~ "One ring. One duel. One bond that defied death itself."
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"Where—where did you get this? Where is its owner?" Mahā-Granthika's breath caught as she seized Ved's wrist. "Do you know him? Where is he now?"
The old Mahā-Granthika bombarded him with questions, one after another.
Ved's expression darkened. His voice grew heavy.
"He… he died. I performed his cremation."
Her eyes widened in shock.
"I'm not its rightful owner." Ved continued quietly. "But he entrusted it to me, along with his responsibilities. If you wish, I will return it—you seem more familiar with it than I am."
He began to slide the ring from his finger.
"Stop!" Her voice was sharp enough to cut through the night air. "If he gave you this ring, it means he trusted you. That ring carries more than metal—it carries his soul, his will."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The night itself seemed to lean closer, listening.
"But... who allowed that man to die like that…" Her face suddenly shadowed with anger. Then she shook her head. "Well—that is not the question for now..."
Then, to Ved's utter shock, the Mahā-Granthika bowed before him. Her voice was steady, unwavering.
"From this moment, you are the new owner of this ring—and my master. This servant is at your command."
Ved immediately stepped back, flustered. "What—what are you doing? Please, don't!" He tried to stop her, placing a hand on her shoulder, helping her get up. "You're like my elder. I can't accept this!"
He turned away, unsettled.
But when he looked up again, she was already standing in front of him.
Ved tensed instantly; his body reacted on its own.
She smiled faintly.
"Why are you standing there on guard? Why don't I accompany you instead?"
The casual suggestion left Ved staring, eyes wide, jaw slack.
The courtyard lay bathed in moonlight, silver shadows stretching long across the stone. The night air felt tense—taut—as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath. The moon hung high, spilling silver light that caught the faint shimmer of prāṇa[1] rising from their bodies.
Ved shifted his stance, feet pressing lightly into the earth, every muscle alert. His eyes narrowed, tracking every subtle movement ahead. Though his prāṇa was weaker, his aura was razor-focused, like a blade honed fine enough to cut the wind.
Mahā-Granthika stepped forward with unhurried grace, her movement carrying the stillness of a predator certain of its hunt. A faint smile played on her lips, but her gaze was unblinking.
Then—her presence surged.
It struck him like the sudden flood of a sacred river—vast, deep, and unstoppable—or like enormous swan wings unfurling across the heavens, dimming the moon. The pressure rolled toward him in waves, the air thickening until every breath felt like inhaling molten silver.
In her mind, she noted:
> Even with his weaker prāṇa, he stands his ground without fear. His focus doesn't waver… rare for a human.
Ved exhaled slowly, trying to steady the pounding in his ears. His own prāṇa flared in response—thin compared to hers, yet sharp, condensed, and unyielding, like a focused blade. The air between them shimmered faintly, as though invisible heat rose from the ground.
He moved first, a swift dash to her left—moonlight flashing off his shoulder as he pivoted, aiming a sudden low strike at her leg. His prāṇa flared briefly—thin but concentrated.
Shhhk—
Her ankle shifted just enough to avoid him, her robes fluttering with the faintest rustle, and she parried him without effort. He followed instantly—a palm strike aimed for her chest.
Phaff!
She caught his wrist in a blur of motion, her fingers like iron wrapped in silk. A faint golden glow radiated from her skin, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek as she tilted her head.
Then she moved—no flourish, no wasted effort.
BAM!
Her palm met his chest. The air cracked like thunder; a surge of pure, crushing prāṇa energy exploded from her, slamming into Ved's chest. His body lifted from the ground, cutting through silver moonlight before slamming down more than ten meters away with a heavy thud. Dust billowed, the night haze curling in its wake.
Every impact was like a temple gong struck in the dark.
For a heartbeat, it seemed he was down—then his form flickered. The Phantom Ghost Shadow Skill unraveled his image into drifting afterimages, scattering like ghosts across the courtyard like afterimages echoing before rejoining into solid form. The impact force dispersed, though his breath came heavier now, and he slid to his feet with controlled precision.
But the difference in their prāṇa was undeniable—her aura alone bent the air between them, slowing his momentum. She remained where she was, the faintest smile playing on her lips.
She stayed rooted where she stood, watching with a tilt of her head, her expression unreadable. The faint hum of her prāṇa still pressed on him like the weight of an unseen mountain.
Ved's gaze sharpened. He exhaled once, letting the moonlight glint in his eyes. This time, he moved slower—almost lazily—closing the distance without a hint of aggression.
Her eyes narrowed.
Then, in a blink, he shifted—pivoting on the ball of his foot and sweeping his arm upward. Dust rose in a sudden arc, momentarily veiling her sight.
It was a feint.
In that instant of concealment, Ved's true strike came from the opposite side—a precise palm aimed just above her elbow—enough to disrupt her balance without causing harm.
A faint clack echoed as her slender fingers caught his wrist mid-strike. Her grip was gentle yet unbreakable, her prāṇa flowing through it like a quiet tide that swallowed his own.
"Clever." She said, her voice calm.
> He mask his weakness in prāṇa with guile.
With a twist, she released him and stepped back.
Her voice was calm. "Not bad. You bridged the gap with skill where others would be crushed."
The air still hummed with the echo of their clash.
Ved stopped moving. The lingering shockwave of her strike still thrummed in his bones. Even with her strength restrained, the collision had almost forced the spirit and blood from his body. It felt as though the night itself had slammed into him.
He bowed, voice steady despite the strain.
"Thank you… for showing mercy, elder."
Mahā-Granthika frowned. "You humans and your endless formalities."
Ved hesitated. "Are you… not human?"
She chuckled softly. "I knew it—that old man never told you."
Before his eyes, her form shimmered, the moonlight bending around her. Feathers of pure white and pearl luster unfurled, dissolving into the shape of a radiant young woman.
"I am not human." She said with quiet pride, her voice ringing like a silver bell in the still night. Her form shimmered faintly in the moonlight; her swan of ethereal pearl white briefly shone phantomlike behind her before fading slowly. "I am a humanoid swan—a Moonlight Celestial Pearl Swan. My name is Chandraprabhā."
Ved stood silent, his breath swallowed. The revelation carried with it a new weight that was almost impossible to describe. A humanoid beast of legend, he heard in his previous life in whispers, now stood before him in human form. And she had just pledged herself to him.
"Master," Chandraprabhā said softly, her eyes glowing with silver light. "please… let me follow you."
Ved exhaled, uncertain. He had never wished for servants, nor could he imagine treating her as such. Yet, her words carried a determination that left no room for rejection. Reluctance lingered in his heart, but slowly—almost against his will—he extended his hand.
Their palms touched.
In that instant, the world itself seemed to awaken. Intricate patterns unfurled beneath their feet, glowing with an otherworldly radiance. Prāṇa surged upward in a roaring stream, splitting the sky with a pillar of light. The brilliance spiraled around them, weaving heaven and earth together in a bond of ancient power.
The ground trembled softly, as if the very soil bore witness to their oath. From the Gurukula's sacred halls to the edges of its forest groves, an aura of primordial authority rippled outward—solemn, undeniable, eternal.
The night was no longer silent.
Far away, in his courtyard, the Kulapati felt the tremor. His meditative state broke as his eyes opened sharply. He stood, the glow of his own Prāṇa-Rāja aura faintly flickering around him. "Is it true…? That presence… after so long?"
Without hesitation, he left his chamber, his robes flaring behind him.
One by one, the Āchāryas stirred as well. They too felt the strange fluctuation—so fierce, yet so refined—that echoed across the Gurukula. Their figures streaked through the night, converging toward the source.
Within moments, the place where Ved and Chandraprabhā had sparred earlier was surrounded. The moonlight illuminated the scene of devastation: the ground torn apart, soil ripped open into deep craters, some thirty to fifty feet across. Stones were shattered, trees uprooted. The air itself still hummed with remnants of prāṇa, its energy currents swirling in uneven flows.
The Āchāryas exchanged glances, their expressions grave. "This… this intensity, was it truly from just now, beneath our nose?"
Before an answer came, the Kulapati's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, releasing a small ripple of his own energy into a nearby tree.
"Come out." He commanded, his voice calm but edged with steel.
From behind the tree, a figure emerged. Chandraprabhā stepped into the open, leaning lazily against the trunk as though nothing had happened. But she looked different now—her form was no longer the mature elder they had known for centuries. Instead, she appeared strikingly youthful, no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age—around their teen śhiṣyas' age.
The collective breath of the assembly caught.
"It cannot be…" whispered Āchārya Mahakaal Astrajnani—Āchārya of Shaastra and Dhaunurveda, his eyes widening. "To see her youthful form again—after one hundred years!"
But the shock of her appearance was nothing compared to what they sensed next. A faint yet unmistakable aura lingered between her and someone. It was a contract seal.
The Kulapati's composure cracked. He rushed forward, his usually serene expression laced with urgency. "Chandraprabhā! Have you… have you truly entered into a contract? And with your former master, or with… some pretentious person?"
Chandraprabhā arched a brow, her silver eyes glinting with quiet defiance. "Do I look like one who would make a pact with some random passerby?" Her voice was calm, but the undertone was sharp enough to cut stone. "I told you before—I would protect your academy in gratitude for the past. But when my master returned, I would follow him."
"But…" Āchārya Lokantarika Sutratmak—Āchārya of Rahasyagya Lokakhyanacharya—interjected cautiously. "three years ago, your bond with your master ended. By all rights, your freedom should have remained absolute. How could another bond be formed now?"
Another voice followed, Āchārya Atmavid Karmaanvaya—Āchārya of Samskara Rasayanvidya—thoughtful, doubtful. "Unless… the one you call master is the successor of your former master?"
Murmurs rippled among them. Possibilities, suspicions, and questions clouded the air.
"Even so," Āchārya Vaidyanathan Jyotirmaan—Āchārya of Divya Vidya—pressed, his voice almost accusing. "why remain here, if not for us? Or is it that this boy is not merely a successor, but perhaps… someone from our—"
His words were cut off abruptly.
A pulse of Prāṇa burst from Chandraprabhā, sharp as lightning. The air shook. Her aura descended like a storm upon them, and the ground itself cracked beneath their feet.
Her silver eyes glowed, cold and merciless. "Who gave you the authority to speak of such matters?"
The oppressive force of her Prāṇa-Rāja, five-star cultivation, pressed down on them like an ocean. The Āchāryas, though powerful in their own right as Divya-Āchāryas, gasped under the suffocating weight. Even the Kulapati, himself a Prāṇa-Rāja one-star, felt his bones creak under the intensity of her dominance.
Then, just as suddenly, she withdrew the pressure. The night was still again, though every elder's forehead glistened with sweat.
"I will remain here." Chandraprabhā said firmly. "I will live in my courtyard as always—but under a new identity. Myself as Mahā-Granthika's descendant, continuing the duty of maintaining the Saraswati Grantha Bhavan."
Āchārya Dhanvantri—Āchārya of Ayurveda Vidya—dared to whisper. "You… still wish to stay here?"
Chandraprabhā's lips curved into a thin, chilling smile. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp as a blade. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you."
She turned, her robe trailing like moonlight on water. Then, as if remembering something, she paused and glanced back. "Oh, and… repair this place. Your śhiṣyas will be frightened tomorrow if they see the Saraswati Grantha Bhavan's outer ground becoming a battlefield as it is now in one night."
Her tone was casual, almost teasing, but the authority behind it was undeniable.
The elders stood frozen, watching as she vanished into the night, her aura fading like mist.
She walked away to her courtyard.
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[1] prāṇa: the vital life-force or energy that flows through all beings, the essence of breath, spirit, and power.