Chapter 3: Rumours and Recruitment in the Dev Sabha

"Arrey, did you hear? Field Marshal Arjun has arrived at the Eastern Heaven War Zone of the Dev Sabha."

Amidst the bustling chaos of the Dev Sabha’s Eastern Heaven War Zone, gossip zipped from one immortal to the next. WhatsApp groups flashed with memes and GIFs, profile icons blinking out as officers tried to keep things hush-hush.

"Field Marshal Arjun? Which Arjun, yaar? Could it be Arjun Singh? The Dev Sabha is really taking the Bajpur asura campaign this seriously?"

"Arey, Bajpur was Dev Sabha ka hi toh hissa, na? Purane zamane se. This time, I heard order came from..."

"Bas karo, yaar, don't say it."

"Haan, haan, thanks for the reminder, warna yeh WhatsApp group bhi udd jayega."

The air was thick with tension and a comic sense of secrecy. Even the digital world felt heavy with upper-caste hush.

"Also, I heard the 118th Regiment of the 4th Army in the Eastern Heaven War Zone is planning to recruit a batch of rogue immortals for a mission with a one-in-ten-thousand chance of survival. If you survive the war, you can become a Dev Yodha directly—no more tribulations."

"Tough job, yaar. Bahut mushkil hai bacha rehna."

Outside, the recruitment office was a riot of faces—old, young, proud, desperate. The air swirled with the sticky sweetness of spilled chai, the sizzle of pakoras in hot oil from a roadside cart, and a WhatsApp forward about the latest sampradaya scandal popping up on someone’s phone.

At the death squad recruitment office:

"I told you, old man, your cultivation isn’t enough. If you want to die, go die somewhere else."

The young clerk didn’t even look up from his register, paan-stained lips expertly spitting into a brass lota. The line stretched past the chai stall, where a nosy aunty interjected, "Arrey, these days, you can’t trust anyone—everyone’s after some treasure or the other!" Veterans sat nearby, half-bored, half-pitying, their eyes following the drama.

"Fine, fine. Since you insist on dying, who can stop you."

The guard shrugged, as if to say, in this world, death was cheaper than a cup of sweet chai.

---

"Congratulations. Out of fifty thousand death squad members, only you—a mere Maharishi—survived."

The officer’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, like offering a ladoo to a child at Diwali. Bored scribes watched, one whispering, “Wah re wah, kya naseeb hai!”

"Not bad. Welcome to the 358th Battalion of the 118th Regiment. You’re now a glorious Dev Yodha."

I stood in the dust of the camp, too tired to smile. The smell of burnt sandalwood and sweat hung in the air. Somewhere, an old Hindi song crackled on the loudspeaker.

Who am I?

I am just an unknown small soldier, number 95274065.

A number, nothing more. Even the chaiwalla at the corner wouldn’t remember me tomorrow.

---

"Number 95274065, your vacation has arrived. You have three thousand years off. If you don't return on time, you know the consequences."

The adjutant’s voice was flat, but his eyes twinkled with envy. Three thousand years—a king’s reward in this place.

"Yes, sir."

I packed my things, slipping them into my Kamandal World. As I left the barracks, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer and the shouts of off-duty Dev Yodhas haggling over cricket scores echoed through the endless tents. I glanced at my number slip—the digits blurred as I blinked, a rare tear threatening. Just another face in the crowd.

The Battle of Bajpur ended thirty thousand years ago. I had advanced from Maharishi to Siddharishi, served for thirty thousand years, now given three thousand years off. This was the life of a high-level Dev Yodha.

But where could I go? After a lifetime spent chasing Param Siddhi, never marrying, never raising a family—where was home?

I wanted to go home, just to see it again.

Almost fifty thousand years had passed.

In the lower realm, ascending was possible with enough cultivation, but descending back was nearly impossible—just barely within reach.

I shifted, turning into a wisp of breeze, disappearing from the Eastern Heavenly Gate. As I left, a flock of birds startled from a neem tree, scattering into the sky. The gate guard barely looked up—immortals coming and going were as routine as a power cut in Kaveripur.