✦ Cast Additions – The Wider Circle
Before the story moves forward, a few more names enter the lion's orbit:
Guru Gosayi Venkanna – Wandering warrior-sage; master of combat, prana, and hidden mystic arts. Former teacher to many chiefs. Becomes Narasimha's Guru, adviser, and inner compass.
Avuku Raju – Fierce chief from the Bellary side of present-day Karnataka. Loud, proud, a little envious of Narasimha's rising name, yet deeply respectful of his courage.
Raja Pandiyan – A Tamil warrior-lord from the Madurai belt. Proud of his Pandya lineage, destined to be a key southern sword against the British.
Veera Reddy – Rayalaseema chieftain and one of the earliest pillars of the coming resistance. Steady, blunt, loyal.
Basi Reddy – Narasimha's cousin (son of his father's sister). Charismatic, capable… and quietly poisoned by envy.
All of them will matter.
But first, the Guru must come.
✵ I. The Dream of the Lion Under the Banyan
It began with a dream.
Not one of those scattered, nonsense visions of half-remembered faces and leftover meals.
This was sharp.
Clear.
Structured.
In the dream, Narasimha stood in a dry field under a vast banyan tree.
Its roots twisted like ancient serpents, dropping from the branches to drink from the earth.
A lion sat beneath the tree.
Not roaring.
Not hunting.
Just… sitting.
Its golden mane stirred without wind.
Its eyes were old, old, older than mountains.
At first, Narasimha thought:
Ah, this is me. Symbolic dream. Very poetic.
Then the lion opened its mouth and spoke in a voice that sounded suspiciously like his grandmother's:
"You are standing like a scarecrow, Simha. Sit properly."
He blinked.
Before he could argue, another voice spoke behind him.
Calm. Dry. Amused.
"Even in dreams, arrogance arrives early."
Narasimha turned.
An old man stood at the banyan's edge, lean as a staff, eyes bright as monsoon lightning.
He wore:
a plain, slightly tattered angavastram,
a rudraksha mala,
and the kind of quiet that made the world seem louder by contrast.
"Who are you?" Narasimha asked.
The man tilted his head.
"Who do you think?" he countered.
Narasimha opened his mouth to answer, stopped, frowned.
"You feel like…" he began slowly, "…someone I should bow to. And also someone I would argue with."
The lion snorted.
"Correct," it said.
The old man smiled faintly.
"Better than most introductions," he said. "Listen, Narasimha. You have wandered far on your own cleverness—trade, spies, banks, night blades. You have taken a life for dharma and still tremble properly after. Good. But now…"
He tapped the ground with his staff.
"…now your body and breath must catch up with your fate. You are a sword with no sheath yet. Prana runs wild in you, untrained. The boon you carry"—his gaze flicked to Narasimha's chest, where Ichha-Marana sat like a hidden flame—"is dangerous if you do not understand it."
Narasimha swallowed.
"You know of…" he began.
"Ah?" the old man cut in. "You think the gods gave such a thing and then forgot? Child, blessings of that kind leave a mark even the deaf can hear. You are a walking contradiction: a mortal who cannot be killed unless he wills it, in an age where mortality hangs like dust in every hut."
The banyan rustled.
The lion yawned.
"You will meet me soon," the old man said. "Under a different tree, in waking world. You will not recognize me at first. You will be tested. If you pass, I may teach you how to make your breath a weapon and your stillness a shield."
"Wait," Narasimha said. "What is your name?"
The man's eyes crinkled.
"Names are like titles," he said. "Useful. Frequently misused. But since your mind will itch if I leave you with nothing…"
He bowed slightly, palms together.
"I am Gosayi Venkanna—
warrior who learned to sit,
sage who refuses to retire,
and, if you don't irritate me,
your future Guru."
The lion lifted one paw lazily.
"And I," it said, "am your nature. Do not pretend otherwise."
The dream blurred.
As it faded, a faint mantra echoed through his mind:
"Prāṇa is the bridge between body and soul.
Learn to walk it with open eyes."
❖ II. Heaven Sends the Teacher
In Vaikuntha, Lakshmi Devi smiled.
"So," she said. "Our child is finally being dragged to class properly."
Saraswati inclined her head.
"Guru Gosayi Venkanna has walked many paths," she said. "He has counselled chiefs, fought bandits, argued with scholars, and annoyed more than one yogi by asking inconvenient questions. He is exactly the kind of Guru our boy needs—too grounded to tolerate drama, too wise to be dazzled by power."
Parvati's eyes softened.
"And he knows pain," she said. "He has watched kingdoms fall and promises break. His teaching will carry that gravity."
Maheshwara spoke quietly.
"Without a guide," he said, "Narasimha's Ichha-Marana could turn him into something between ghost and tyrant—neither alive among men nor ready to leave. Venkanna will teach him how to remain human while holding that boon."
Vishnu's gaze went further.
"And," he added, "this line of training will brush against traditions that one day touch Kamar-Taj, Vishanti, and Marvel's mystic circles. Our lion's prana will one day stand beside sorcerers who bend reality with hand signs. Better he start with discipline, not spectacle."
Brahma wrote:
1822 – Guru Gosayi Venkanna enters narrative. Formal mystic and martial path begins.
✢ III. The Strange Old "Beggar" in the Courtyard
Two days after the dream, Narasimha was in the outer courtyard, arguing with a scribe about grain measurements.
"No, no," he said, tapping the leaf. "If you write 'approximately,' the storekeeper will interpret it as 'take extra now, argue later'. Put a number. I refuse to have arguments over decimals in drought."
Ramu chuckled from nearby.
"You refuse arguments," he said, "and yet you have chosen a life of nothing else."
Before Narasimha could respond, a servant announced:
"Dora, a… wandering gosayi asks for alms and water at the gate."
"Give him both," Ramu said automatically. "And ask if he needs resting space in the outer hall."
"Already did, Dora," the servant replied. "He… refused the coin. Accepted the water. And is now sitting under the neem tree in the yard, saying he will wait until he sees the 'lion who counts ledgers'."
Ramu and Narasimha exchanged a look.
"Ah," Ramu said.
"Ah," Narasimha echoed, heart giving a small, strange jump.
They stepped outside.
Under the neem tree, cross-legged, sat the same old man from Narasimha's dream.
Of course, Narasimha didn't know that yet consciously.
But something in him reacted.
The man was chewing on a piece of cane, squinting critically at the courtyard.
"You have fewer cracks in your walls than most estates," he remarked as they approached. "Either you repair them… or you paint them often to hide."
Ramu smiled politely.
"We repair," he said. "Painting we save for festivals."
"Good," the old man said. "Paint over cracks and you get collapse. I've seen enough of that this lifetime."
His gaze shifted to Narasimha.
For a moment, time slowed.
The old man's eyes seemed to look straight past skin and bone, into the strange knot of light and shadow at the boy's core.
Narasimha felt it.
Felt seen in a way he usually only felt in dreams or during rare temple moments.
He bowed without really meaning to.
"Swami," he said. "Welcome to Uyyalawada."
The old man nodded, approving.
"At least your neck knows when to bend," he said. "That will save you some blows."
Ramu gestured.
"Will you come inside, Gosayi…?" he began.
"Gosayi Venkanna," the old man supplied. "I have walked from Bellary side in the last month. Your roads are annoyingly safe. Not a single decent bandit to chase."
"Apologies," Narasimha said dryly. "We'll leave a few on the next route for your amusement."
Venkanna's eyes sparkled.
"There," he said to Ramu. "See? Tongue sharp. Mind quick. Good candidates always irritate gods and elders by age sixteen."
Ramu's brows rose.
"You have come for him?" he asked slowly.
"I have come for Bharat," Gosayi Venkanna replied. "And this boy is carrying more of her future than most realize. Let me speak plainly, Chieftain Ramachandra Reddy. Your son is already walking paths of trade, intelligence, and justice that many older chiefs never master. But his breath is untrained. His body obeys instinct and youth, not principle. If you intend to throw him into storms greater than revenue disputes, he needs a Guru."
Ramu was silent.
He had expected this, in some deep part of him.
"We have priests," he began.
"I am not here to teach him ritual," Venkanna cut in. "I am here to teach him how to wield what the gods already stamped into his bones."
His gaze bored into Narasimha.
"You feel death differently, don't you?" he asked softly. "You have walked away from things that should have killed you. Your dreams lean toward battle. You sense what might happen a heartbeat before it does in fights. You heal faster than you ought. And sometimes, when you close your eyes, you see… too much."
Every word landed.
Ramu and Narasimha shared a brief, startled glance.
"Who told you?" Ramu asked.
Venkanna snorted.
"The wind," he said. "The whispers. The way devas shift slightly when they look down at this house. And the fact that your boy's aura shines like someone took a fragment of Manu's duty and wrapped it in Kaliyuga clothes."
Narasimha's throat went dry.
"You…" he began.
"Yes," Venkanna said. "I know what he is. Not fully. That is the gods' business. But enough to know he should not be left unguided."
Ramu let out a slow breath.
"So," he said, "you wish to be his Guru."
"I wish to test if he deserves that trouble," Venkanna corrected. "I do not carry lazy lions."
Seethamma's stick tapped on stone as she approached.
"And who asked you to carry my grandson at all, Gosayi?" she demanded, eyes sharp. "First you stomp into my courtyard, diagnose him like a sick calf, then announce you'll test him?"
Venkanna turned.
Studied her.
Then grinned.
"Ah," he said. "Here is the real chieftain."
Lakshmamma arrived too, anxiety and curiosity mixed.
"What kind of tests?" she asked quietly.
"The kind that show whether he will obey only when praised," Venkanna replied, "or also when scolded. Whether he will still seek knowledge when it hurts his bones. Whether he will wield power with restraint."
He folded his hands.
"Let me take him for some hours each day," he said. "Here, within your lands. To train under tree and sky. I will not take him away without your consent. But if you deny him this path, know this: he will still face battles large and small. He will just bleed more uselessly doing it."
Silence stretched.
Hanumantha Reddy, watching from the side, spoke.
"I knew your old teacher, Gosayi," he said quietly. "Long ago, near Cuddapah side. He had… integrity. If you are his student, I trust your purpose. And if you are willing to teach our boy here itself, under our gaze… I say we accept."
Seethamma's eyes, sharper than any spy, examined Venkanna.
"You will not fill his head with ideas that make him forget his people?" she asked.
"If I do," Venkanna said, "you may strike me with that stick until my bones learn sense."
She snorted.
"Good answer," she said. "Fine. Teach him how to breathe and punch properly. But if he starts spouting nonsense like 'all is illusion, let the British rule, we will meditate,' I will personally drag you out by your ear."
Venkanna smiled.
"Devi," he said, "I have seen too many hungry mouths to preach that sort of cowardice. Meditation that does not protect the weak is just polished selfishness."
Lakshmamma exhaled, tension easing.
"Then…" she said softly, "teach him. Just… please remember he is still my son. Not only your 'student of destiny'."
Venkanna's voice gentled.
"I will remember," he said. "I am not here to steal him. I am here to… sharpen the one the gods already threw into the fray."
He turned to Narasimha.
"Well, lion-cub?" he asked. "What do you say? Will you come sit under trees when I order, breathe until your chest burns, and get thrown to the ground by an old man for your own good?"
Narasimha's heart rang with something like joy and dread mixed.
He bowed low.
"Guru," he said simply. "Please… break me properly."
Venkanna chuckled.
"You will regret those words tomorrow," he said. "Good."
✢ IV. The First Lesson: Standing Still
The next morning, before the eastern sky had fully brightened, Narasimha stumbled to the old banyan at the edge of their lands.
Venkanna was already there.
Of course.
He seemed the type to insult dawn by waking earlier.
"Good," the Guru said. "You can follow basic instructions. Stand."
"I am standing," Narasimha said.
"Not like a man," Venkanna replied. "Like a tree. Barefoot. On earth. No fidgeting."
He demonstrated:
Feet hip-width apart, weight evenly spread, knees soft.
Spine straight, chest open, shoulders relaxed.
Eyes half-closed.
"Now," he said, "you imitate this and stay."
Narasimha copied.
How hard can this be? he thought.
Ten breaths later, his thighs began to ache.
Twenty breaths later, his shoulders tensed, trying to compensate.
Thirty breaths later, his mind started yelling:
This is stupid, I could be reading reports, I could be mapping trade routes, I could be—
"Exactly," Venkanna said calmly, as if hearing him. "You can think of everything except the one thing you are doing. This is your first enemy. The scattered mind."
"My mind is not scattered," Narasimha protested. "I regularly hold entire district trade flows and enemy maps in my head."
"You are good at juggling," Venkanna said. "Not at stillness. Juggling without stillness leads to collapse. Breathe."
He rapped Narasimha lightly on the back.
"Not shoulders," he said. "Breathe from below the navel. Let the belly expand. Pull air like you're drawing water up from a deep well."
Narasimha tried.
It felt…
Weird.
Like breathing wrong on purpose.
His legs shook.
"How long—" he began.
"Until you stop asking," Venkanna said cheerfully.
Time stretched.
Birds woke.
Ants crawled over his feet.
Sweat beaded at his temples even though the air was cool.
Somewhere between one burning breath and the next, something shifted:
The complaints in his mind quieted.
The ache in his legs became a steady background drum.
He became intensely aware of:
the feel of earth under his toes,
the faint breeze along his neck,
the way his own pulse thudded in his ears.
He could feel, dimly, something else:
Like a river beneath the skin—prana, restless but real.
"Ah," Venkanna murmured. "There you are."
He stepped closer, placing two fingers lightly on Narasimha's back, just between the shoulder blades.
A jolt ran through him.
Not pain.
Recognition.
For a brief, startling moment, he sensed:
the flow of his breath as threads of light,
the heaviness in his thighs as accumulated tension,
the strange, steady fire of Ichha-Marana at his core—neither growing nor diminishing, just waiting.
"You carry a boon like a sword stuck in earth," Venkanna's voice echoed, both in his ears and deeper. "We must teach you to pick it up without cutting your own hands."
The contact broke.
Narasimha gasped.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed ungracefully onto the ground.
Venkanna laughed.
"Good," he said. "You did not faint. Day one is a success."
"I feel like I did ten rounds with Devudu," Narasimha wheezed.
"Devudu fights your body," Venkanna said. "I fight your habits."
He tossed the boy a waterskin.
"Drink," he said. "We will do this every morning. Before ledgers, before spy reports, before saving the world. Your breath first. Everything else later."
Narasimha drank.
He felt wrung out—
and strangely… clean.
❖ V. Basi Reddy's Smile
Later that week, after more mornings of torture-disguised-as-breathing, Narasimha joined the household for a mid-day meal.
His cousins chatted.
His father spoke quietly with an emissary about trade.
His grandmother argued with the cook about the correct amount of tamarind.
As he sat, a familiar voice greeted him from behind.
"Nanna Simha!"
(O little lion!)
He turned.
Basi Reddy stood there, grinning.
Basi, son of his father's sister.
Charming.
Quick-witted.
Always dressed a little sharper than necessary.
"Bandit of my aunt's house," Narasimha said fondly. "When did you sneak in?"
"Yesterday evening," Basi said, pulling him into a half-hug. "You were busy breathing, I heard."
"News travels fast," Narasimha muttered.
Basi laughed.
"Our relatives' gossip moves faster than British post," he said. "Still doing your miracles, Simha? Making bandits disappear, making grain appear?"
He said it lightly.
Playfully.
But something in the tone… pricked.
Ever since the training began, Narasimha's sensitivity had sharpened.
He could feel emotions like faint colours around people, especially when they spoke his name.
Around Basi, he now sensed:
bright affection,
a flicker of pride,
and under it, a darker stain—thin, but real:
Envy.
It tasted like metallic bitterness at the back of the tongue.
It was not yet full-grown.
Not yet poisonous.
But it was there.
So, Narasimha thought quietly. Even here.
Basi chattered on.
"I came to help, of course," he said loudly enough for elders to hear. "When our family is growing in fame, we cousins must stand together. For every lion, you need a wolf, no? I will be your wolf."
Seethamma eyed him.
"Wolves are useful," she said. "As long as they remember which herd they guard."
Basi put a hand to his chest dramatically.
"Avva, am I not your favourite?" he asked.
"You are my favourite until you do something stupid," she replied. "Then you will be favourite example of what not to do."
Everyone laughed.
Basi grinned.
But when his eyes briefly, briefly, met Narasimha's, the boy saw it:
That tiny flicker:
Why him and not me? Why do they speak of HIS name in other lands? Why do letters come addressed to him?
The envy shied away quickly, covered by smiles.
Gosayi Venkanna's voice murmured in Narasimha's inner ear, remembering their morning lessons:
"You wanted Bhishma's blessing without his rigid mind. Remember: even in Mahabharata, jealousy destroyed more than any arrow. Watch for it in your own house. Not every smile is harmless."
Narasimha responded to Basi with warmth.
"Stay," he said. "We have too much work and too little time. I need someone to suffer with me during long meetings."
Basi laughed genuinely.
"I am very good at looking serious while thinking of other things," he said. "Use me."
"Oh, I will," Narasimha said.
Inside, he made a quiet note:
Keep Basi close. Give him responsibility enough to feel valued. But never hand him keys to the inner vault. Watch. Wait.
The seed had been spotted.
One day, when it bore bitter fruit during the revolt, that same clear aura-reading would see the truth.
And then, under the eyes of gods and men, a cousin would meet a fate echoing the fall of those in Kurukshetra who chose greed over dharma.
But that was for later.
For now, Basi only clapped his back and stole extra sweets from his plate.
✢ VI. Gurus, Chiefs, and the Wider Web
As weeks passed, word spread that Gosayi Venkanna was staying at Uyyalawada for some time.
This had… consequences.
One hot afternoon, a lean, loud-voiced man rode into the estate with only a handful of armed followers.
He jumped down from his horse with the easy arrogance of someone used to people making way.
"Uyyalawada!" he boomed. "I heard you have stolen my Guru. I came to verify."
Narasimha and Ramu came out.
The visitor grinned broadly, eyes sharp, rings gleaming.
"I am Avuku Raju," he introduced himself. "From Bellary side. This irritable old Gosayi once tried to make me hold horse stance until my legs learned repentance. I consider him half my enemy and half my father."
From the side, Venkanna's dry voice floated.
"More enemy than son, some days," he said, appearing under the neem tree. "You still waste energy shouting when a sentence would do."
Avuku Raju laughed.
"You see?" he told the Uyyalawadas. "He insults me. That is how you know he cares."
He turned to Narasimha, eyes appraising.
"So you are the lion he chose to nag now," he said. "I have heard of you. Trade webs. Shadow games. Company files calling you harmless. Very entertaining."
"And you," Narasimha replied mildly, "are the chief whose men sing louder about their own bravery than about their harvests."
Ramu shot him a warning glance.
Avuku blinked.
Then threw his head back and laughed, genuinely delighted.
"Ha!" he said. "You have teeth. Good. If we must stand together one day, I prefer a neighbour who can bite, not only negotiate."
Venkanna stepped between them.
"Peace," he said. "Avuku, you came to check if I am misguiding him. I am not. I am teaching him what I failed to teach you when you ran off early from your lessons."
Avuku made a face.
"You wanted me to sit still for hours," he complained. "I am a man of action."
"And this one," Venkanna said, nodding at Narasimha, "is a man of too much thought. Between you, perhaps the world will survive."
Introductions widened.
Avuku Raju stayed a few days, observing.
He sparred with Narasimha once under Venkanna's eye.
It was instructive:
Avuku moved like a rushing river—fast, loud, overwhelming.
Narasimha moved like a coiled spring—calculated, precise, testing the new prana-infused footwork Venkanna had begun teaching.
At one point, Avuku feinted high.
Instinctively, Narasimha's body shifted before Avuku fully committed.
A half-beat of combat foresight.
Avuku's eyes widened as his blow met empty air.
He barely dodged the counter.
Later, panting, he slapped Narasimha's back.
"Remind me never to bet against you in real battle," he said. "Or, if I must, to stand behind you."
"Just don't stand in my way when I run," Narasimha quipped. "I cannot guarantee your safety."
They grinned.
A bond formed:
Not of deep trust yet,
but of mutual respect.
Veera Reddy, another chieftain from nearby regions, arrived some days later, more sober.
Where Avuku was fire, Veera was stone:
steady, weighty, not easily moved.
He watched longer, spoke less.
Finally, he sat alone with Narasimha one evening.
"I am not a man for many words," Veera said. "So I will say only this: if you stand firm when British pressure increases, I will stand with you. If you bend for them against us, I will stand against you."
"Fair," Narasimha said. "If I ever bend that way, I would stand against myself."
Veera's lips twitched.
"Then we understand each other," he said.
He turned to leave, then paused.
"I met a Tamil warrior in Madurai," he added. "Name: Raja Pandiyan. Fierce. Proud. Carries old Pandya stories in his blood. He will be useful when this fight becomes larger than our tongue lines. Our guru knows him too."
Gosayi Venkanna, listening unseen, nodded to himself.
Threads were connecting:
Bellary's hot-headed Avuku,
Rayalaseema's rock-solid Veera,
Tamil Nadu's stormy Raja Pandiyan,
and Uyyalawada's cunning lion.
When the great revolt came, these names would stand together.
For now, they were just men around a young heir's courtyard, drinking buttermilk and arguing about the best way to ambush a cannon column.
❖ VII. Lessons in Bhishma's Shadow
One evening, under the banyan, Venkanna sat with Narasimha, a copy of the Mahabharata's stories open in his memory.
"You admire Bhishma," Venkanna said. "Yes?"
"He was… my favourite," Narasimha admitted. "In my last life too. Strongest of his time. Fiercest warrior. Deepest loyalty. If only he had not been so… stuck in his vow. If he had bent a little for dharma…"
"Yes," Venkanna said. "If he had turned his sword against injustice sooner, Kurukshetra might have looked different. Instead, he held onto his promise to the throne beyond reason."
He looked at Narasimha keenly.
"You wanted his boon without his blindness," he said. "The gods listened. They gave you Ichha-Marana—a version of his death-at-will. But they did not give you a kingdom where dharma is clearly written. You must find it in fog."
He tapped the ground.
"Remember this," he said. "Bhishma's mistake was thinking loyalty to a throne equals loyalty to dharma. In your age, there will be thrones made of paper, flags, money, even public opinion. Do not kneel to any of them completely. Kneel only to dharma itself."
"And if dharma is unclear?" Narasimha asked.
Venkanna smiled sadly.
"Then you do what you did with Ramalingam," he said. "You think. You choose. You accept the stain and live with it. There is no world where your hands remain pure if you move them at all. Do not chase purity. Chase responsibility."
They sat in silence.
Fireflies blinked.
In that quiet, Narasimha's resolve hardened further:
The ichha-marana within him pulsed.
He would carry Bhishma's strength—
but he would not become a silent pillar for unjust thrones.
He would be anchor, not chain.
✢ VIII. MCU Shadows and Kamar-Taj Echoes
As Gosayi Venkanna guided Narasimha through advanced breathing patterns, subtle locks (bandhas), and first experiments with prana-infused strikes—where a simple palm strike could stagger a heavier opponent like Devudu—ripples spread beyond mortal sight.
In Kamar-Taj, a senior sorcerer once again paused mid-meditation.
He saw, in his inner vision:
a young man under a banyan,
breath glowing like threads,
a strange, stubborn spark in his chest that did not obey normal life-death cycles.
"Again," the disciple nearby asked. "The same aura, Master?"
"Yes," the sorcerer said. "He is learning. Slowly. With earth, not sky. Good. When our orders one day seek him, we must remember he was first a student of dharma, not only of energy."
Far away, in a hidden chamber where a future Eternal watcher occasionally reviewed Earth anomalies, a note was added:
Subject U.N.R. – Mystic capacity increasing. Potential future interaction with Vishanti-approved orders. Continue observation. No interference yet.
None of this touched Narasimha's daily reality… yet.
He only knew that when he punched a hanging sack now, it shook harder than before.
And when he faced three sparring partners at once, he could almost feel where the next blow would come from before the muscles moved.
Phase 3 of his growth—Warrior-Prince—had truly begun.
✵ IX. Closing of "The Siddhar Who Knew His Soul"
By the time the first rains of 1822 kissed Rayalaseema's dust, the boy who had once relied only on sharp mind and stubborn heart had gained:
A Guru who saw past his masks and into the blueprint of his soul.
A daily discipline of breath and stillness that slowly turned raw instinct into refined power.
Sharper senses—of danger, of envy (as in Basi Reddy), of the subtle currents beneath words.
Early bonds with other future pillars of resistance—Avuku Raju, Veera Reddy—and the faint first mention of Raja Pandiyan from the Tamil lands.
Gosayi Venkanna's presence changed the rhythm of Uyyalawada:
Mornings began with prana practice under banyan shade.
Afternoons still burned with ledgers, trade, and spy reports.
Evenings sometimes held quiet satsangs, where the old Guru told stories of kings who had lost their way—not because they were weak, but because they forgot who their power was meant to serve.
And at night, when all slept, the Deathless Lion lay awake occasionally, feeling:
the steady thrum of Ichha-Marana in his chest,
the ache of muscles rebuilt under Guru's watch,
and the weight of futures he now knew he might actually survive to see.
"Fine," he would mutter to the ceiling. "If you insist on keeping me alive for centuries, at least send good teachers early. And fewer ledgers."
Below, the banyan stood silent.
Above, gods, sorcerers, and watchers continued to observe.
They saw a pattern forming:
Bharat's hidden king was no longer just a clever chieftain-in-training.
He was becoming what he would need to be when Marvel's storms finally hit:
A warrior whose fists were guided by breath,
a ruler whose choices were guided by dharma,
and an immortal whose soul still remembered
how to laugh in mango groves and cry over roosters.
The lion had met his Guru.
The real training—of body, breath, and destiny—had begun.
✦ End of Chapter 20 – "The Siddhar Who Knew His Soul" ✦