The soft sunlight bathed Gokul in golden hues, the gentle morning breeze carrying the scent of mud, butter, and freshly bloomed lotuses. It had been four years since Maharishi Rudra chose Gokul as the home for his ashram, and every passing day had seen the once-quiet village transform into a sacred land of learning and leelas. While Krishna's divine mischief continued to win hearts, a silent transformation was happening under the strict but loving tutelage of Rudra.
The ashram was built at the edge of Yamuna, away from the village's central buzz yet close enough to hear the distant laughter of Krishna's playful giggles. It was made of stone, wood, and divine inscriptions—etched by Rudra himself—imbued with protective mantras. The training grounds echoed with sounds of arrows slicing the wind, fists striking trees, and mantras being chanted in perfect rhythm.
Rudra had only accepted three disciples—Karna, Eklavya, and Ishita—but under his guidance, it felt like they were warriors destined to shake the world.
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A Glimpse of the Divine Routine
Every morning began with Brahma Muhurat meditation. The disciples sat cross-legged, facing the rising sun, focusing on their Prana Urja, breathing in cosmic energy, and cleansing their minds. Rudra would walk behind them, silent and still, like a mountain watching the rivers.
After meditation came the Dhanurvidya training. But Rudra didn't teach them bows like ordinary gurus. Instead, he taught them to feel the prana—to let it flow through their veins, surround their arrows, and empower their strikes.
> "You do not need a thousand weapons," Rudra once said. "Perfect one, and let your prana make it divine."
Karna's bow would ignite with flickers of golden flame, while Eklavya's arrows became silent blurs. Ishita, with a calm demeanor, created tiny sharp shards of ice around her, orbiting like guardians. They could already pierce through thick trees and crack stones with a single strike.
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The Two Divine Brothers
But it wasn't just his disciples that Rudra trained. Two young children often found sneaking into the training field—Balram and Krishna.
Krishna, now four years old, was a glowing bundle of mischief. He was clever, mysterious, and yet, deeply attached to Rudra. Only two people in the world could command Krishna's attention—Maiya Yashoda and Rudra Bhaiya.
Every time Rudra called out in his deep voice, "Krishna!" the child would stop whatever chaos he was about to create and run toward him like a puppy caught stealing butter.
> "Bhaiya, may I fight too?"
"Not yet, little Govind. First learn to walk without falling over Gopi's pots."
Balram, however, had taken a strange liking to Rudra. His tough, protective, tsundere personality often hid his emotions, but in front of Rudra, even he lowered his gaze and listened with folded hands.
> "Why are you always silent in front of me, Balram?" Rudra once teased.
"Because… you're stronger than Dadaji and you made my brother a flute," he mumbled, eyes burning with envy.
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The Flute and the Hal
It had been a special day when Krishna pouted and tugged Rudra's dhoti, saying, "Bhaiya, I want something to play." Rudra had laughed, and after meditating under a banyan tree, he summoned wood from Kalpa Vriksha, added Mor Pankh, and created a divine flute—Mayuraa.
The first time Krishna played it, Gokul froze. Birds stopped mid-flight, cows looked up, gopis dropped their pots, and even Rudra paused during his sparring session. The melody was not just music—it was divine grace, a spiritual embrace to every soul listening.
The next morning, Rudra noticed Balram watching silently, fists clenched. Rudra understood. That evening, he went to the forest, chose a rare blackwood, infused it with Shakti Mantras, and carved a divine Hal (plough)—one that could extend, shrink, and multiply his strength tenfold.
When he handed it to Balram, the boy's lips trembled. "Bhaiya, this is for me?"
> "For the one who watches but never asks. This is your strength, Balram. Never let it waver."
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A Disciples' Turning Point
Back in the ashram, the disciples had begun reaching new realms of Prana Urja. After years of relentless training, Rudra finally allowed them to attempt Prana Mahatva, the 7th realm—a realm of divine might, where mortal bodies transcend their natural limits.
The awakening was not simple.
Karna, during an intense training session under the blazing sun, lost consciousness. When he awoke, fire had erupted around him, but his body didn't burn. His Siddhi had awakened—Sun Fire—a burning aura that could reduce shields to ash.
Eklavya activated his Eye of Hunter during a nighttime duel. His eyes glowed violet, locking onto Karna. The moment he activated it, Karna's legs stopped moving. "I can't move!" he yelled. Rudra smiled. "The mark of the perfect hunter. You may trap gods one day."
Ishita, the youngest, awakened hers during a waterfall meditation. The cold mist gathered around her, turning solid. A sudden burst froze the waterfall midair. She gasped. The ice shimmered—Bone Chilling Ice, able to freeze someone from the soul out.
They were not children anymore. They were warriors in the making.
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Whispers of Radha and the Divine Connection
Meanwhile, Krishna's heart had found its echo. A girl named Radha, delicate as a moonbeam, wise beyond her years, had begun appearing during flute sessions. Krishna would sometimes turn, mid-melody, just to find her already waiting. Rudra noticed the change. The boy who ran around teasing everyone now sat under trees, quietly watching the breeze or smiling with no reason.
Rudra once asked, "You've grown quiet lately, Krishna."
The child giggled, "It's your fault, Bhaiya… You gave me a flute. Now I don't need words."
And Rudra understood. The first strings of divine love had been plucked. A love destined to echo for eternity.
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Toward the Next Dawn
By the end of the eighth year, the three disciples had turned into legends-in-the-making. With their Siddhis awakened, their bodies brimming with Prana Mahatva, and their minds rich with Ved and Shaastra knowledge, they were ready.
One day, as Rudra sat meditating near Yamuna, Krishna—now 8 years old—sat beside him.
> "Bhaiya, when will you leave?"
"Not until the world knows who you are… and not until my children are ready."
Krishna smiled mysteriously, "Then I'll make sure you stay a little longer."
And in that moment, as the river flowed, as the sun dipped behind the trees, and as flute music danced with the wind, Rudra knew—
The age of Dharma was coming.
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