At its rebirth, Bahubali was far from glory·hidden deep in thorns and forest, broken and forgotten. His skin bore the marks of betrayal; his body lay limp beneath the towering trees that reached for heaven like silent sentinels. Wounded and alone, he became one with the wilderness, swallowed by shadow, breath shallow beneath the cruel indifference of time.
While the kingdom wept in secret corners and his enemies raised their goblets in poisoned victory, nature itself held him in its quiet embrace·a cradle of wind, leaf, and silence.
And in that sacred refuge, a little girl wandered.
Her name was Avanthika.
A child of the surviving Kundali bloodline, though not of royal blood. Her lineage carried no crown, no palace tales·only resilience. She had never seen the great wars that shattered Mahishmati, nor the thrones that collapsed under lies. But she had heard the stories, sung in hushed tones around dying fires: tales of the lion-king, the warrior of the people, betrayed by blood, cast into darkness.
One morning, as golden sunlight filtered through branches like dripping honey, she found him.
There·among moss and silence·lay the man of legends. Bruised. Barely breathing. His hair tangled with leaves. His armor cracked, chest rising in shallow defiance.
She did not scream.
She did not flee.
Instead, she returned the next day. And the next. And the next.
At first, she only watched from a distance·bare feet nestled in soil, her eyes wide and wondering. Then she began to draw near. She played beneath the trees, danced in circles of soft earth, her laughter like chimes on the wind. She brought wildflowers, laying them gently beside him. She whispered stories and questions, as if her tiny voice could stir the soul that had once commanded armies.
"Are you the lion everyone speaks of?"
"Did you fall from the sky, or from someone's lie?"
"Do warriors sleep this long?"
She didn't expect answers. But something in her believed he could still hear.
And she was right.
As days passed, Bahubali began to heal.
Slowly, like the rising of a long-awaited dawn. The jungle offered him medicine·leaves to draw out fever, roots to soothe pain, brooks that sang with life. But it wasn't just the herbs or shelter. It was more.
It was the spirits of the gods, who still lingered around his broken body. It was the prayers whispered by the Queen in the shadows. It was the people who refused to forget. And yes·it was Avanthika, the child who saw him not as a fallen warrior, but as a man worth waiting for.
In fevered dreams, Bahubali saw Lord Shiva standing at the mouth of the forest, his trident buried in the earth, his gaze unmoving. The god did not speak·but he remained. Watching. Guarding.
The lion was not dead.
He was remembering who he was.
One misty morning, Bahubali opened his eyes.
The forest was quiet, dew clinging to every leaf like tiny crystals. The girl was nearby, humming a forgotten lullaby.
Slowly, he sat upright.
His muscles ached. His bones cried out. But his heart·his heart roared. A fire rekindled in his eyes, burning past the fog of pain and betrayal.
"This is not the end of my story," he whispered to the wind.
Five years passed.
And the forest became home.
Time·harsh, but patient·nursed the survivors. Bahubali's strength returned fully, his scars becoming symbols, not weaknesses. The hidden camp expanded in secret. Life returned in small, sacred rituals: the lighting of fires, the teaching of children, the forging of tools and faith.
Then one fateful day, the five loyal warriors, sent to explore distant lands, discovered a cave carved into the side of a forgotten mountain. Hidden, vast, echoing with untold history·it was perfect. Shelter. Protection. A home.
They returned swiftly, joy painted across their dust-covered faces, and told the King and Queen. That same week, they moved.
The cave became sanctuary.
Its cold stone walls soon pulsed with life. Fires danced against stone. Echoes of laughter returned. Plans began to stir again·slow, careful, but certain.
In the heart of it all stood Bahubali·not as a king, not yet as a warrior reborn, but as something new.
A teacher. A mentor. A guardian of hope.
He turned to Avanthika, now in her early teenage years. Though several years younger than Mahendra Bahubali, her eyes held a wisdom carved by hardship. She asked bold questions. She challenged his teachings. And in her gaze, Bahubali saw both fire and future.
So he taught her.
Not war·not yet. But something deeper.
The moral principles of life.
The power of mercy over vengeance.
The weight of a promise.
The strength it takes to obey when it's easier to rebel, and to rise when others fall.
He spoke of the mercies of the gods, of fallen heroes who chose peace over pride. He recounted tales of ancient warriors whose greatness came not from sword or crown·but from honor.
At night, she listened, eyes wide, heart open.
At dawn, she practiced. Her feet grew swift. Her mind sharper. Her heart steadier.
She wasn't just growing·she was becoming.
A child once full of questions was now being shaped into a protector of answers. A seed watered by purpose. A flame lit in secret, waiting for the wind of fate to carry it.