Chapter 3: Ananya and the Call to Battle

Her name is Ananya—a beauty who could make anyone pause, but her strength is even greater. If she had another hundred years, she’d surely surpass even the old monsters from the foreign clans. But fate waits for no one. She hasn’t even reached her prime, yet here she is, forced to fight in the War of Ten Thousand Clans. Because my status is low, I’m usually stuck sweeping the gate. Unexpectedly, that’s how I got to know the ashram leader. Greeting Ananya every day, we built a small, respectful bond. I’d hoped that connection might someday open the door to real cultivation. Instead, I’ve been hurled straight onto the battlefield.

Ananya always walked past me with quiet dignity, never flaunting her status. Sometimes, when the sun was just peeking over the horizon, she’d offer a nod or a gentle smile as I swept the steps. Once, she handed me a leftover laddoo, wrapped in banana leaf, asking if I’d eaten. The laddoo was a bit stale, but the sweetness lingered on my tongue long after she’d walked away. That small kindness gave me a thread of belonging in this daunting world. Now, seeing her shoulders squared and eyes shining with resolve, I feel both pride and worry. I stare at her, eager to witness the power of the ancient tongue for myself. Suddenly, glowing text appears in the sky. After flashing several times, the deep toll of a conch bell fills the air. The S3 season is officially underway—the War of Ten Thousand Clans has begun.

A shiver runs down my spine. The sound of the conch—shankha—echoes through the air, sending goosebumps up my arms. The arena glows with an ancient, eerie light, and for a heartbeat, all voices go silent. This is it—the moment that will decide Bharat’s fate. Even the pigeons on the temple eaves seem to freeze, wings half-open, as if the whole world is holding its breath.

The people of the Sakura Isles are the first to target Bharat. A man, barely five feet tall, eyes Ananya as if she’s already his prize:

“You can’t escape. Why not come with me? At least you’ll keep your life.”

He licks his lips, accent thick, gaze crawling with disrespect. Disgust twists Ananya’s face, and she’s ready to strike him down.

A ripple of anger passes through our group. Someone spits on the ground, muttering, “Shameless fellow.”

“Ashram leader, you still need to preserve your strength. Leave this one to me.”

An old man with white hair steps forward. He is the grand elder of our ashram—one of the last elders left in Bharat, and still formidable.

He touches his forehead and heart in silent prayer before stepping out. The grand elder’s white kurta flutters in the breeze, his every movement full of gravitas. I remember him handing out prasad during festivals, voice booming with shlokas. Today, his eyes are steely, carrying the pain of all we’ve lost.

The Sakura Isles man grins wickedly:

“Saito Goro, at your service.”

“Please.”

The grand elder bows. Saito Goro shouts, then starts chanting in the divine tongue.

The air thickens with tension. The crowd goes silent, every breath held. Even the crows on the neem tree stop cawing, as if the universe itself is waiting for the first words of battle.