The wheels of the chariot rumbled against the ancient stone road, kicking up dust in the morning sun. Beyond the palace walls, the empire of Suryavarta stretched vast—rolling fields dotted with villages, temples perched on hillsides, and roads guarded by watchtowers bearing the royal banner.

  Surya sat at the front beside Sage Vashrya, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Virat rode on horseback alongside, fidgeting with his sword belt as usual. But they were not alone.

  Behind them marched four figures clad in the black-and-gold armor of the Garudasthala—one of the most renowned training camps of the empire. From this camp came warriors honed to serve in the Garudas battalion, the frontline spearhead of Suryavarta’s armies, feared across kingdoms. Only the Ashvamedha Warband, bound to Maharaja Veerajit himself, stood higher.

  To fight alongside a Garudasthala team was to walk beside legends in the making. And these were the very warriors who had stood with Surya when the giant of old was awakened.

  At their head was Dharan, one of the youngest caption of the Garudasthala. Though not yet thirty, his composure and sharp judgment had already earned him respect. His armor bore the red crest of command, and his voice carried authority without effort.

  “Prince Surya,” Dharan said as he walked alongside the chariot. “We fought together against the giant, but that was chaos. Here, on the road, you will learn how the Garudasthala fights—not as scattered blades, but as a single spear. Today, you march not as crown prince, but as the fifth member of our team.”

  Surya inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Then I’ll keep my steps in rhythm with yours.”

  “Ha!” The laugh came from Meera, the twin-bladed whirlwind, whose restless energy seemed barely contained by her leather straps and steel. “Careful, Prince! Dharan drills us until our bones ache. You might regret agreeing so quickly.” She flipped one of her blades in her hand, sharp grin flashing. “Still, I like it. A prince who actually fights? That’s worth following.”

  Virat scowled at her tone. “Show respect, Meera. He is the heir of Suryavarta.”

  “Oh, spare me,” Meera shot back, her grin widening. “You sound more like his nanny than his guard.”

  The others chuckled, even Varun, the team’s scout. Known as Varun the Silent, he rarely spoke, but his eyes missed nothing. His bow rested across his back, and his hand often hovered near the quiver at his hip. He didn’t join the banter, but Surya felt his presence like a watchful hawk circling above.

  The last was Pratap, a spear-wielding warrior, broad-shouldered and unyielding. His voice was clipped, precise, and full of discipline. “Enough chatter. Dharan is commander for a reason. If the prince marches as one of us, then we show him the Garudasthala’s discipline, not childish squabbling.”

  Meera rolled her eyes. “There he goes again, quoting Rudra’s teachings as if every word were a holy mantra.”

  Pratap didn’t flinch. “When your blade fails, discipline remains.”

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  Surya found himself smiling at their rhythm of clashing words. They were not mere soldiers. They were individuals, bound by loyalty and training, hardened by the battlefield. And now, for this journey, they were his comrades.

  By midday, they stopped at a stepwell where travelers refreshed themselves. Farmers with ox carts gave respectful bows, but there was no excessive fawning. In Suryavarta, even common folk carried themselves with dignity; strength and Dharma were shared by all.

  As the others drank and rested, Dharan drew Surya aside.

  “You fought like a storm against the giant,” Dharan said, arms crossed. “But raw strength is only the beginning. Out here, far from palace walls, battles are won by preparation, formation, and trust. You must learn to fight as part of a unit.”

  Surya bowed slightly. “Then teach me.”

  Dharan studied him for a long moment, then gave a short nod. “Tonight, we begin.”

  That evening, as campfires flickered beneath the stars, training began. The Garudasthala formed a small circle, with Dharan directing.

  “Formation drill,” he ordered. “Prince in center.”

  Meera darted around Surya with her blades, striking fast and low. Pratap’s spear thrust from the other side, sharp as lightning. Surya deflected, blocked, and countered, his Asura’s Strength making him faster than expected—but Dharan barked a command, and suddenly Meera dropped low while Pratap lunged high. Their attacks came not as individuals but as a single, flowing rhythm.

  Varun, silent until now, loosed a blunted arrow that grazed Surya’s arm.

  “Three fronts at once?” Surya grunted, parrying.

  “That’s a unit,” Dharan said firmly. “You may overpower one foe, but against many, strength without coordination is wasted. Feel their rhythm. Flow with it. Only then will you lead us.”

  The training went deep into the night. Sweat soaked Surya’s tunic, but exhilaration burned brighter than exhaustion. He was learning—not just how to fight as one, but how to command by understanding.

  Later, as the fires dimmed, Virat flopped onto the grass with a groan. “They’re trying to kill you, Surya. And me, by extension. How do you still have energy left?”

  Meera, still grinning despite her own sweat, tossed a twig at him. “Maybe because he’s not whining every second like you.”

  Virat shot up, bristling. “I’m not whining—”

  “Enough,” Pratap said, though even his strict tone softened with fatigue.

  Varun finally spoke, his voice quiet, almost startling. “The prince adapts quickly. If he keeps this pace, he’ll surpass us all sooner than we think.”

  All eyes turned to him, surprised that he had spoken more than a word.

  Surya inclined his head. “Not surpass. Stand beside.”

  For the first time, a faint smile tugged at Varun’s lips.

  As they prepared to sleep, Sage Vashrya sat apart, chanting mantras under his breath. The firelight flickered against his staff, and Surya approached quietly.

  “Guruji,” Surya said softly. “The Garudasthala train my body. But what of the mantras? What lies ahead for me in Kashi?”

  The sage’s eyes glimmered in the dark. “The elements whisper to you already, Prince. Fire, wind, water, earth—they await your call. But to master them is not to command, but to become one with them. In Kashi, you will learn the path. Until then… listen. Feel the world around you. Even now, the earth beneath your feet hums with life.”

  Surya closed his eyes. His Astral Perception flickered, and indeed, the night was alive—the grass breathing, the rivers pulsing, even the stars above radiating energy unseen by others.

  When he opened his eyes, the sage was already silent again, lost in his chants.

  The next day, they moved deeper into the countryside. Villages welcomed them with offerings of milk and grain, children pointing excitedly at the Garudasthala insignia. But beneath the peace, Surya felt unease. His Astral Perception caught faint wisps of dark mist seeping from cracks in the earth—too faint for others to see, but real.

  The Rakshasa corruption was spreading.

  As the road stretched on, the seven travelers continued—training, laughing, arguing, and growing together. The journey to Kashi had only begun, but already, Surya felt the bonds weaving between them like threads of steel.

  Seven companions on a single road.

  And one destiny awaiting at its end.