Many days had gone by, and there was no sign of rain now. Gautam was sitting outside the hut on a flat stone that resembled a bench, though it wasn't carved but rather shaped by nature over time.
Gautam, lost in thought, was gazing toward the sun, still troubled by the strangers. One of them had shown little to no sign of recovery. Moreover he's concerned about their hidden refuge and their Guru, whose presence here was known only to the students who brought all the necessary supplies.
The silence around him was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. The master, dressed in white garments of his own making, walked forward with an air of quiet authority. Though he appeared to be in his sixties, he was not frail—he stood tall, so strong that time itself seemed to hesitate before touching him. A man of many talents, he could fight, heal, and cook better than anyone from the town's finest inns. Gautam had never tasted food as exquisite as his master's before coming here.
Gautam asked in a serious tone, "Master, who are you? You never mentioned your name before. It's been almost two years since you saved us from those monsters in the town."
Again, there was silence, so deep that even the faintest breeze could be heard. The master let out a deep breath before saying, "I think it's time now. Go call the others as well."
Before Gautam could move, Aditi came running out, her voice frantic with urgency.
"Guruji, he's awake! He's awake! He has his sword! Ashok is trying to stop him, but he's no match. Please hurry!"
They rushed toward the room, and the sight inside was far from pleasant.
Ashok was already pinned down, his body frozen as the young warrior held him captive, a blade was pressed against his throat.
"Reveal yourself! Who are you? Did you attack us? What is this place?"
Ashok was terrified, unable to utter a single word.
"A weak man like you can only ambush people. You're a coward. Consider this your last warning. Who are you?"
Before Ashok could respond, Gautam lunged at the stranger with his sword. The man dodged effortlessly, striking back with a single powerful kick that sent Gautam crashing into the wall.
They had no chance.
Even in his weakened state, this man was far beyond them. He fought with the ease of someone born into battle, a force against which they were nothing more than mere trainees.
Gautam lay motionless, while Ashok trembled, unable to move.
Then, the stranger's gaze fell upon Aditi. She stood like a stone, unmoving, as if willing herself to disappear.
The man took a slow step forward. Then another.
She could hear his breathing now. Her own breath grew shallow with fear, and before she realized it, tears had begun to fall.
"Ah, look, another coward," the stranger muttered, his voice cold yet amused. "I'm not going to hurt you—"
Before he could finish his sentence, a sharp sensation brushed against his throat.
In an instant, he pivoted, moving just in time to evade the incoming blade. His eyes locked onto the white-robed old man standing before him with a sword firm in his grasp.
And then, the real battle began between two skilled warriors, neither at their peak.
One was an old man, the other a wounded young warrior, yet both fought with such mastery that they could have split rivers with their blades.
The forest trembled with the sound of steel clashing against steel. Sparks scattered in the dimly lit room, the force of each strike was shaking the hut's wooden frame.
There was no magic—only raw skill, two swords carving through the air with lethal precision.
The master's sword nearly pierced the stranger's heart, but at the last moment, he twisted away. The blade grazed his shoulder instead, drawing blood.
The wound did not weaken him. Instead, it unleashed something darker. His eyes burned with the fury of a cornered lion.
Without hesitation, he retaliated, dodging the next strike and delivering a crushing kick to the old man's abdomen. The master staggered, falling to his knees, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
The stranger raised his sword high, prepared to end it.
Then, Ashok stepped in.
The young warrior's blade clashed with Ashok's, but the fight ended before it truly began. The force of his strikes only grew, relentless and overpowering. With a final, devastating blow, Ashok's sword shattered like fragile glass.
The man standing before him was no longer just a warrior.
He was Death himself.
Ashok turned to flee, but his escape was cut off. The stranger seized him by the hair and hurled him aside like a discarded rag. Ashok hit the ground with a dull thud and did not rise.
Gautam, though still conscious, was frozen in fear.
Then, for the third time, the stranger met the master's sword.
This time, the master was different. His movements no longer carried patience—this was survival. This was war.
Again, the air rang with the sound of metal clashing.
Aditi was still crying, but her voice was drowned beneath the relentless clash of steel.
The fight raged on, but fate had already decided its outcome.
The master's sword was torn from his grasp, sent flying outside the hut. The young man wasted no time. He pounced, slamming the master to the ground, and now the only thing the old man could see was a sword hovering inches from his chest.
Aditi screamed, but behind her cries, laughter echoed.
Then, to Aditi's shock, the stranger extended his hand and pulled the master to his feet.
"That was fun, old man," he said with a smirk. "I can't believe the rumors are true. Sorry for the chaos, but your students aren't up to par."
He turned his sword in his hand, studying it, his fingers running along the familiar metal. "I recognize your blade," he murmured. "And I reckon you know the one I'm holding too."
His laughter was quieter this time, but still tinged with amusement.
"Why wouldn't you?" he continued. "After all, they were forged by you, weren't they?"
Before the master could reply, Aditi, still shaken, asked, "Who are you?"
The young man smirked. "I believe he has already figured it out."
The master, now steady, took a seat. Gautam and Ashok, who had risen but remained silent, stood against the wall, waiting for his response.
The master studied the young warrior for a long moment. Then, he spoke.
"He's the spitting image of them. My old eyes didn't recognize him at first. But now, it's clear….
He is the son of Queen Dyuthi and Aarush Varuna." The words fell upon the room like a stone dropped into still water."
"He is the prince of Tuhinalya."
This sentence followed a heavy silence. Even the wind beyond the walls seemed to hold its breath.