Two years later.
The Sanatan Flame Sect woke to the sound of wind moving through banners.
Saffron — gold fluttered along the stone pathways, their embroidered sudarshan chakra insignias catching the morning light as the sun climbed over the mountain peaks. Mist rolled lazily across the lower courtyards, drifting between training grounds and pavilions like a living thing, carrying the faint scent of incense, medicinal herbs, and freshly cut stone.
A bell rang.
Once.
Clear. Steady.
Not an alarm.
Not a summons.
Just morning.
Disciples emerged from their quarters in orderly lines, some stretching, some laughing quietly, others already focused—eyes sharp, breathing regulated. Their auras were stable. Dense. Controlled. Even the youngest among them radiated the presence of Core Formation cultivators.
Morning arrived quietly over the Sanatan Flame Sect.
