The colosseum of Nalanda loomed like a sleeping titan, its stone walls scarred by centuries yet unbroken, each crack a mark of history, each arch carved with Sanskrit prayers to forgotten gods. The air around it hummed with tension.
Outside the giant gates stretched the registration counters — long wooden desks manned by monks in saffron robes, their chants quiet but unwavering as they recorded names. Behind them, great conch shells and brass gongs shimmered in the sunlight, ready to announce the opening of the Tournament of Champions.
The space outside the colosseum was a battlefield before the battlefield.
Hundreds of young cultivators had already gathered, each cloaked in their clan's banners, their auras flaring like sparks threatening to ignite. Some were surrounded by followers who cheered their names, others stood in silence, their presence enough to part crowds.
Roshni stepped into the open ground, her long braid swaying with each step. The crowd shifted when they saw her — the daughter of the Suryavanshi line, the girl of golden veins. Whispers rippled like wind:
"That's her… Roshni, of the Suryavanshis."
"I heard she can call upon mantras in battle."
"Hmph, she's overrated. Let's see if she survives."
Beside her walked Instructor Vikram, calm as a mountain in his faded robes, his presence alone enough to silence a few whispers. Tara, hidden from mortal eyes, drifted just above Roshni's shoulder in her fairy glow, watching everything.
Competitors gathered in clusters.
Near the steps of the registration counter, a boy with skin like bronze and eyes like wildfire laughed loudly, boasting to his companions. Bheem Singh of the Iron Falcon pounded his chest as if the colosseum itself needed to hear it.
Nearby, Asha of the Flame Lotus, her crimson robes trailing like fire, smirked at every nervous face in line, her arrogance burning brighter than the torches mounted on the wall.
Further away stood Sita of the Celestial Lotus, her white veil shimmering under the sun. Unlike the others, she did not boast, nor did she glare. She stood with a scroll in her hand, quietly reading as though the noise of hundreds could never touch her. Calm. Composed. Unshakable.
The crowd itself was a storm — arrogance clashing with insecurity, whispers cutting like blades. Every youth wanted to prove themselves before even stepping inside.
Roshni's gaze swept across them all. Her fingers tightened slightly around the bronze token Vikram had given her for registration. She felt the weight of it, and with it, the weight of her lineage.
Vikram leaned toward her, his voice low, calm.
"Do not let the noise of the market disturb the steel of your blade. Let them bark, Roshni. You are not here to answer them with words."
Roshni nodded faintly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of impatience. Somewhere inside her, she was waiting — waiting for someone who had promised her a battle worth remembering.
Tara noticed the shift in her expression but said nothing yet. Her wings shimmered faintly, hiding in plain sight as the storm of egos continued to swell around them.
Roshni moved forward in the registration line, her presence drawing glances like moths to flame. Some of admiration. Some of envy. Some of open challenge.
"Look who it is," a sharp voice cut through the chatter.
It was Asha of the Flame Lotus, her crimson eyes locking onto Roshni with thinly veiled disdain. She smirked, stepping out of her circle of admirers.
"So the famed daughter of the Suryavanshis did come. I thought you would cower in your golden halls, hiding behind your lineage."
The words pricked at the air, drawing murmurs from the crowd.
Before Roshni could reply, another voice joined in — smooth, mocking. Zain al-Din, the Mistweaver, leaning lazily against a pillar, arms folded.
"She's here, yes. But what good is golden blood if it bleeds the same red? She'll fall like the rest of us."
Laughter broke from his small entourage.
Roshni's jaw tightened, but her voice was steady. "The difference is — when I fall, I rise again. Can you say the same?"
The crowd murmured louder, a few gasps rippling. The arrogance in the air shifted.
But it wasn't done.
From the back, Izan Kareem of Arabia, his cloak shadowing his face, spoke in a low, venomous tone.
"I heard a whisper… that you're waiting for someone. A boy."
His smile glinted under the hood.
"Tell us, Roshni — who is he? Your protector? Your hidden lover? Or just another shield for you to hide behind?"
The crowd stilled. Dozens of eyes turned to her, hungry for the answer.
Roshni's hand clenched around her token. She could feel heat rising in her chest — not from shame, but from anger. She lifted her chin, her voice like steel.
"That is none of your concern."
"Ah, so it's true," Asha sneered, circling like a predator scenting blood. "The mighty Suryavanshi girl is waiting for someone else to fight her battles. How disappointing. Tell me, will he even show up? Or will you be standing here, alone, when we break you?"
The crowd laughed, some cruel, some nervous. Roshni's aura flared just slightly, golden light dancing around her fingertips.
Tara fluttered in the air, whispering only for her ears.
"Careful, Roshni. Anger clouds judgment."
Her lips parted, ready to unleash her fury—
And that was when Vikram's voice finally cut through.
"Enough."
The single word was not loud, but it carried weight. The laughter died. Even the arrogant ones flinched, as if the ground itself had spoken.
Vikram stepped forward, his gaze sharp, his calm an immovable wall.
"Do not mistake arrogance for strength. Every one of you will have the chance to prove yourselves in the arena. Until then, keep your words leashed."
Asha scoffed but fell silent. Zain pretended disinterest, and Izan's smirk faded into the shadow of his hood.
Vikram turned slightly toward Roshni. His tone softened, though his words were for her alone.
"And you… why do you let their taunts reach you? What are you waiting for?"
Roshni met his eyes, her voice low but fierce.
"Because he promised me. He promised me we'd meet here… as rivals, in battle. I'm not waiting for protection. I'm waiting for my test."
Vikram studied her for a long moment, then nodded. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
"Then wait. If fate truly weaves around him, you'll see him soon enough."
The crowd shifted again, whispers flying, but Roshni no longer cared. Her fire was steady, her focus sharp. She would not let them dictate her heart.
The sun climbed higher, shadows shrinking across the colosseum walls. The storm of words had passed, but the true battle was only a heartbeat away
The line at the registration counter thinned, one warrior after another stepping forward to inscribe their names in the great ledger of Nalanda. The tension of earlier words still lingered, like smoke after fire, but Roshni stood tall. Her gaze didn't waver.
Zain muttered something under his breath, Asha still smoldered with her fiery arrogance, and Izan's hood concealed a quiet smile — yet none of them pressed her further. Vikram's single intervention had been enough to silence the storm.
Still, whispers rippled through the crowd:
"Who is she waiting for?"
"Another contender? Or just a fantasy?"
"Does she think some ghost will come to save her?"
Roshni ignored them all. She stepped to the counter, signed her name, and accepted her registration token with steady hands. Tara fluttered by her shoulder, voice soft, carrying only to her.
"They don't understand. They see arrogance in your waiting. But I see faith."
Her lips curved faintly. "Faith isn't weakness, Tara. It's strength."
Behind her, Vikram exhaled slowly, folding his arms. His voice was calm, but layered with something deeper — the resonance of lineage, the memory of battles, the wisdom of centuries.
"Let them laugh. Let them doubt. The Suryavanshi line has never been about waiting in vain."
Roshni turned, her eyes searching his face. "Do you truly believe he'll come?"
Vikram's gaze lifted, not to her, but to the horizon beyond the colosseum walls — where the sun bled into crimson streaks across the sky. His voice was quiet, yet it cut through the noise of the crowd like steel through silk.
"Chaos doesn't need to be invited, Roshni. It doesn't wait for permission."
He glanced at her, the faintest smile touching his lips.
"It always finds its way home to us. That is the bloodline of Suryavanshi."
The words hung in the air like a prophecy, as the shadows of the arena stretched long, and the world braced itself for the storm that hadn't yet arrived.