Eight years had passed.
The Crescent had shifted.
The rivers had changed course.
And the children who once chased bulls and asked riddles had grown into something sharper.
Dhira of the Varha: The Goat Whisperer of Dakshin Bharath
At fifteen, Dhira, son of Bhaira and Kalyani, no longer tripped over vines or forgot his own jokes mid-sentence.
He had trained under his father, the formidable Bhaira, leader of the Varha tribe and a Rathi-level warrior whose silence taught more than words ever could.
Dhira now knew how to read wind patterns, how to disarm a spear mid-flight, and how to calculate terrain advantage using only shadows and bird calls.
He still couldn't remember the names of half the herbs he studied.
He still called mangoes "battle snacks."
But he had earned a name.
Not one given.
One he gave himself.
"I am the Goat Whisperer," he declared in a village near the Narmada.
"Why goats?" someone asked.
"Because they listen. Unlike bulls. Or elders. Or mango trees."
The name stuck.
From the ridgelands of Karnataka to the forest belts of Kerala, Dhira became known as the boy who could calm wild goats, settle disputes with laughter, and teach children how to dodge arrows using banana stems.
He helped rebuild huts after storms.
He taught farmers how to reinforce grain towers.
He once convinced a rogue Crescent scout to spare a village by offering him fermented jackfruit and a story about a goat who outwitted a tiger.
"He's strange," people said.
"He's brilliant," others replied.
"He's ours," the elders agreed.
The Decision to Wander
One evening, after helping a village repair its irrigation channels, Dhira sat beside Bhaira under the stars.
"I want to travel," Dhira said. "Not now. But soon."
Bhaira didn't flinch.
"Why?"
"Because the world is bigger than the forest. And I want to see how far my feet can go."
"And until then?"
"I train. With you."
Bhaira nodded.
"Then tomorrow, we spar blindfolded."
"Can I bring a goat?"
"Only if it fights."
Karna: The Warrior Without a Gate
In the northern plains, Karna had grown into a boy of quiet fire.
He trained alone.
He studied alone.
He helped anyone who came to him—potters, weavers, stable boys, wandering monks.
He never asked for payment.
He never asked for praise.
But he asked questions.
"Why does birth decide worth?"
"Why do gates open for some and not others?"
"Why do teachers look past me?"
He had tried to approach royal tutors.
They refused.
He had tried to enter training halls.
They closed their doors.
He had once asked a Brahmin archer to teach him.
The man looked at his earrings, his skin, his charioteer's robes—and walked away.
Karna didn't shout.
He didn't beg.
He trained harder.
He built his own targets.
He studied ancient war scrolls borrowed from wandering sages.
He practiced in the fields until his fingers bled.
And he helped others do the same.
The Conviction
Karna had seen how the higher-born treated the rest.
He had seen how they spoke of "purity" and "lineage" as if they were weapons.
He disagreed.
He didn't argue.
He acted.
He taught a potter's son how to hold a bow.
He helped a weaver's daughter learn spear balance.
He once stood between a merchant and a farmer and said:
"If you measure worth by coin, you'll never see the weight of a soul."
People began to whisper.
"He's different."
"He's dangerous."
"He's just."
But Karna wanted more.
He wanted a teacher who could shape him into a warrior the world would remember.
He wanted someone who saw fire, not caste.
So far, no one had come.
Shakthi: The Flame in the Gurukul
At eighteen, Shakthi had become one of Maharishi Durvasa's most formidable students.
She could recite the Vedas backwards.
She could summon flame from dry stone.
She could silence a room with a single glance.
But she still missed mangoes.
She still remembered Dhira's jokes.
She still wondered about the boy named Karna—whose name had begun to echo in the southern villages.
Durvasa watched her grow.
He didn't praise.
He didn't instruct.
He tested.
And Shakthi passed.
Every time.