Chapter 2: Youth, Loss, and Mockery

In the S1 season, Bharat suffered a disastrous defeat. Eighty percent of our spiritual energy was taken away, leaving us without the basic resources for cultivation. The older generation of powerful sadhaks fell one after another. By the S2 season, only middle-aged representatives remained. Now, in the S3 season, even those faces have vanished. Almost everyone is frighteningly young—barely in their twenties or thirties, and many can’t even pronounce “Astra Vidya,” let alone summon ancient protectors to fight.

People crowd around the battered ashram notice board, scanning the list of participants—so many unfamiliar names, so few elders. The kitchen is silent, save for the distant clang of a steel tumbler and the sharp tang of haldi in the air. Some girls, barely out of their teens, clutch their dupattas tighter, eyes wide with fear. A tiffin box lies untouched in the corner, forgotten. The elders’ absence is a physical ache, a hollow in every heart. This new generation can only gulp down their dread and pray that courage will bloom when most needed.

From across the arena, the people of the Sakura Isles are singing and dancing, their movements jerky and strange, nothing like our garba or bhangra. One of the older sevadars snorts, “Yeh log apni nautanki dikhane aa gaye hain.” Their performance is unsettling, almost mocking. “Bharat, you’re finished this time.”

“Our Emperor has said, no surrenders will be accepted.”

“You’d better hold out a bit longer, otherwise it won’t be fun.”

“Here’s a tip: your women can surrender.”

The moment these words ring out, the people of Bharat are instantly enraged. Even the calmest sadhak’s jaw tightens. Some start chanting Hanuman Chalisa under their breath, knuckles white. Everyone knows the Sakura Isles have always wanted to destroy Bharat. But now, we can barely protect ourselves. The competition is about to begin. Fight to the end—the last one standing wins. Every participant is radiating power: some wield golden trishuls, judging all beneath the sky; some hold staffs, laying down deadly formations with a wave; others chant ancient mantras, strange energies swirling around them. And me? I can only hide behind the ashram leader, clinging to the smallest scrap of safety. I am just a sevak, not even good enough to be cannon fodder. But after two crushing defeats, Bharat has so few sadhaks left that even I, a menial, have been dragged in.

My heart thumped so hard, I was sure even the pujari at the mandir could hear it—but I kept my face blank, like Ma taught me. I fiddled with the drawstring of my pyjama, wishing I could just disappear behind the ashram leader’s dupatta. There’s a faint whiff of jasmine from her hair, and somehow, in her shadow, I feel a flicker of hope. For a moment, I remember Amma lighting a diya for my safe return. “Arjun, stay back—don’t do anything stupid.”

The beautiful ashram leader’s voice is calm, but there’s steel in it.