Soon year passed now a small boy is on his way to becoming the greatest king in the human history with the knowledge of future and mind if an architect building an legacy. Writing his own story without a single thread of destiny
The gates of Tapovan Gurukul were carved from ancient teak, their surface etched with mantras, constellations, and golden lotuses. It was said the gods whispered here, and that even princes became students within its walls.
Adityaveer stepped through them, wearing a simple white dhoti and linen upper wrap. He looked like any other boy—until he turned, and the light caught his eyes. In them, there was something unspoken. Too much clarity. Too much silence.
At eight years old, he had already created more than most men in the capital. But here, in Tapovan, he was just one among many.
The other students glanced his way, some bowing, others whispering. He didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the massive Peepal tree in the courtyard, its roots thick like veins, its leaves trembling with ancient memory.
This is where he would live, eat, learn, and think. No palace walls. No servants. Just silence, scriptures, sweat, and self.
That evening, the acharya assigned him a small room—no larger than a stable. He placed his mat down, lit his lamp, and sat cross-legged. Alone.
Or so he thought.
The next morning, as he walked to the lecture pavilion, he saw her.
A girl in deep saffron robes, head bowed, but eyes steady. Her walk had the grace of water but the resolve of a mountain. She carried a scroll in one hand, and a hand-carved wooden slate in the other.
When she passed him, the wind shifted.
He blinked.
For a moment, his vision split.
A flash—metal wings tearing through black clouds, flames, people screaming.
Another flash—jasmine-scented pages, Sanskrit chanting, temples buried in time.
He gasped. The ground felt distant.
She paused. Turned her head. Their eyes met.
Her breath caught.
[SYSTEM BOOTING…]
[NEURAL RESONANCE DETECTED]
[SPLICE EVENT CONFIRMED: SOUL BIND — 17.3%]
A faint tone echoed in both their minds.
Then silence.
Advika blinked.
So did he.
Neither said a word.
But something inside them—long silent—had awakened.
Later, during the philosophy session, the acharya posed a question: "What defines dharma in a world that shifts?"
Most students gave rehearsed answers—duty, tradition, lineage.
Adityaveer raised his hand.
"Clarity," he said. "Dharma is what remains when all confusion is removed."
The acharya arched a brow. "And who removes the confusion?"
He hesitated.
"The one who asks more than he's allowed to."
A quiet murmur passed through the class. The acharya said nothing. He simply looked toward the back—where Advika had also raised her hand.
"May I answer, Guruji?"
"Speak, child."
She stepped forward. Her voice was soft, but sharp as a blade in still water.
"Dharma is not still. It grows with the one who dares to bear it."
The air stilled.
Two answers. From two children.
Both precise. Both dangerous.
The acharya nodded slowly.
"There are stars," he said at last, "and there are flames. Both light the sky. But not always at the same time."
That night, Adityaveer sat by the river. The system was humming inside him now—fully active. Blueprints of devices danced behind his eyes. Ratios, chemistry, battlefield simulations.
But there was also a second hum—a frequency not his own. It pulsed faintly, like a distant heartbeat.
He wasn't alone anymore.
Across the courtyard, in her own room, Advika sat with ink-stained fingers, sketching something she did not fully understand. A glyph. An ancient mechanism. A seed that grew into systems of energy and spirit.
She, too, felt it.
Something watching. Something whispering.
The next day, when they were assigned to pair for logical debate, neither argued.
Their topic was simple: "Can fate be altered?"
She said yes.
He said it must.
Their dialogue wasn't an argument—it was a storm, weaving around each other, challenging, pulling, pushing, but never breaking.
Even the acharya leaned forward.
After it ended, he closed his palm and said, "One day, the world will remember this debate."
When they left, walking side by side toward the pond, neither spoke.
Until she said, "Your eyes… they've seen something mine have too."
He nodded.
"I remember fire. Screaming metal. Falling."
She looked at him. "I remember that… and a voice."
"What voice?"
Her hand brushed the surface of the pond.
"A voice that said: you were not meant to die yet."
Their footsteps slowed.
Then, simultaneously, they both said—
"We were on the plane."
And the silence cracked open.
[DUAL GENE PRESENCE DETECTED]
[MAGIC CLASS SYSTEM ONLINE – USER: ADVIKA]
[TECH CLASS SYSTEM ONLINE – USER: ADITYAVEER]
[SYNC THRESHOLD REACHED – SHARED BATTLEFIELD MODE: 0.003%]
Their bodies didn't glow. No light descended from the sky. No gods roared.
But something fundamental changed.
The battlefield universe had opened one eye.
And in that eye, two souls stood—still unaware of the scale, the future, or the war to come.
But together now.
Two stars.
Under one sky.