The hallway of the palace stood in an almost unnatural silence, a stillness that weighed heavily on the air. The walls, adorned with tapestries depicting historical victories and battles, cast long shadows as the murmurs of the approaching clash grew louder. This was a palace that would soon bear witness to a battle that would forever alter the course of Shambhala's future. But for now, it remained eerily quiet, save for the faint sound of footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
As the silence stretched, a figure emerged from the shadows—a man with a limping gait, moving with a steady determination. His right leg, still partially healed, was supported by his hand, but it didn't hinder his forward march. His gaze was fixated on the object that lay in the middle of the grand hallway: a box, unremarkable to the casual eye but heavy with significance.
The man's steps were slow, deliberate, as though the weight of this moment was heavier than the pain in his leg. But just as his gaze fixed on the box, a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You're staring too hard at it," Vrisha said, his tone laced with annoyance. He had been walking behind the man, his usual confident stride betraying no hint of the tension that gripped the air.
The man smirked, his voice calm yet filled with an air of quiet authority. "I'm analyzing its properties," he said, his words dismissive of Vrisha's irritation. "There's more to this box than you understand."
Vrisha narrowed his eyes, irritated that his thoughts had been interrupted. "Why does it concern you?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
"Well, I believe I could have handled this pretty much without external help," Vrisha said, his tone filled with self-assurance. "My entourage is my pride. My Tatva is my ultimate tool."
The man chuckled softly, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Certainly, you are the strongest. That's more the reason I need to accompany you," he replied. His words were not a plea but an assertion of necessity.
Vrisha, unfazed, replied with a shrug. "Wary of me? Well, I can't blame you for that, but is it your own will or an order from Majesty?"
"You certainly regard yourself highly when it comes to the Majesty," the man retorted, his voice dripping with disdain. He knew exactly how to push Vrisha's buttons.
Vrisha bristled, his sharp gaze meeting the man's without flinching. "I certainly am," he said confidently. "And Majesty knows it too."
Before the tension could escalate further, a shrill voice interrupted them, cutting through the charged air like a knife.
"Oh my! My!"
A woman appeared from the shadows, her presence almost magnetic. She wore a crown, adorned with jewels that gleamed in the dim light, and her clothes shimmered with opulence. Her face, framed by intricate earrings and ornaments, was one of mystery—no one knew where she came from or what her true origins were.
Yet, in the past 127 years, she had built a reputation that even the most powerful men in Shambhala couldn't ignore. She was the owner of the palace, Jahnvi—a woman who had earned both admiration and hatred in equal measure. Though an outcast, she held a unique place in Shambhala's history. Her name alone could send shivers down the spine of the Cultists.
Her eyes settled on Vrisha, and she smiled, her voice dripping with respect. "Isn't Vrisha and Saubal, the top commanders of Shambhala's army?" Her tone was full of praise, almost as if she were in awe of him.
Vrisha gave a quick nod, but his expression was cold. He was used to such flattery, and yet, it did little to move him. "Yes, that's us," he said, his voice flat.
Jahnvi, undeterred, continued, her gaze still fixed on Vrisha. "Such strength, such valor. I've heard your stories, Vrisha. It's a shame that your talents are wasted."
The compliment hung in the air, but Vrisha did not flinch. He had heard these kinds of words all too often, especially from those who thought they could win his favor with flattery.
She paused for a moment, assessing him, then shifted her gaze to the box in the middle of the hall. "But why place this box at the center? Aren't you inviting trouble from the forefront?"
Saubal, who had remained silent, smirked. "Well, you'll see," he replied cryptically.
Jahnvi's expression darkened slightly. "Isn't it an obvious trap?"
Saubal laughed, a deep, guttural sound that echoed in the hall. He seemed unfazed by her skepticism. "You have a sharp mind, Jahnvi, but not everything is as it seems. Shreesh would just give his all to get an edge over me. That's how he is."
Jahnvi with a grin "You certainly, keep tabs of your enemy".
"That's how battles are won" Saubal finished with a quirk.
With a final, dismissive glance, Saubal turned on his heel and made his way into the shadows. "There's no one in the entire Shambhala who can outwit me," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
Vrisha remained where he stood, his eyes following Saubal's retreating form. The air in the hall had shifted, the tension palpable. Saubal's words, though dismissive, held weight. Vrisha knew that there was more to this situation than met the eye.
As Saubal's unit, part of his elite disciplinary force, silently took positions at various intersections of the hall, Vrisha remained lost in thought. His sharp mind analyzed the pattern of the formation, an anomaly that had caught his attention. It was subtle but noticeable. The soldiers were positioned for a defensive strategy, not offensive.
Vrisha furrowed his brow. Why would Saubal take such a defensive stance when they had the advantage? His mind raced as he tried to figure out the reasoning behind it. But he couldn't. There was something more, something he was missing.
The room grew heavy with the sound of footsteps, and the tension became unbearable. Vrisha stood silently, lost in his thoughts, as the rest of the unit prepared for the impending clash. The stakes were higher than ever. His instincts told him that something was coming, but he couldn't pinpoint what.
The heavy doors of the palace groaned as they swung inward, their echoes rippling like a warning drum through the grand hallway. Shambhalan soldiers stiffened, shields and spears raised in disciplined formation. Yet their preparation was their undoing.
The storm came before they could even breathe.
Winds infused with raw vectors sliced through their lines, arrows of air, unseen but merciless. Armor rang like hollow shells as men were hurled across the marble floor, bodies collapsing before they even understood they were under attack. Despair drowned their senses; no counter, no rallying cry. Only wails, cut short as the gale stripped away their hope.
And through that chaos, one man entered.
His presence bent the air. Eyes smoldered with the calm of a predator who had already marked his prey. Every step landed like the verdict of calamity. His frame, proud yet measured, carried the aura of legends retold by firelight, tales of arrows that bent reality itself to strike their mark.
Jishnu- Master of vectors. The man who could bind fate itself to his will.
From the moment his foot crossed the threshold, he chose carnage. A flick of his fingers, and Tatva leapt to every weapon, every shard of debris. Arrows, broken lances, splinters of armor, all were claimed, lifted, and guided as if each carried a conscience eager to kill. They curved, twisted, and doubled back, weaving through shields and pillars alike. Within breaths, the proud guard of Shambhala lay strewn across the hall like discarded dolls, groans fading into dirges.
Only one figure remained upright.
Vrisha, Commander of Shambhala. Cloaked in the radiance of the Sun itself, the aura of his Tatva rippled around him, each breath making the air quiver.
For a moment, he measured the storm, weighing his next step. Jishnu allowed him that breath—not mercy, but arrogance. Their eyes locked across the battlefield. No words were needed. This was not loyalty. Not duty. This was pride crashing into pride.
Jishnu raised his hand. The hall howled. A hundred arrows screamed through the air, each one trailing despair.
Vrisha blurred into motion. His talwar flashed like dawn itself, splitting the storm into ribbons of light. Arrows shattered, sparks scattered—but vectors did not die. Half the projectiles curved back, mercilessly persistent, bending mid-flight to find Vrisha's flesh. He felt their sting—arms, thigh, chest. The Messiah of Shambhala staggered, blood trailing down his radiant form.
A gasp should have filled the hall—yet none remained alive to utter it. A handful of terrified souls had fled, carrying only horror to spread.
And then—
The Sun answered.
Vrisha straightened, wounds knitting before the eyes of the trembling survivors. Heat burst from him in waves, stone tiles cracking, molten veins spreading beneath his feet. The very air shimmered. Even Jishnu faltered, his Tatva straining to push away the searing breath of fire.
But fire could not be deflected.
Fire was not force.
It was judgment.
"Impressive," Jishnu muttered, sweat streaking his brow. "But precision carves through brute force."
He ripped rubble from the walls, binding each jagged shard to his Tatva. Stones orbited him like a constellation—then shot forward in a crushing barrage.
Yet the closer they came, the weaker they became. Heat erased them mid-flight—stone to dust, dust to nothing. Even the palace marble glowed red, as though bowing to its Commander.
Vrisha moved.
One breath he was across the hall, the next his talwar, blazing like a shard of the Sun, sliced for Jishnu's throat. Vectors screamed; Jishnu pulled himself backward, dragged by invisible lines of force, the blade grazing past with fire trailing its arc.
Damn him… he has never taken me seriously. Today he will. Not for him—for me. The thought seared into Jishnu's heart, memories of shadowed years igniting his fury.
And the hall became a crucible.
Precision against speed.
Fate-bending vectors against existence-incinerating radiance.
Arrows ricocheted, finding blind spots that did not exist—cleaved apart by fire. Vrisha lunged, each strike a sunfire tempest; Jishnu slipped, air itself folding to hurl him just beyond reach. A phantom dancing on invisible strings.
The palace trembled. Statues toppled, tapestries ignited, the very air distorted between Tatvas that could never coexist. Each strike carved the building's bones until stone itself wailed.
Still, neither bent.
Until Vrisha changed the battlefield.
Jishnu's mind raced 'he's shrinking my space, caging me closer. Each lane to dodge was burned, every path severed'. His reach was collapsing, his escape stolen inch by inch.
He tried to lead Vrisha away, but the Commander answered with a strike that was not steel but apocalypse. The eastern wall disintegrated in a single blow. Stone, banners, and sky vanished into nothingness.
They stumbled into the open dawn.
Vrisha blinked at the ruin, disappointment ghosting across his proud face. "I Overdid it," he muttered.
The horizon blazed. Dawn had come—yet two suns rose in the sky.
One eternal. One defiant.
And the world could not hold them both.
The palace had become an inferno. Arrows, rubble, and fire whirled together in a maelstrom of ruin. Heat radiated from Vrisha's Tatva with such force that molten cracks spread across the marble, chandeliers dripped into pools of bronze, and rich tapestries disintegrated into drifting ash.
From the smoldering debris outside, Jishnu dragged himself free, gasping for air. His chest heaved violently, lungs scorched. Even the forest beyond the palace felt the devastation—its edge blackened, trees bending away from the scorching breath of Vrisha's radiance.
Jishnu rose unsteadily, his arms slick with blood from a dozen cuts where his own arrows had betrayed him, bending back under Vrisha's pressure to tear into his flesh. His Homing Tatva strained, twisting and reshaping vectors endlessly to shield him. Yet, for every stone or arrow he bent, Vrisha's blaze melted it to nothing long before it could reach him.
Vrisha stood at the heart of the ruin—a silhouette of pure radiance. His talwar glowed white with sunfire, his aura swallowing the hall, casting even the rising sun into insignificance. He did not waver. He did not yield. He simply stood—unyielding, eternal.
"Your tricks end here," Vrisha's voice thundered, carrying through the flames like tempered steel.
He stepped forward. The wave of heat forced Jishnu backward, deeper into the woods, until his legs failed and he stumbled to the ground. Agony welled up within him—not just in his body, but in his heart. His life played before him in fleeting fragments: victories and failures, joy and shame, all colliding in a single breath.
My dream is over… let me lay it to rest. It was not a fulfilling life, but may I be reborn as the Maharathi I always tried to be.
But just as despair began to claim him, a faint, feminine voice stirred in his mind:
"If you have time to think about the end, then think through it till the end."
The words struck deep, awakening adrenaline in his veins. Jishnu forced himself upright, staggering but resolute. One last stand against the invincible.
Vrisha, confident that Jishnu had nothing left to give, did not rush. His guard lowered; he strolled forward, his very presence pressing Jishnu down, forcing him to feel his inferiority.
"You can never reach me with your will," Vrisha declared, his pride burning brighter than his aura. "You have always trailed my shadow, Jishnu. And still, you try the same."
The words were hammers, but Jishnu had already chosen. His jaw clenched, his chest heaved, his soul cracked beneath Vrisha's brilliance. A cruel truth gnawed at him: Vrisha was the Sun, and he was nothing more than a wandering comet, forever circling, never surpassing.
Yet Jishnu's eyes, bloodshot and burning, still refused to surrender.
Blood dripped from his wounds, sizzling as it struck the scorched ground. He staggered, yet his voice rang sharp, defiant, every word drenched in fury.
"I choose my trail myself!" he spat. "I am not trailing you. We both chase the same man, Vrisha."
The words struck deeper than Vrisha expected. His grip on the talwar faltered for a fleeting instant. In that pause, a silhouette crossed his mind, dark, indistinct, but familiar. A figure they both pursued across the threads of fate.
With a sigh, Vrisha lowered his blade and sheathed it. "Come with me. I will do what I can to clear your charges and—"
"Stop your nonsense!" Jishnu roared, rage cracking his voice. "Are you happy now? Do you take pride in this? Do you even see the path ahead? You can never!" His words crashed like thunder, a barrage of questions hurled with desperate finality.
Vrisha had no answers. His gaze wavered, haunted by memories of better times. He could not meet Jishnu's eyes. It was an admission in silence.
Jishnu's voice broke further, his words spilling like wounds. "We choose the path of righteousness but you chose to differ.. You betrayed us, Vrisha. You betrayed Drona, your best friend and you have the gut to call yourself a warrior. He sacrificed himself for you but see what he gets in return. He lost more than you could. He suffered more than you ever will. He failed more than you ever think. Still he chose the path of righteousness, to follow his 'Dharma'. He still fights suppressing every ounce of his emotions because he doesn't want anyone to suffer when he is there." Tears streamed down Jishnu's face, raw and unrestrained. "You chose validation over everything else and he quietly saw everything crumble before him which he cherished. He lost his smile, he lost his sanity, he lost his heart. All because of you Vrisha because… you might be the strongest when it comes to Tattva but at heart you are the most spineless guy I ever knew."
His voice cracked into a wail. "This empire might have stood free if you had taken a stand that day! We wouldn't have lived in the shadows for so long."
Vrisha's composure snapped. "Enough!" His roar shook the scorched air. "Suffering, loss, sacrifice. It sure is easy to blame it on others when you just account for the world around you. Your small and conceited world. It is easy to scale things from your own lens because it is the easiest thing you could do, Jishnu. You always have." His lips curved into a grim smile. "I bet Drona doesn't feel that way because he is not as self conceited as you, Jishnu. I know this for a fact because he is my best friend and he always will."
Determination flared in his eyes.
The words shattered Jishnu. Not only his footing, but his spirit faltered. His gaze sought Vrisha's heart but found only a sealed wall of silence, an abyss guarding something unreachable.
From a distance, the sound of marching boots rose. Jishnu knew others were coming. He shoved his emotions down, gathering the last of his thoughts. Vrisha, too, had let his guard dip.
Jishnu seized the moment.
Every vector at his command, every drop of blood left in him, he poured into his Tatva. Air bent, the earth groaned, and his body hurled forward, a spear of inevitability. Flesh burned under Vrisha's heat, but he drove on.
One, the blazing Sun of Shambhala, unshaken in his pride. The other, a bleeding comet, burning his last life to strike once more.
And the palace itself held its breath.
But Jishnu's trajectory veered, not at Vrisha. His path speared toward the object at the center of the hall. The box.
He seized it mid-stride, momentum carrying him through the palace's western wall. Stone and dust exploded outward, and in an instant, Jishnu vanished into the shroud of rubble and storm.
Far in the woods, sprawled on the earth with the box clutched against his chest, he whispered with fading breath, "Maybe someday, you'll make the right choice, Vrisha. I'll wait for that day." Then he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Vrisha staggered, struggling to comprehend what had transpired. Saubal's warning returned to him: "Shreesh will always give everything for even the slightest edge. That is who he is." The thought gnawed at him. Overwhelmed by the storm of his own emotions, he raised his gaze to the dawn sky.
"Maybe someday," he murmured, "I can stand by their side again."
Soldiers poured into the ruined hall, their eyes wide at the devastation wrought by two men alone. As the first rays of sunlight touched Vrisha's skin, it seared him once more. "This again". He hissed, knees buckling.
"Commander!" Raghuvendra was first to his side, catching his weight. For the first time, Vrisha's eyes betrayed tears as he leaned on his comrade's shoulder. The others crowded around, reminding him he was not alone.
Far from the ruin, Jishnu stirred awake. He found himself lying flat on a hoverboard, the world swaying beneath him. A warm light, faint but reassuring, hovered at the edge of his vision. He turned his head and recognized the silhouette leading him.
"Am I heavy?" he muttered with a mischievous grin.
Subha's sharp reply cut through the air. "I'm not carrying you. I'm just steering the hoverboard. And for the record, it's Drona's machine." Her tone was blunt, but her presence was steady, reassuring.
"As stone-hearted as ever," Jishnu teased weakly. "But wait, Drona's toys are carrying me?"
"Complain all you want," she retorted flatly. "Just not to me."
Jishnu's eyes softened. "So… is Shreesh safe?"
Her reply came with unshakable confidence. "You bet. When Bhaiya is there, nothing can stand against us." Her faith shone like a torch in the dark.
High above the valley, where the morning mist still clung to the jagged cliffs, Shreesh crouched in silence. His eyes traced the trade routes snaking out of Shambhala, each one pulsing with faint movement in the distance.
Saubal's strategy had become clear to him long before the dust of battle settled. The consignment had been split into five smaller units, each diverted along different paths. Three of those routes led beyond Shambhala's borders—classic sleight of hand, a distraction designed to stretch the defenders thin and force mistakes. It was a pattern Shreesh knew well; the man had used such diversions more than once in the past.
But Shreesh was not one to be outmanoeuvred.
He had anticipated this very ploy, and now he waited with four of his most trusted comrades. Each one lay hidden at key vantage points, their presence invisible to the casual eye, yet every breath measured, every muscle coiled.
The plan was simple: watch, wait, and strike when the true targets revealed themselves. For it was never the platoons that mattered, but the executives embedded within them. Those shadowy figures carried more than coins or goods; they carried intent, secrets, the weight of alliances yet unseen.
Shreesh's gaze hardened. "Just show yourself ," he murmured to himself, "I waited long enough for this"
The forest stirred. The sound of hooves and wheels echoed faintly through the valley. Shapes began to form in the distance, five separate convoys, each winding its way toward its chosen route.
His comrades shifted, tension radiating through their stillness. The trap was set. The game was about to begin.
Shreesh rose slowly from his perch, the cliff groaning faintly under his weight. The wind tugged at his cloak, and for a fleeting instant, his silhouette stood against the dawn, like a sentinel awaiting the storm.
Somewhere below, in one of those convoys, an executive raised his head, as though sensing eyes upon him. The faintest unease rippled through the column. Eyes Locked snaring at each other.