It took another day before Rudra could stand properly, and when he did, the first thing he asked was to see Amber and Jade.
The healer on duty—an older woman with runes etched into her gloves—hesitated but eventually led him to a sunlit room on the same hospital floor. Amber lay on a cot near the window, one arm bandaged, a thin line of dried blood still streaked in her hair. Beside her, Jade sat upright, arm in a sling, face pale but eyes sharp.
When Rudra entered, Amber's eyes lit up. Jade's expression flickered with relief, then the usual smirk settled back in.
"Look who finally woke up from his beauty nap," Jade said. "Took you long enough."
Rudra didn't speak. He crossed the room and hugged them both—awkwardly, tightly. They were alive. And that was all that mattered.
Amber smiled softly. "You scared us. You weren't breathing when they brought you in."
"You weren't exactly dancing either," Rudra said, voice hoarse.
Jade gave a crooked grin. "I'd rather die than dance."
Rudra sat beside them, the quiet filling in the spaces between their words. Then his voice dropped.
"I failed you."
Amber shook her head immediately. "Don't."
"I was weak," Rudra said, fists clenched. "I thought I had time. I thought we'd always be safe in that glade. That if I just avoided power, avoided the Path, I could keep you both with me."
Jade's smirk faded. "We all thought that. We were kids, Rudra. We believed in our bubble. But you... you still fought. Even after they broke you."
Amber reached for his hand. "None of us were prepared. But we lived. Because you didn't run."
Rudra looked between them—his family in all but blood.
He bowed his head.
"I swear, on my soul—I'll never let that happen again. I will become strong. Strong enough that no shadow dares touch you. Strong enough to create peace with my hands."
Jade leaned back. "You sound like a protagonist from some epic tale."
"Maybe I'll become one," Rudra said.
---
They were discharged two days later. The academy sent letters, promising official investigations, security patrols, and rest time. But Rudra's mind was no longer in the realm of school schedules.
That night, after a light meal and a long silence, Rudra sat in the courtyard outside their home. Moonlight danced on the stone tiles. The breeze whispered through the jasmine trees.
He stood.
And then, slowly, he raised his arms.
He closed his eyes.
He recalled the figure in the void—the divine dancer whose movements warped stars. Every flicker, every turn had seemed both chaotic and precise.
He took a step.
At first, it was awkward. He staggered like a newborn deer, arms loose and clumsy. But something pulsed inside him. A rhythm. A memory etched into his bones.
He moved again.
A turn. A twist. A sweep.
The wind around him shifted.
The courtyard fell silent.
The shadows thickened, as though the night itself held its breath.
And Rudra... danced.
He moved as though gravity had forgotten him. Each movement less a decision and more a revelation. The air shimmered. His skin prickled with fire.
He stepped with the certainty of someone who had done this before—maybe not in this life, but somewhere, in some other existence.
Then came the trance.
The world fell away. Time scattered. Rudra's senses stretched into infinity. His breath no longer came from his lungs—it flowed from something deeper.
He felt every cell in his body open.
A whisper entered his ear, not in words, but in vibration.
OM.
He didn't know how long he danced.
But when his eyes opened again, the sky was pale with approaching dawn.
His knees buckled. He collapsed to the ground, gasping. Sweat dripped from every inch of him. He stared down at his trembling hands—expecting pain.
Instead, there was strength.
He tore open his tunic. Where there had once been wounds, there was only smooth skin. Scars that should have taken weeks were now faint traces.
He pressed two fingers to his chest.
He felt it.
A thrum beneath his ribs.
The spark of Prāṇa—not imagined. Real.
He was close. So close.
---
In Vaikarthan, the Divine Path was the ladder between man and god. It was not a mere talent—it was transformation.
The journey began with Prāṇa Initiation—Level One. To reach it required more than brute strength. The body had to be honed, yes. But also the mind—sharpened like a blade. The soul—still as water.
Many failed. Most succeeded by eighteen.
To approach it at sixteen?
It was unthinkable.
But Rudra was no longer the same boy.
He had died once. He had seen something no scripture could explain.
And now, as his breath steadied, as he sat in the moonlit courtyard staring at his hands...
He whispered.
"What... are you?"
He meant the dancer. The vision. The truth behind the void.
And he knew, somehow, that it had heard him.
---
Prāṇa Initiation, the first step on the Divine Path, was not just about sensing energy. It was awakening it.
To reach Level One, a person had to align body, breath, and will. Their muscles had to be forged, their spirit focused, and their mind open.
Most achieved it at eighteen.
Some geniuses managed it at seventeen.
To do it at sixteen—while still recovering from near-death?
It was unheard of.
Rudra touched his chest again. He felt the current running under his skin. It wasn't solid yet—but it was close. He could sense the flow of life not as an idea—but as a rhythm.
The same rhythm the dancer had moved to.
That being...
What was it?
A god? A memory? A test?
He didn't know. But he wanted to.
He needed to.
He looked up at the stars.
Their light was cold.
But Rudra's blood was warm.
And it had begun to move.
Morning came with golden light spilling over the rooftops of Visharad.
Birds chirped beyond the small windows of their modest home. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and roasted grains. Rudra sat at the table with his uncle Ishaan, both eating a simple breakfast of flatbread, lentils, and sweetened tea.
The meal was quiet. Peaceful.
But Rudra's mind was anything but.
He had hardly slept. The image of the divine dancer, the rhythm of the movements, and the way his own body had responded to that rhythm—it haunted and fascinated him.
He looked across the table at Ishaan and broke the silence.
"I'm going to the academy today."
Ishaan looked up sharply. "You're what?"
"I said I'm going to class. I feel fine. I'm not going to sit around wasting more time."
His uncle's eyes narrowed. "Don't be foolish. You just got discharged. You still need time to heal. A few good meals and rest—"
"Uncle," Rudra said quietly. "I'm already healed."
Ishaan stared. Then laughed dryly. "Rudra, I know you want to be strong. I'm proud of you. But rushing recovery is not the way. If you push your body too soon, you could damage yourself permanently."
Rudra stood.
With slow, deliberate movements, he pulled back the collar of his tunic and exposed his chest.
The skin was smooth. Flesh once broken now whole. The faint trace of scars shimmered like old ink, barely visible.
Ishaan's spoon dropped into his bowl.
He rose from his seat, came closer, and inspected Rudra's body with trembling fingers. He touched where the ribs had been crushed, where internal bleeding had left purple-black bruises just days ago.
Nothing.
"This... this isn't possible," Ishaan muttered. "No healer, only healers at the imperial palace, could've done this overnight."
Rudra said nothing.
Ishaan looked into his eyes. "How did this happen?"
Rudra hesitated.
He thought about the dream. The void. The dance. The shift in the air when he moved.
But some instinct—deep and primal—told him to keep it secret. Not out of fear, but reverence. It was something sacred. Something ancient. And something dangerous.
"I don't know," he lied. "Maybe my body just... responded well. Maybe the healer who treated me was better than we thought."
Ishaan didn't believe him. It showed in his eyes. But he also didn't press.
He stepped back and sank into his seat.
"You're... completely healed," he whispered.
Rudra nodded slowly. "I think I was meant to survive. Meant to rise."
His uncle looked at him long and hard, the silence between them stretching like wire.
Then Ishaan let out a breath and gave a slow nod. "Alright. But be careful. Go back to the academy. Train. Learn. But don't forget—you were given a second chance. Don't waste it."
Rudra's expression turned serious. "I won't."
He turned and walked to his room to prepare for the day, but his uncle sat for a long time in stunned silence.
He had seen many things in his life.
But watching a boy recover like that? Without divine aid?
It wasn't just rare. It was unheard of.
Something had happened to Rudra.
Something he wasn't telling.
And something that might one day echo across the heaven