Back in Delhi, the Sharma and Yadav families were in a state of shock. The news from Beijing was fragmentary and terrifying: a terrorist attack, chaos, and worst of all—Mukul Sharma missing. Five years old, the youngest of the Sharma-Yadav alliance, and now gone. The families gathered in the twin villas, the wide veranda now quiet, a heavy weight settling over both homes.
General Raghav Sharma paced slowly, his mind racing. Years of strategy and military precision had prepared him for wars and crises, but this was different. This was personal. His grandson, his youngest child, had been taken away before he even had the chance to grow.
Beside him, Devendra Yadav's expression was equally grim. The political titan, who could influence decisions across the country, now found himself powerless against a threat he could not control. He clenched his fists, eyes narrowing. "We will find him," he said, his voice calm but full of authority. "No one escapes the reach of our families. Not Mukul."
Upasana Sharma and Ragini Yadav sat close together, comforting one another, but their hearts burned with worry. Upasana's reporter's instincts pushed her to think logically—networks, security forces, informants—but her maternal heart refused to rest. Ragini, the surgeon who had saved thousands, could only imagine the danger the boy faced, her hands trembling slightly.
Rajesh Sharma knelt in front of his wife, Priya, who remained composed even now. Her mastery of medicine, martial arts, and strategy had taught her to remain calm under pressure, yet even she felt the pang of helplessness. "We'll organize teams," she said firmly. "Intelligence, rescue operations, everything. We will leave no stone unturned."
Anand Sharma, though only ten, listened intently, his young mind already calculating possibilities. "Dadu," he said quietly, "I want to go. I want to find him myself." Kavya, eight, clutched his hand, shaking her head. "Not yet, Anand. But we will do everything we can from here."
The family elders—the combined wisdom of Sharma's and Yadavs—held an urgent meeting in the main hall. Maps of China and the flight path to Beijing were spread across a long table. Phones and devices buzzed with messages from contacts, friends, and security agencies. Every person, every resource, every connection mattered now.
General Raghav spoke first, his voice steady but commanding. "We have the means, the training, and the reach. Mukul is not just a boy. He is our grandson, and we will not let anyone take him away."
Devendra Yadav nodded in agreement. "Our family is more than blood. We are strategy, intellect, and resolve. Every officer, every agent, every friend of both families—mobilize them. Mukul must be found, alive and safe."
Priya Sharma added with quiet authority, "We will also consider the boy's unique abilities. His kundalini, his intelligence—even at five, he is no ordinary child. We must anticipate dangers that others cannot."
It was a vow; a pact sealed not in words alone but in hearts and action. The families pledged that no distance, no power, no threat could stop them from bringing Mukul home. The servants, cousins, and extended relatives watched in awe and fear, understanding the gravity of this mission.
For the next hours, Delhi buzzed with activity. Teams were organized—Sharma and Yadav contacts in intelligence, military, politics, and international security were called upon. Plans for travel, rescue, and investigation were laid with military precision. Every detail mattered. Every hour counted.
As night fell, the twin villas glowed under the warm light of lamps. General Raghav and Devendra Yadav stood together on the veranda, looking toward the stars. Their hearts were heavy, but their resolve was unwavering.
"Stars above," General Raghav whispered, "guide our boy back."
Devendra Yadav's voice was steady, a vow in itself. "We will not rest until he is safe. Mukul Sharma will return to us, no matter the cost."
Inside, Priya Sharma and Upasana Sharma were quietly preparing supplies and resources, their minds already planning for the next steps. The family, united across generations, understood one thing clearly: their grandson was out there, and every power they possessed—physical, intellectual, and spiritual—would be used to find him.
The night deepened, but the promise remained bright. Across Delhi, the Sharma's and Yadavs had taken a vow—not just to find Mukul, but to bring him home, safe, and shielded from the storm of destiny that awaited him.
Somewhere far away, on an unknown island, the boy with seven stars on his neck slept, unaware of the promise his family had made. But the universe was listening. And the search had begun.