The morning sun had barely climbed when the Nalanda Arena started shaking. It was not the gentle tremor of anticipation, but the kind that made every stone remember the weight of history. Almost ten lakh people filled the seats—no one counted, because no one could. The city itself seemed to have poured inside, a living tide of color and noise.
Flags of every hue snapped in the wind, voices ricocheted off ancient walls, and the ground itself thrummed with the pulse of a thousand heartbeats. The General, already red in the face, bellowed, "Hold your lines!" Guards struggled to keep the crowd behind ropes, but someone lobbed a snack at him anyway.
He rubbed his forehead, muttering, "Every year these trials begin, and every year I ask myself why I didn't retire to the mountains." No one listened. The crowd was louder than thunder, a carnival of nerves and hope.
Children waved banners, vendors pushed through yelling, "Spiced nuts! Sweet milk!" Someone argued about which sect's students had the prettiest uniforms. It was not a sacred ceremony—it was a festival of chaos.
Above the storm, the marble balcony gleamed like a calm island. Eight thrones sat in a curve, runes shining beneath them. Principal Devendra occupied the center—white robes, still eyes, the only quiet in the storm.
To his far right, the head elder of the Yamalok Monk Sect sat draped in layers of ash-grey, his presence like a cold cave breathing behind you. On the far left, the elder of the Lotus Pavilion glowed in soft whites and pastel greens. Where Yamalok's aura drank light, hers created it. Life and death staring across the same table.
Between them stretched five more chairs:
Vaikunth Dham's elder in royal saffron and gold, posture ruler-straight.
Firecloud Sect's scarred veteran in red-smoked armor, eyes burning.
Dragon-Blooded Beastmasters' leader, skin showing real dragon scales on arms and neck, laughing loud enough to rattle cups.
Chintamani Hawk Clan's sharp-eyed chief in feathered blue cloak, gaze never still.
Obsidian Phoenix Society's graceful lady wrapped in black silk with bronze firebirds that flickered when she moved.
Two serving girls stood at the edges, silent and elegant, ready with trays of fruit and dark wine.
The talk up there could have cooked a meal.
Firecloud's elder leaned forward. "This year Rudra Pratap will torch the field. Mark my words."
Lotus Pavilion's elder smiled. "Flames burn fast. The lotus endures."
The Beastmaster's scaled knuckles tapped the armrest. "Let's see if your flower still blooms when Bhaskar roars."
Hawk Clan's chief chuckled. "You'll only hear the roar if my Veerendra lets him live long enough."
Vaikunth's elder said smoothly, "A Suryavanshi doesn't lose under sunlight."
Obsidian Phoenix's lady swirled her wine. "And when the sun sets, all that pride turns to ash."
Principal Devendra smiled faintly. "Let's see whose pride survives the storm I've invited."
The others frowned. Storm? None of them yet understood.
In the stands, the air vibrated with sect chants and insults.
"Firecloud will roast you all!"
"Roast yourself first!"
"The Lotus Pavilion doesn't even cheer—do they sleep with eyes open?"
"The Hawks just whistle because they're scared!"
"The Beastmasters smell worse than their pets!"
"At least our pets listen!"
Coins clinked; wagers flew. Guards sighed. The General gave up and sat down, muttering something about ulcers.
Near the mid-tier seats lounged Ganpat, legs crossed, tea in hand. On his lap sat a small, copper-scaled creature with innocent black eyes and tiny wings—the shapeshifted Taarask.
People stared.
"Is that… a dragon?"
"Too small. Must be fake."
"Who brings a pet to the trials?"
Ganpat stroked the little beast like a movie villain with his cat. "Smile, boy. The public loves charm." He raised a lazy hand toward the gawking crowd. They laughed. Some pointed.
Ganpat thought they adored him. "See? Still famous," he whispered.
Taarask wagged its tail proudly—and let out a puff of smoke that made a woman scream.
"See? Standing ovation," Ganpat said, completely serious.
Between jokes and cheers, someone pointed upward. Dark streaks of cloud were gathering—not heavy yet, but restless. Lightning blinked far away.
The Principal's eyes lifted. The Lotus elder paused mid-sip. The Beastmaster sniffed the air. "Storm's early," he grunted.
No one replied. The drums of noise slowed as if the arena itself was waiting.
Dozens of young contenders pressed to the narrow viewing slit. They wanted their first look at Nalanda's legendary arena.
"By the gods, it's huge!"
"Look at all those people!"
"Ten lakh? Maybe more!"
One boy grinned. "I just hope my legs still work when it's my turn."
Then thunder cracked. A blinding flash threw light across the floor.
The announcer's voice echoed faintly through the walls:
"Presenting… the Instructor for the Crown Rank Trial… the Param-śiṣya's own instructor—Aditya Raj!"
The students leaned closer.
A black figure appeared in the middle of the arena. He didn't walk in; he was there. Wind swirled, flags snapped backward, and the half-formed storm above rumbled in agreement.
The obsidian mask caught the light—eyes hidden, smile carved thin. His robes moved like shadows deciding to breathe. For a heartbeat, even the crowd forgot how to speak.
The announcer's jaw trembled. "I-Instructor Aditya Raj… h-has—" He didn't finish. The words stuck.
On the balcony, the Firecloud elder whispered, "That's no human aura."
The Lotus elder murmured, "Nature itself bends around him."
Principal Devendra's eyes shone like mirrors. "He hasn't even tried yet."
Below, in the contenders' room, every student froze. Each one's reaction was shaped by the chaos and resolve of the previous night.
Zhang Xuan clenched his fists, eyes narrowed. "So that's the monster they warned us about… I want to see if he's truly unbeatable." His pride warred with caution, but curiosity burned brighter.
Roshni felt her Garudtalon gauntlets tremble. "He's… not human. But I promised myself I'd try." Her voice was a whisper, but her resolve was steel.
Tara buzzed nervously, wings fluttering. "Roshni, don't even think about it. That's not an instructor, that's a walking disaster."
Sita of the Celestial Lotus sat perfectly still, golden lotus petals swirling around her. Her eyes glimmered with excitement, not fear. "He stands at the peak. Then he shall be my first wall to break." Her aura pulsed, serene and unstoppable.
Rudra Pratap of Firecloud grinned, fire dancing in his eyes. "Let's see if the storm can handle a real blaze."
Bhaskar Draksha of the Beastmasters flexed his scaled arms, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "If he's death, I'll roar louder."
Veerendra Suryakant of the Hawk Clan narrowed his gaze, calculating. "If he's the wind, I'll be the storm that outflies him."
Meera Chandrapuri of the Obsidian Phoenix Society watched with a sly smile, her fingers tracing the edge of her token. "Let's see if death can dance with fire."
Other contenders whispered, argued, or simply stared, caught between awe and terror.
One boy whispered, "That… that's our instructor?" Another swallowed hard. "We're doomed."
The masked figure tilted his head slightly. When he spoke, the voice was distorted by the mask—deep, cold, echoing like a temple drum underwater.
"Heroes of Nalanda," he said softly, the words rolling across the arena, "try your best to survive. I'll make it entertaining."
Thunder answered him. The crowd flinched. Then silence—so thick it felt alive.
The announcer finally managed to breathe. "C-Crown Rank Instructor… Aditya Raj has arrived!"
Cheers and gasps exploded together. Some clapped, some prayed.
Ganpat grinned wide, lifting his tea. "Ahh… that's my boy." Taarask chirped a spark of approval.
And above them all, lightning split the clouds wide open, framing the child-sized silhouette standing calm at the arena's heart.
As thunder rolled through Nalanda, the city met the shadow of death wearing a child's mask—Aditya Raj.