The instant Vijay declared himself Simha Raja—the Lion King—the ancient royal fig tree, the very root of his newfound sovereignty, sought to sever his soul. And the tree, in turn, was severed from that cosmic realm. Yet, as long as he remained beneath its vast, sheltering boughs, his every thought transformed into a command.
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Uttirakottai. A melody of solace.
Now, Adhirai opened her eyes. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that everything around her was frozen. She herself floated in the antar, the interstitial space, her own soul observing her suspended form with detached wonder. In the midst of this, a sound tore through the heavens like a clap of primordial thunder. It was the Leo constellation, shimmering into violent, collective life.
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Over the Bay of Bengal,
Arputhan opened his eyes. His soul observed as he and his friend hung in a freefall, suspended in the same timeless antar. Before them, a monstrous tidal wave stood frozen, a sculpted mountain of water. In the distance, the echoes of thunder and the spray of a thousand droplets were crystallized in mid-air. And in the sky, the Leo constellation blazed with impossible brilliance.
From within the cosmic realm, Vijay could see them both—Adhirai and Arputhan. He perceived their every frozen tremor, every latent breath. Observing this, he felt a dizzying sensation, as if peering into a fourth dimension.
He turned to the great tree. "What is this place? What are its powers?"
The tree's response was not in words, but in a knowing reverberation through his being. You lack the faculty to comprehend it.
Then, the silent cries of Adhirai and Arputhan reached him. Vijay began to speak to them simultaneously, yet his words to each were private, unheard by the other. This cosmic realm, he realized, operated on a physics beyond understanding, where intention carved reality.
"Speak, Adhirai," he began, addressing her first.
Adirai was startled. How does he know my name? A foolish thought—of course a god would know.
"Ask for your need," Vijay intoned.
(Vijay hesitated slightly, a flicker of fear that she might ask for something monumental.)
"Tell me," Adhirai's thought-form pleaded, "what must I do to become a Siddhar?"
Vijay turned his awareness to Arputhan's essence. He saw the young man's memories, some veiled, some clear. He asked the tree about the veiled ones.
You yet lack the strength to probe them, came the arboreal reply.
Undeterred, Vijay focused on the Siddhic knowledge within Arputhan's accessible memories and opened it.
Now, speaking to Adhirai, he channeled that ancient wisdom: "To become a Siddhar, you must follow the Siddhic path. The names of these paths have traveled through ages—from the primordial Adi language, through Malazhi, Il-Vish, ancient and modern Samasi, and old Teluzhi. Translated and transformed to fit each era, their essence lies not in the names, but in the core qualities they represent. You must choose one of the 18 Siddha traditions and follow its sevenfold way."
He continued, the knowledge flowing through him. "First is Rasavatham: mastery through alchemy and machinery, excelling in a craft. Its success guides you to another. Conquer that, and you reach the second: Manthira Siddhi, excellence through mantras. Then comes Thanthira Siddhi through mechanical and tantric arts, Mooligai Siddhi through herbal lore, Jothidam through astral wisdom, and finally, Vairagyam—total renunciation. Beyond that lies the state of godhood."
As the last concept left him, Vijay was plunged into confusion. The sheer scale of the knowledge was disorienting.
Adhirai, however, was awestruck. She began to think of Simha Raja as her deity.
"Bless me with a Siddha path, Swami," she implored, her devotion palpable.
Vijay stifled a laugh at the sudden reverence.
He then tried to look deeper into Arputhan's Siddhic essence, but sensed his own inability even before the tree could reaffirm it.
To Adhirai, he said, "There is one path, known as the Sundara Nandhar Siddhi. I do not know what it was in ages past, but this path will grant you great beauty, profound wisdom, a captivating charm, and the secret of discerning hidden truths. First, you must write your name on a piece of paper. Then, before your chosen deity — be it the idol in your home or the sacred lamp in the temple — you must offer that paper to the flame. But listen carefully: the flame must not consume it. It must reject it, turn it back, unburned. Then you must begin with Rasavatham. Master a craft."
Adhirai's thoughts raced. "Could it be dance? Which herb do I need?"
"Time will reveal the answers," Vijay replied. "Drink from the blood of the Yazhi mythic beast, begin your first craft, and practice its alchemy. What you envision will come to pass."
Arputhan had only one question, born of pure concern: "O wielder of many powers, will my friend and I come to no harm?"
Vijay consulted the tree and relayed its answer back: "Those who believe in me will not be forsaken."
Both then asked another question, in unison though apart: "Will we meet you again?"
The tree began to speak to Vijay, who, in a trance, recited the words to Adhirai and Arputhan. It was an ancient Adi verse, a Siddhic hymn:
"O mortal who seeks the Siddhic way,
Remember me in your heart, day by day.
Steer clear of Siddhic arrogance, beware,
And you shall rule with this Lion, here and there."
As the final syllable faded, their souls snapped back into their bodies. Time, having held its breath, resumed its flow.
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Adhirai, who had been falling from her window, landed safely on the ground. It was a drop of nearly fifty feet, yet she stood without a scratch. She looked up at the sky. "Thank you, Simha Raja," she whispered. Looking at her palm, she saw it—the symbol of Thulam (Libra), etched upon her skin in vivid, living green.
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Arputhan's consciousness fully reintegrated with his body in the churning sea. He was already a Siddhar who had mastered Rasavatham. His clothes transformed, scaling like fishskin, and he himself took on a mer-like aspect—half-man, half-fish—as he dove to save his drowning friend. Surging back towards the surface with him, they were met by the colossal tidal wave, still crashing down. But as it reached them, it parted like a curtain, flowing harmlessly to either side. They broke the surface and were hauled onto their waiting ship.
Exhausted but alive, Arputhan looked at his own palm. Upon it, the symbol of Magaram (Capricorn) was etched. He offered his silent gratitude to the distant, cosmic king.
Beneath the royal fig tree in a realm unbound by time, Vijay, the Simha Raja, watched the symbols ignite in the souls of his first two devotees. The connection was forged. The tree's roots, deep in cosmic soil, thrummed with power. His journey—and theirs—had truly begun. The ordinary world continued, unaware of the threads of destiny now woven into its fabric, threads that glimmered with the light of distant stars and the silent, growing strength of the ancient tree. He was no longer just a man claiming a title; he was a node in a supernatural network, a ruler whose kingdom spanned both the seen and the unseen. The weight of it was terrifying. The possibilities, infinite.