"Good morning, students. I'll be addressing today's Archaeology class," Eshaan said, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
Eshaan was pursuing his PhD under Professor Chandrashekhar at the newly rebuilt Nalanda University, with his research centred on the empires of Bihar and Bengal. He had long been fascinated by the early civilizations of the Ancient and Medieval India, and explored them from historical, scientific, and economic perspectives. That broad approach opened doors of possibility for his plan to become an archaeologist-cum-researcher.
Eshaan gazed at the students seated at their desks and continued, "Today's topic is Early Empires and Secret Societies. Before we begin, does anyone have a question?"
One of the male students stood up and asked, "Sir, in the earlier classes we learned about the Mahajanapadas, especially Magadha, and then you went on to the Mauryan Empire and its administration. Are we going to discuss the secret societies in Bihar?"
Eshaan smiled before answering, "Indeed, Bihar was a major centre of power in the Early to Late Ancient Period. Wherever power flourishes, secret societies are bound to form."
Another student stood up immediately and asked, "Sir, are we going to talk about the rumored secret society said to have been formed by Emperor Ashoka?"
Eshaan's expression grew a little stern, but he quickly relaxed and replied, "Yes and no. We will discuss the rumoured secret society of the Nine Unknowns, but only from a fictional point of view."
Eshaan took a deep breath and quickly continued before anyone else could interrupt. "And—and—and before you ask why, I must tell you that Ashoka's Nine Unknown was first mentioned in Talbot Mundy's novel The Nine Unknown, published in 1923. It was a work of fiction, and to this day there is no historical evidence proving whether it existed or not."
Eshaan sighed as another volley of questions came at him from every corner of the room, and he patiently began answering them one by one. Some were curious, some repetitive, and a few went far beyond the scope of the lesson, yet he handled each with the same calm persistence.
By the time the last question was answered and silence finally settled over the room, the clock had already run its course. At the end of the class, he drew in a deep breath and set his notes aside before stepping out of the classroom. The long session of nearly an hour and a half had drained him, and his shoulders felt heavy with fatigue. But he couldn't rest. Not yet.
Eshaan hurriedly packed his belongings into the briefcase, snapping it shut before tucking it under his arm. Without wasting a moment, he stepped out of the classroom and made his way across the campus, his footsteps echoing faintly in the near-empty corridors. By the time he reached the parking lot, the late afternoon sun was already sinking, casting long shadows of the buildings onto the ground. He pulled out the keys to his motorcycle, the jingling sound breaking the stillness of the lot, and in one swift motion started the engine.
The machine roared to life, and within seconds he was out of the university gates, the wind catching at his shirt as he sped down the road. His destination was Nalanda Mahavihara — the ancient ruins of Nalanda University, once a beacon of learning and knowledge, reduced to ashes centuries ago by the invading Sultan of the Delhi Sultanate, Bakhtiyar Khilji. The thought of those charred remnants of history weighed on his mind as he rode, the contrast between the grandeur it once held and the silence it now bore pressing heavily against him.
At the entrance of the Nalanda Mahavihara, a security guard stepped out from his post and blocked Eshaan's way. The evening light had begun to fade, and the air carried the dry stillness that comes after a hot day. The guard looked him over quickly before speaking in a firm but respectful tone.
"The Mahavihara premises are closed for tourists after six in the evening, sir. You can't enter."
Eshaan let out a small breath through his nose. He wasn't in the mood to argue or waste time. Without replying, he reached for the pouch that hung loosely at his waist, unzipped it, and pulled out an identity card. The laminated tag caught the dim glow of the setting sun as he held it up for the guard to see — 'Researcher Personnel Permission Card'.
The guard leaned in, squinting at the card for a closer look. Realization flashed across his face, and in an instant his stance changed. He straightened sharply, heels clicking together as he raised a salute.
"Apologies, sir. I didn't recognize you. I'm new here." His voice carried a note of nervousness, as though worried he had offended the man.
Eshaan gave a brief nod, brushing it aside without comment. He raised the back of his hand to his forehead, wiping away the thin line of sweat that had gathered there during his ride. His eyes, however, were already drawn past the guard, to the dark silhouette of the ruins that stood waiting in silence beyond the gate.
Eshaan parked his bike in the parking area and gave a quick glance back at the security guard before walking ahead. The grounds of Nalanda Mahavihara lay quiet in front of him, touched by the fading evening light.
The site had gained attention again after a new excavation brought out a fresh mound of ruins, now being called Monastery 12. Earlier, only eight monasteries had been identified — Monastery 1, Monastery 4, Monastery 6, Monastery 7, Monastery 8, Monastery 9, Monastery 10 and Monastery 11. Along with them stood the remains of seven temples, their stones worn and aged, some tied to Buddhist traditions and some to Hindu ones.
The air carried the dry smell of dust and earth. Eshaan's eyes moved over the broken walls and scattered pillars, and for a moment, he felt the place holding a deep, heavy silence — the kind only history leaves behind.
There was a small camp set up at the base of the excavation for Monastery 12. The newly found structure stood at the northernmost edge of the site, a little apart from the usual cluster of ruins. It looked almost lonely in its corner, away from the rest.
Nalanda Mahavihara was split into two big parts. On the east side stood the monasteries, rows of brick buildings that once held the monks' living quarters, their study rooms, and the small courtyards where debates, prayers, and lessons filled the day. To the west were the temples. Even now, with most of them in ruins, you could still see where the tall walls had been, and the broken bases of old shrines lying around. Between the two sides ran the main processional path, a wide stretch of ground that in its time had carried monks, teachers, and travellers through the heart of the university.
Eshaan didn't go straight towards the new dig at Monastery 12. Instead, he took the northern path and turned east, walking down the narrow lane that cut between Monastery 1 and Monastery 4. The bricks on either side rose like silent walls, broken in places, but still holding the shape of the old structures. He followed the slope of the alley as it dipped slightly downward, the ground uneven under his steps, scattered with pebbles and bits of red brick. Turning north again, then east, he finally came to a stop at a closed dead end, the path fading into a wall of ancient ruin.
Eshaan checked his wristwatch. It was a simple mechanical one, nothing fancy, the kind that still showed the hours, minutes, and seconds with ticking hands. The short hand was on six, the long hand just before three, and the thin second hand was almost touching twelve. The time read 6:14:55 PM.
Eshaan kept his eyes on the dial, waiting. The second hand ticked its way past twelve, and when it hit the mark at 6:15:15 PM, a sudden thud echoed through the ruins. The ground seemed to shiver under his feet as a cloud of smoke burst out, curling and spreading until it wrapped around him. He coughed once, squinting through the haze, and then slowly the air began to clear. Where a solid wall had blocked his way just moments ago, there now stood a rough stone doorway. He stepped closer, pressed his hands against the heavy slab, and pushed until it gave way, opening into a hidden path that hadn't been there before.
Eshaan slipped inside just as the doorway rumbled shut behind him, the heavy stone sealing with a final thud that echoed through the narrow corridor. He didn't flinch. This wasn't the first time — the mechanism had startled him weeks ago, but now he knew its rhythm, knew how the Sanctum guarded itself.
He reached for the iron bracket fixed to the wall and pulled free the ancient torch that burned with a steady, almost unnatural flame. The firelight licked across the stone, illuminating the path ahead. Shadows stretched and shrank with each step as he moved forward, the smoke curling above him in the stale, still air.
The corridor twisted slightly before widening, and soon the great hallway came into view. Even though he had stood here many times in the past month, the sight still carried a weight that pressed against his chest. Massive pillars rose out of the ground like silent sentinels, their surfaces carved with worn patterns that the years had tried but failed to erase. The ceiling arched high above, lost in darkness, and the silence was so complete that the faint crackle of his torch fire seemed to roar in his ears.
This was no new discovery for him. This was the place he had returned to again and again —
the hidden heart of Nalanda, the Secret Sanctum
The place was no ordinary hall. It was a vast underground library, its walls lined with shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly into the shadows. The air was thick with the smell of old parchment and wax, a strange mix of dust and something faintly metallic, as if the very stones remembered the centuries of knowledge they had guarded.
The collection was staggering. Scrolls and bound volumes covered every subject imaginable — treatises on agriculture and irrigation, manuals of statecraft and politics, thick works on warfare and military formations, even texts that spoke of the stars and the possibility of communicating with life beyond this world. Many of them were manuscripts he had only ever heard of in fragments, works thought to have been destroyed forever in the great burning of Nalanda. And yet here they were, whole, waiting.
For the past month, Eshaan had slipped into this place only at night, when the ruins above were deserted and silent. By the light of the ancient torches, he devoured book after book, careful never to let a whisper of his visits reach anyone outside. The secrecy wasn't just habit — it was survival. If anyone knew a library like this still existed, the rush to claim it would be uncontrollable.
And what unsettled him most was the state of the place. The shelves were dusted, the books arranged neatly, some with fresh repairs to their bindings. This wasn't a ruin left to time. Someone was tending it. Someone was keeping the Sanctum alive.
It had been a month since Eshaan first stumbled across the place, and not once had he managed to stay away. Even on the days when his university lectures drained every ounce of energy from him, something tugged at him to return — as if the library wasn't just waiting, but watching.
Not everything inside was his to explore. Some of the wings were locked behind doors that looked older than the city itself, their hinges rusted but their seals unbroken. He had tried once or twice, pressing against the wood or looking for hidden catches, but the doors never gave so much as an inch. That quiet refusal lingered in his mind, making him wonder what secrets were worth guarding so carefully.
The sections that were open were already more than he could handle. Books stacked in leaning towers, scrolls that smelled faintly of dust and oil, maps drawn in scripts he didn't recognize. Sometimes he caught himself holding his breath when he touched them, terrified he'd tear something that had survived centuries. Other times, it wasn't the fragility of the paper that unsettled him, but the thought that the words inside might change how he saw the world forever.
Each night, when he finally forced himself to leave, he carried that unease back with him. The excitement was real — he could feel it thrum in his veins — but so was the fear. Not just fear of being caught, but fear of what it might mean if the things he was learning weren't meant for anyone else to know.
That night carried a strange weight. Earlier, buried in a brittle manuscript that smelled of mold and smoke, Eshaan had found a line about the keepers of the Sanctum — their meetings tied to the solstices. Once in summer, once in winter. He hadn't thought much of it until he stepped outside and saw the moon rising fat and bright over the rooftops. Summer solstice. Tonight.
He dragged a heavy table closer to the sealed wing and crouched behind it. The wood pressed against his knees, rough and splintered in places, but it gave him cover. From there, he had a clear view of the main doors. His idea wasn't clever — just hide, stay still, see who showed up. Simple enough, in theory.
The waiting was the worst part. The Sanctum's silence, usually comforting, now itched under his skin. He shifted once, then again, trying to stop his legs from cramping. Nothing. No sound but the faint groan of the old stone settling. After a while, his head dipped forward. He jerked awake, fought it, then lost.
A noise snapped him back — the scrape of a door dragging open, heavy, iron on stone. His heart stumbled into his throat. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking away the haze, and then he saw them. Nine of them, slipping inside one by one, hoods drawn low, black fabric whispering against the floor. Their steps weren't rushed, but rehearsed, like they had walked this path a hundred times.
He held his breath and listened. Their voices bled into the air in turns, low and rough, not quite chanting but close. He caught only scraps: "bound… witness… hold…" Words broken, lost in the echo of the chamber. The rest slipped away from him, leaving only the sound of the nine figures standing together in the glow of the torches, as if they had always belonged there and he was the intruder.
The murmurs suddenly ceased, and in the silence that followed, one of the nine slowly turned their hooded head toward where Eshaan hid. He froze; his breath caught in his throat. Had he been noticed? Or was it only his imagination playing tricks under the torchlight?
Eshaan's chest rose and fell like a hammer against iron, each breath threatening to betray him. He clamped his left hand hard over his mouth, teeth grinding against each other, the sweat on his palm smearing against his lips. His heart was louder than the whispers now, thudding in his ears, and for a moment he feared the cloaked figures might hear it echoing in the hollow chamber.
The hooded one who had turned earlier began moving, slow deliberate steps scraping softly against the stone floor. The sound grew nearer, nearer still, until Eshaan could almost feel the weight of the figure's shadow crawling over the table he was crouched behind. He dared not shift, not even blink, his body stiff as the wood pressed against his back.
Every step that figure took stretched the seconds like hours, and with each one, Eshaan fought the urge to bolt. His mind screamed to run, but his body stayed locked in place, waiting for the moment the table might be pulled away, or the hooded face might lower to meet his.
And then—another step. The figure stopped. The silence that followed felt heavier than the stone walls themselves.
Eshaan shut his eyes tight, praying that when he opened them, he wouldn't be staring straight into the dark gaze of whoever stood on the other side.