"You can focus and you can follow instructions," said Svetavastra to the prince who he called back from the meditative state. In the quietude of the twilight, his clear voice boomed. "You'll do. I accept you as my disciple."

Aryaman leapt with a mix of relief and joy, an unexpected warmth spreading through him at the acknowledgment of his efforts.

“Thank you, cultivator Svetavastra!” He bowed and touched Svetavastra’s feet for his blessings. “May I call you as my Gurudeva from now on?”

“Yes,” said Svetavastra and gave his blessings with his right palm on top of Aryaman’s bent head. “May you shine bright in any form of darkness.”

“Thank you, Gurudeva!” Aryaman’s voice echoed with emotion, eyes moist with happiness.

He turned to Himmat, who stood by, unsure of what was happening. Himmat neighed softly responding to Aryaman’s excitement.

“Why have you not accepted me as your disciple?” the preta asked Svetavastra, its voice only audible to the blindfolded cultivator.

Svetavastra shrugged. “You did not ask, and you do not have enough focus,” he said to the preta.

Aryaman remembering something, turned abruptly to Svetavastra.

“What would be your guru dakshina, Gurudeva?” The prince said.

“Hmm,” said Svetavastra, thinking it over. It was a standard practice for the disciple to pay dakshina to his guru for his tutelage. The dakshina could be anything the guru wishes it to be, it could be monetary, or even acts of service for the guru. Whatever the guru deemed fit as payment would be the dakshina.

“That is for a time when I consider you properly trained,” said Svetavastra. “You need not worry about it for the time being.”

“As you wish, Gurudeva,” said Aryaman. "What should we do now?"

“I would like to meet the King of Dayita,” said Svetavastra his gaze drifting towards the direction of Arang, where the city lights began to twinkle against the blue of the night. “We need his support for what comes next.”

“Of course, Gurudeva,” said Aryaman. “We can head to Arang immediately. Would you like to ride, Himmat?”

Svetavastra looked at the scared horse, who hid behind the prince and chuckled.

“That’s alright,” said Svetavastra. “You can take Himmat, I will meet you at the city gates.”

Aryaman nodded, got on top of Himmat, gripping the reins with ease. In a burst of energy, Himmat galloped towards the city of Arang. As Aryaman leaned forward into Himmat’s swift and powerful strides and raced against the wind, the surroundings quickly turned to a blur and before they knew it, they reached the city gates.

Aryaman slowed Himmat down and got down to catch a breath. Svetavastra was already there waiting there for him.

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General Pushya's boots echoed ominously as he approached the dimly lit chamber where the old man was confined. The guards stationed outside the door snapped to attention, their spears clinking softly. With a dismissive wave of his hand, General Pushya signalled for privacy. The door creaked open, and he stepped into the gloom, his figure a shadow against the sparse light filtering in from the narrow window.

The old man sat on a simple cot, his posture betraying none of the weariness his situation warranted. As General Pushya approached, the old man's eyes, sharp and discerning, fixed upon him. There was no fear in those eyes, only a deep sense of weariness.

"General Pushya," the old man greeted, his voice steady.

“King Nahusha,” said the general. “When will you tell me about the mani? I’m reaching the end of my patience.”

The old man's lips twitched into a knowing smile. "Ah, yes, the mani. But like you made the deal, you need to defeat the one who is meant to own it.”

“Who is this person?” asked Pushya.

“I hear of a blind cultivator,” said the old man. “He seems to go by the name of Svetavastra.”

"Svetavastra?" Pushya repeated, the name was unfamiliar to him. “I haven’t heard of any person with that name.”

“You should pay more attention to the gossip of your own soldiers,” remarked the old man. “Even, I, confined within these walls, have heard of his deeds against the undead.”

General Pushya’s brows furrowed. The undead? He thought.

“The mani will go to this Svetavastra?” He asked the old man.

“If you can defeat him,” said King Nahusha. “It will, of course, go to you.”

General Pushya fell silent, thinking about the matter.

"Why tell me this?" He asked, his tone wary.

"Because General,” the old man explained, “when fate presents us with a path, we need to take it,”

Pushya considered this, the gears of strategy already turning in his mind. "Very well," he said, at last, his decision made. "I will seek out this Svetavastra. And I will have the mani."

With those parting words, General Pushya turned and left the chamber, leaving the old man to himself. King Nahusha looked at the closed door for a long time. He had made a wild gamble based on uncertain rumours. How else could he test the strength of Svetavastra? How else could he know if he could entrust his mani to Svetavastra? This is the way, he thought to himself.

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Aryaman had introduced Svetavastra to the king of Dayita as his new guru. Svetavastra stood in front of the king in the empty courtroom. The king sat upon his throne, his countenance a mask of regal duty shadowed by a touch of melancholy. The moonlight cast its glow into the large hall from the large windows and the openings to the balconies.

“This is a huge palace,” the preta talked more to himself as it appreciated the grandeur of the Dayita palace from inside.

"Your Majesty," Svetavastra said, his voice echoing slightly in the grand room. “I request a private audience.”

The king nodded and Aryaman left the hall and waited outside with the guards.

“I come to you with the heaven’s mandate,” Svetavastra said in a calm voice. “I come to you to take the son of Ila with me as I investigate and fight the dark forces that have crept into Bhu-loka.”

The king's eyes narrowed. Ila, he thought to himself. He felt a sharp ache in his heart as the floodgates of his memories surfaced images of his time together with Ila from the past.

"Svetavastra," the king replied, his voice tinged with a mix of wariness and sorrow. “What if I refuse?”

"Your son, Aryaman, bears the blood of gods,” said Svetavastra. “How can you deny the call to fulfil his duty?”

The king paused, his thoughts a tempest of conflict and duty. The prospect of sending his only son into such peril gnawed at his soul, yet the fate of their world hung in the balance.

"Aryaman is all that remains of Ila in this world," the king murmured, his voice heavy with grief. "I fear for his safety. I did not wish for him to be entangled with the affairs of Swarga-loka, he may have the blood of gods but he is also a human. Only a human like me. That’s why I never wanted him to learn about his true self. That’s a burden far greater for him to bear let alone being a future king of a mighty kingdom.”

“I can understand you,” said Svetavastra. “But you cannot make those choices for him. It’s for him to decide the path he wants to take.”

The king fell silent for a while.

"I'm entrusting my only son to you," he said grimly breaking the silence. "Please take care of him. I ask of you not as a king but as a father.”

"I will," Svetavastra said solemnly.