~ "One birthday lost in laughter, one destiny etched in silence."
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Chandraprabhā's robe trailed behind her like moonlight spilling across a quiet river, her silhouette ethereal in the night air. She paused mid-step, as though suddenly recalling something, and turned her head back toward the elders still standing stunned upon the scarred battlefield.
"Oh, and… please repair this place," she said lightly, her tone casual, almost teasing. "Or your śhiṣyas will be frightened tomorrow, seeing the Saraswati Grantha Bhavan's outer path transformed into a battlefield overnight."
Her words carried no sharpness, no overt threat, but the authority woven into her voice left no room for denial. The air trembled faintly as her aura receded.
The elders stood frozen, their hearts unsettled. The craters gouged deep into the earth, the lingering vibration of clashing prāṇa, and above all, the silvery afterglow of the contract light splitting the heavens—all weighed upon them like a silent decree.
They could only watch as Chandraprabhā drifted away, her figure dissolving into mist, until not even her shadow remained.
As she slipped through the courtyard path, her thoughts lingered not on the elders, but on Ved.
> Even after being hurled back, he had moved with precision. That aura of his… becoming ethereal, as if he were merging with nature itself. For one with such a limited prāṇa reserve, his control is extraordinary. Truly… worthy of being that old man's successor.
Her lips softened into a faint, rare smile, touched with something almost maternal.
> And yet, what a pity. He is still only at the Śvāsa-Śiṣya, two-star, Prāṇa-Sādhaka level. Just a beginner. Perhaps… it falls to me to guide him.
Her robe whispered like silver silk as she slipped into the quiet of her courtyard.
The battlefield remained silent, the elders still rooted in place, as if the air itself resisted moving.
At last, Āchārya Taanmay—Āchārya of Nādras Vidyā—broke the silence. His voice was low, almost reverent. "Who is this boy… this unknown successor? In all these years, I have never once seen Chandraprabhā smile like that."
Āchārya Siddharāja Mahāvratin—Āchārya of Riddhi-Siddhi Vidyā—shook his head grimly. "She was meant to be our guardian beast, a shield to protect this academy for generations. Yet she has chosen instead to become his follower. Not servant—follower. What kind of heart could inspire such devotion in her?"
The Kulapati remained silent, his face stern as he lifted his eyes skyward. He gazed at the faint trace of light still clinging to the heavens where the contract had cleaved the sky. His eyes fell next upon the torn earth—the deep craters, the ruined path, the crushed trees. His voice, when it came, was heavy with both awe and unease.
"Whoever he is… he has taken from us not only our guardian, but perhaps the path of our future itself. We must watch him closely."
The night wind swept through the battlefield, stirring dust into the air, scattering leaves across broken stone. Yet no breeze could scatter the weight of what had transpired.
The night of the contract faded into memory, though its echoes lingered in the earth and sky. When dawn arrived, it carried with it a strange hush, as if the Gurukula itself was holding its breath.
A bright new day broke, painted in hues of saffron and rose. Sunlight streamed through the temple spires and across the courtyards, gilding the scriptures and statues in warm radiance. Yet beneath this beauty lay restlessness—for the entire academy had been shaken by last night's revelation. Whispers stirred through the halls like wildfire: Ved, or titled as Vedshree, had gone into seclusion for cultivation and advancement in stages.
But Ved was not seen. He had gone into isolation the very night of the his return in the Gurukula, retreating into his courtyard. The heavy wooden gates shut, his presence concealed, and none dared disturb him.
The Kulapati, reflecting deeply, muttered to himself as he walked the marble paths of his residence. "It is a good thing he chose seclusion." He paused, frowning slightly. "But... it is strange. His cultivation… three years ago, he was a Śvāsa-Śiṣya, two-star. And even yesterday morning when checking his vidya, I felt no difference. It was the still the same as three years ago. Why?"
The question nagged at him, and echoed in his mind.
Āchārya Nakshatraketu, Āchārya of Antariksha Gyaan & Brahma-Raah Nirdeshak, leaned forward, voice thoughtful. "How can that be? In three years, even the laziest disciple would have advanced several stars. Has he… forced himself to halt cultivation, restraining his growth for some reason? Perhaps to temper his foundation before a leap?"
"Suppressed cultivation?" Āchārya Dhanvantri, ever pragmatic, his brows furrowed. "But what purpose would that serve? Why abandon natural progression? Unless…" He trailed off, lost in thought.
The Acharyas exchanged theories, yet no answer satisfied them. One thought gnawed at their collective minds, unshakable as a mantra:
> Why has Ved remained at Śvāsa-Śiṣya, two-star?
> Why not Vīra-Prāṇī, three or four star, or atleast nine-star, Śvāsa-Śiṣya, by now?
The mystery clung to them like shadow.
Elsewhere in the Gurukula, however, the head chef was consumed with an entirely different crisis. He wailed dramatically in the Rasoi Ghar, clutching a ladle like a weapon of despair.
"Why has he gone into seclusion cultivation now, after one day in the Gurukula? Who will taste my dishes? Who will guide me? Who will critique the balance of spices, the perfection of food? Ah, fate is cruel!" He sobbed loudly enough for passing shishyas to hear, who quickly scurried away to avoid being pulled into his theatrics.
"No one knows when he will emerge! My genius, unappreciated! My spices, wasted!" He dropped to his knees melodramatically. "If he stays hidden for months, I shall be ruined!" He slumped onto a stool, wailing to his assistants.
Meanwhile, in the quiet halls of the Grantha Bhavan, Chandraprabhā sat alone among shelves of ancient scrolls and tomes in quiet thought, her youthful face lit by morning glow. The morning light filtered through latticed windows, catching in her silver-white hair. She tapped a finger thoughtfully against her chin. Her lips curved faintly as she mused aloud.
"He still has some consciousness," she murmured softly, a smile ghosting her lips. "He hasn't advanced in three years… how curious. What compelled him to delay cultivation all this time? Still…" Her eyes sparkled faintly, pride mingling with a hint of curiosity. "Yet he controls his prāṇa flow with such finesse. His foundation is firm, his combat instinct sharp. Such restraint is rare. What did he focus on in those silent years?"
Her eyes gleamed with intrigue.
Time slipped by, quiet and unnoticed.
Days became weeks. Weeks blurred into months. The seasons shifted, from Chaitra blossoms to the rains of Bhādrapada. Five months passed in what felt like the blink of an eye—dissolving in the quiet hum of study, training, and whispering speculation.
Then—
At last, one morning, the heavy wooden door to Ved's courtyard creaked open.
Dust motes swirled in the sunlight as Ved stepped out, stretching like one reborn. His breath was clear, his aura faintly refined, though still understated. For the first time in months, fresh air filled his lungs. The stillness of seclusion fell away from his body as the sun painted his skin gold.
Yet before he could take more than three steps, a shadow stood in his path.
"Ved!"
Standing tall, eyes blazing with exaggerated anger, was Devansh—his brother. His expression carried thunderclouds, his arms crossed, his jaw set, his brows furrowed, he looked as though he had been waiting for this moment.
"Ohhh…" Devansh sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Congratulations. From Śvāsa-Śiṣya, two-star, you've crawled your way up to Vīra-Prāṇī, one-star. Truly, a leap worthy of celebration." He turned his face aside with dramatic disdain.
Ved blinked, caught off guard. Then, with a sheepish smile, he replied, "No, no… it's nothing compared to your cultivation, brother. You're already Vīra-Prāṇī, three-star. I could never match you."
"Don't play dumb!" Devansh snapped. His anger deepened, though his eyes held a mischievous spark.
Ved leaned forward suddenly, tilting his head with exaggerated innocence. "O my beloved brother, what happened? You seem so very angry."
Devansh glared. "You know exactly why. Don't play the fool."
Ved blinked, genuinely confused. "Did I… do something wrong?"
Devansh pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, staggering as if struck. "Wrong? WRONG! Wow… my own brother… forgetting the most sacred day in all existence! The day the world was blessed with me!" He groaned loudly, swaying as though about to faint.
"I waited all day yesterday, Ved. Yesterday! And you? You stayed locked away, meditating! You forgot my birthday!" His voice cracked between mock fury and genuine pout.
Ved gasped softly, eyes wide, jaw slackened. "…Yesterday? I… I truly forgot?"
"YES!" Devansh threw his hands in the air, and rounded around Ved, lecturing him. "Yesterday! You were locked in your little seclusion while your dear brother was suffering, neglected, unloved, abandoned! Do you know how cold it was without you? Like pooris without aloo!"
Ved pressed a hand to his face, suppressing laughter.
"And now," Devansh continued, pointing accusingly, but his lips twitched at the corners, betraying amusement. "you owe me compensation. Unlimited sweets. A gift. And also you will be my servant for a week!"
Ved laughed nervously, rubbing his head, bewildered but guilty. "Fine, fine, I'll make it up to you."
And so, he followed Devansh into the Rasoighar—the great kitchen of the Gurukula to make amends.
The tables were laden with steaming bowls of rice, fragrant dals, crispy pooris, rich sabjis, and golden laddoos. Devansh sat like a king awaiting tribute, arms folded, while Ved dutifully filled his thali.
At first, Devansh put on an act of refusal. He sat with arms crossed, sighing melodramatically. "Don't worry, Ved. I'll just starve today. After all, someone ruined my birthday. Let me waste away in sorrow."
But after ten minutes, he peeked sideways and mumbled, "Maybe just… a little rice and dal."
Ved smiled faintly, scooping generous portions into his plate.
Within moments, Devansh's act crumbled.
"…Ved, give me some rice and dal."
In another blink: "More." His thali clinked against Ved's ladle.
Again: "More."
And again: "More!"
Ved sighed as the mountain of food disappeared before his eyes faster than he could serve it. Sabji vanished. Pooris evaporated. Dal was gone. Laddus—ten, twelve in one heap—devoured in an instant.
Each time Ved glanced away, Devansh's thali would somehow already be empty, his innocent eyes blinking up with wordless request.
Devansh, undeterred, continued eating with gleeful abandon, stuffing laddoos into his mouth so fast Ved could barely keep count. When Ved looked away for a moment, he turned back only to find the sweets gone.
"More?" Devansh gestured innocently, his cheeks puffed like a squirrel.
Finally, when Devansh gestured again, Ved nearly collapsed, thinking. > Is your stomach a well that never fills?
The request became a chant, repeated endlessly. With a huff, he dumped the entire bowl of sabji and pooris into his brother's thali. Crossing his arms, he sat back in surrender.
Devansh devoured them with the joy of a conqueror, his anger long since dissolved.
Deep down, however, Devansh wasn't truly upset about his birthday. He just enjoyed the game—the guilty look on Ved's face, the way he scrambled to make amends. For Devansh, tormenting Ved was a way to show affection, though he'd never admit it aloud.
As this chaotic scene unfolded, outside the Rasoi Ghar, hidden in the shade of pillars, several Āchāryas and even the Kulapati had gathered, watching the scene unfold like children spying on a play. Their lips twitched as they stifled chuckles. Some leaned on each other to suppress laughter, shoulders shaking silently.
The solemn guardians of ancient wisdom, the men who guided generations of students, stood with hands over their mouths, chuckling quietly as Devansh devoured mountains of food and Ved slumped in despair.
For all their wisdom, for all their rank and cultivation, they could not deny the warmth blooming in their hearts at the sight of the two brothers bickering and bonding.
It was rare, after all, to see the mighty Gurukula's future prodigies behaving like ordinary brothers.