The village of Kalinga-Vana was known for two things: its mango festivals and its warrior trials.
Every month, recruiters from the Kalinga army arrived with scrolls, swords, and expectations.
Only those of noble lineage—Kshatriyas by birth—were allowed to train.
And yet, every month, one boy stood at the edge of the trial grounds.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hoping.
The Boy with the Sword
His name was Bhairav.
Eighteen years old.
Orphaned at five.
Raised by a potter who taught him how to shape clay—and how to shape silence.
But Bhairav didn't want silence.
He wanted steel.
He trained alone.
Practiced with wooden swords.
Fought shadows.
Fought wind.
Fought doubt.
And every month, he arrived at the trials.
Every month, he was turned away.
"You're not a Kshatriya."
"You're not one of us."
"Go home."
But Bhairav had no home.
Only a sword.
And a dream.
The Storm Arrives
Dhira and his gang arrived in Kalinga-Vana during one such trial.
They weren't looking for recruits.
They were looking for mangoes.
But they saw Bhairav.
Standing tall.
Eyes sharp.
Movements precise.
Rejected again.
Dhira tilted his head.
"Who's that?"
The villagers whispered.
"That's Bhairav."
"Orphan boy."
"Wants to join the army."
"They never let him."
Dhira watched.
Then smiled.
"I like him."
The Invitation
That evening, Dhira approached Bhairav.
His five followers trailed behind, munching mango chips.
"You fight well," Dhira said.
"I fight alone," Bhairav replied.
"You don't have to."
"I'm not allowed."
"I'm not asking permission."
Bhairav blinked.
Dhira extended a carved token—goat-shaped, mango-scented.
"Join me. Be my UpSenapati."
Bhairav stared.
"What?"
"My personal army. You'll be second-in-command."
"Why?"
"Because you don't give up."
"I don't know you."
"You will."
Bhairav hesitated.
Then walked away.
The Change
Over the next few days, Bhairav watched Dhira.
He saw him help a child fix a broken toy.
He saw him teach elders how to throw mango pits with precision.
He saw him spar with his followers—laughing, correcting, encouraging.
He saw him eat mangoes with both hands and still manage to dodge a flying stick.
And slowly, Bhairav smiled.
The Acceptance
One morning, Bhairav returned.
He held the goat token.
"I'll join."
Dhira nodded.
"Welcome, nakama."
Bhairav blinked.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're family."
The Shock
As they walked together, Bhairav asked:
"So… who's the Senapati?"
Dhira pointed at his five followers.
"Them."
"All five?"
"Yes."
"So I'm the lowest?"
"Yes."
"How do I become Senapati?"
"Defeat one of them."
Bhairav stared.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
The Challenge
Bhairav challenged the first follower.
He was disarmed in three moves.
He challenged the second.
He was flipped into a haystack.
He challenged the third.
He was tripped by a mango pit.
He challenged the fourth.
He was outpaced in footwork and ended up chasing his own sword.
He challenged the fifth.
He was defeated by a spinning staff trick that ended with a mango slice in his mouth.
The Humbling
Bhairav sat on the ground.
Covered in dust.
Sweating.
Laughing.
"They're strong."
"They've been training with me for three years," Dhira said. "They're not just followers. They're warriors."
Bhairav nodded.
"Then I'll train harder."
Dhira handed him a mango.
"Good. You're one of us now."
And the storm walked on—with seven now in its wake.