buzzed with voices. Merchants lined the stone streets, hawking enchanted scrolls, fragrant herbs, and trinkets laced with minor charms. At the town's heart stood a glowing ring of teleportation stones, their faint hum rising like a song only mana could hear.
Aryan moved through the bustle with sharp eyes. His steps were cautious, his senses alert.
At the entrance of the teleport registry, a boy stumbled, scrolls flying from his arms.
Aryan caught one midair. "Careful. Your scrolls are escaping."
The boy looked up, flustered. "Ah—thanks. I'm Prateek. First time leaving home."
"Aryan," he replied, handing over the scroll. "You'll get used to the noise. Just don't buy anything labeled 'divine elixir' unless you want sparkling indigestion."
Prateek grinned sheepishly. "I'll try."
They laughed, and from that moment, a quiet bond began to form.
As they neared the teleport gate, a mocking voice rang out like poison in the wind.
"Well, well. If it isn't Prateek the scarecrow."
Kartik, tall and sharp-eyed, stood with two smirking lackeys behind him. Prateek's posture shrank as Kartik kicked over his bag.
"Still dreaming of the academy?" Kartik sneered. "You're better off cleaning its outhouses."
Before Prateek could reply, Aryan stepped forward, silent and steady.
"Pick on someone who'll fight back."
Kartik laughed. "What's this? A hired guard?"
"More like a mirror," Aryan said, his voice like a drawn blade. "So you can see how ugly bullying looks."
For a tense moment, the square stilled. Then Kartik scoffed and turned away.
But Aryan knew. That wasn't the end.
Night fell over Velgaon like a velvet curtain.
Something gnawed at Aryan's instincts—something wrong. He slipped away from the inn, following a thread of unease into the shadows.
In a narrow alley lit by a flickering mana lamp, he found them.
Prateek stood cornered, blood on his lip, eyes wide with fear. Kartik raised a fist, flanked by his silent goons.
"STEP AWAY FROM HIM!"
The shout cracked through the night, freezing them mid-motion. Kartik turned, his smirk twisting with annoyance.
"Look who showed up. The little hero."
Aryan walked forward. Calm. Cold.
"You're brave when it's three against one. Want to try it now?"
Kartik's eyes narrowed. "You'll regret this."
"You're right," Aryan said, stepping in. "It's just beginning."
He moved like lightning. A kick to the ribs sent one thug into the wall. He ducked a wild punch, countering with a sharp jab that floored the second. Kartik managed a few swings, but Aryan's strikes were surgical—burning with purpose.
Kartik dropped to one knee, blood painting his smirk red.
"We'll remember this," he hissed. "At the academy, you'll regret it."
Aryan's reply was ice.
"I'll be waiting."
He turned and offered his hand to Prateek.
Morning came with the soft murmur of market life.
As the group gathered at the teleport ring, Prateek approached Aryan, limping slightly.
"I owe you… again."
"Don't. Just stop letting them win."
A silent nod. Respect forged in blood. From that point on, Prateek was no longer just a stranger from Velgaon.
He was a friend.
The teleportation ring glowed beneath their feet, runes swirling like stars. Around them, Velgaon began to fade—replaced by the hum of mana and the stirrings of destiny.
Tarun stood with arms crossed, watching the four boys prepare to leap into the unknown.
"Remember—don't just survive at the academy. Learn, grow… and stay out of trouble."
Aryan smirked. "No promises."
Ayush whispered, "I heard the academy gates are taller than trees…"
"I just hope they let us eat as much as we want," Abhishek added.
Prateek, quieter than usual, said, "I've never been this far from home…"
Tarun stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Aryan's shoulder.
"This path you're walking," he said gently. "Take it one step at a time. Don't rush to prove anything."
Aryan nodded, understanding only part of it but feeling the weight.
As the teleport gate flared, wind rushed through the plaza. Light swallowed them whole.
Aryan's last thought before vanishing into the glow:
Ashvattha… here I come.