Devavrata's youthful impatience simmered beneath the surface, a tempest waiting to erupt. One afternoon, when he was Fifteen summers old, as the river's gentle murmur played beneath the towering trees, frustration gnawed at his heart.
"Why won't you let me train with the others?" he snapped, voice sharp as a cutting wind. "I'm no longer a child! I can handle the trials. You're holding me back."
Ganga's serene eyes darkened with concern. "Strength is not just power, Devavrata," she said softly. "It is control. Without it, even the mightiest force is chaos."
But the boy's fury blazed like wildfire. Devavrata's chest heaved, words caught in a storm of frustration and longing.
"I'm tired of waiting," he whispered, voice cracking. "All these years of training, of restraint... I want to prove myself. Prove that I'm worthy."
He charged forward, spear raised, his movements wild and untamed. His eyes, once pools of storm-grey calm, now flashed with reckless fire. His breath hitched. The pent-up energy within him surged suddenly, a flicker of light blooming beneath his skin. Without meaning to, a faint shimmer of lotus-blue energy burst from his palm, crackling like lightning caught in water. The river seemed to darken beneath the shadow of his wrath.
"Stop!" Ganga's voice rang out, clear as a bell and deep as the ocean's roar.
With a wave of her hand, the waters surged. Ganga's form shimmered and expanded, her body glowing with celestial light that scattered the shadows. Water lifted like serpents from the riverbed, twisting and coiling around her like living armor.
She moved with a grace that was both beautiful and terrifying — a Sovereign of the Waters. Her hair flowed like a silver cascade, eyes burning like twin stars.
With a single motion, she summoned a tidal wave of liquid force, gentle yet unyielding, and swept Devavrata off his feet. He tumbled through the air, crashing into the riverbank, gasping but unharmed.
"Devavrata," she said, voice firm but filled with motherly care, "your Lotus power has awakened — but you lack control. This is only the beginning. Such power is a blessing and a burden. Recklessness will only bring you harm."
Devavrata's chest heaved, tears mingling with the water. "I'm sorry, Mother. I wanted to be strong… but I lost myself."
Ganga knelt beside him, the celestial radiance softening to a tender glow. She laid a hand over his heart, and he felt the pulse of the river's eternal calm fill him.
"Strength without harmony is a curse," she said, "but every storm can teach us to find the calm. We will spar often — not to break one another, but to learn the flow of battle and the stillness within."
The boy nodded, renewed resolve shining in his eyes. From that day, their training deepened — a dance of power and peace, spear and stream, anger and understanding.
Beneath the watchful gaze of the river's eternal stars, Ganga led Devavrata through rigorous training. The riverbed was their arena, the sound of flowing water their chorus.
"Strength alone will not save you," she told him one evening, as he struggled to lift a heavy stone submerged beneath the water's surface.
"But how can I protect the kingdom if I am not strong?" he asked, his small hands trembling with effort.
"Because strength without control is like a river unleashed—destructive and wild. You must learn to channel your power."
With a sigh, he tried again. This time, as he focused, the stone shifted slightly, as if moved by an invisible current.
Ganga's smile was proud. "Good. You are learning. Your body will grow stronger, but your spirit must be your guide."
In this stage, Devavrata learned the art of stilling the self. Meditation became his furnace. Breathwork his chisel. He sat for hours without motion, his body a vessel, his spirit a thread woven into the world's great loom. The qi of the river, wind, and sun gathered into him. Insects landed upon him without fear. Even birds came to rest on his shoulders, mistaking him for sculpture. In the stillness, the river's murmur filled the spaces between his thoughts. Was this the voice of fate? Or just the echo of his own longing? He wished to glimpse the future hidden beneath the water's mirror.
At Sixteen, Ganga led him beneath the surface—to a submerged shrine forgotten by both man and time. There, in the cradle of drowned temples, she gave him his next task.
"Forge your Foundation," she commanded. Her eyes held no mercy, only endless expectation. Could love be measured in hardship? He wondered if her strength was a gift or a burden he must bear alone.
Devavrata swallowed hard, the cold water lapping at his skin, the chill biting deeper than any physical frost.
"Mother," he began, struggling to hide the tremor in his voice, "why must it be so harsh? Must strength always demand such sacrifice?"
Ganga's eyes softened for a heartbeat, reflecting the glimmering runes beneath the water's surface as she said "To cultivate the soul is to build a foundation as deep and unyielding as the riverbed itself. Without it, even the mightiest power is nothing but drifting water."
"Foundation is the root of all cultivation. It is the vessel that holds the essence of your being steady through tempests and trials. Without a stable core, your Lotus power—your soul—will scatter like petals in the wind."
Devavrata looked down at his trembling hands, feeling the faint pulse of lotus energy within, wild and untamed.
"But what if I falter?" he whispered. "What if the weight breaks me?"
Ganga's gaze was unwavering, fierce as the river's current in flood.
"To falter is to learn," she said. "To break is to rebuild stronger. The heavens do not demand perfection—they demand perseverance. Your path is yours alone"
Devavrata nodded slowly, the storm inside him quieting beneath her words.
"Then I will build my foundation," he vowed. "With every drop of sweat, every moment of doubt. I will become the river—and the mountain beneath it."
Ganga reached out, her hand brushing his hair like a silent blessing.
"Good. For in the crucible of hardship, your true self will emerge—not as a fleeting spark, but as an eternal flame."
Devavrata's meridians, once gentle channels, now began to expand, stretch, and rewire. Qi no longer flowed—it surged, churned, tested him. He faced internal chaos, spiritual storms that shook his bones without wind. Visions came—of himself as king, as tyrant, as corpse. He fought not beasts but mirrors. Each one reflected a self he might become. And with each cracked illusion, a new part of him was born.
Foundation Establishment was not strength—it was surrender. Ego fractured. Lies dissolved. And from that disarray, something stable emerged. A spiritual root, deep and sure, untouched by fear or title.
After long days of training, twilight fell and fireflies flickered like stars came down to earth, mother and son shared moments of quiet affection.
One evening when he was 17 Summers old, Devavrata lay on her lap, the river's song humming in the background.
"Mother, will I ever be like Father?" he asked, his voice soft and uncertain.
Ganga kissed his forehead gently. "Your father is a great king, Devavrata, but your path is different. You carry a weight no mortal man has borne."
The boy's eyes searched hers. "Am I alone in this?"
"Never," she whispered. "I will be with you always—through every trial, every sorrow."
He smiled faintly, drawing strength from her warmth.
By eighteen, his energy could no longer be contained.
Qi coiled inside him like a serpent seeking form. His dantian swelled with heat, with force. And then, in a night of thunder and riverfire, it crystallized. His will became light, his light became form.
Core Formation.
A golden orb of pure energy formed in his lower abdomen, pulsing in rhythm with his heart. It was not just power—it was him, distilled and made radiant. Trees bowed in his presence. Water curved away from his touch. He could command—but he chose to listen.
Beyond the sanctuary, the kingdom of Hastinapura was a realm teetering on the edge of unrest. Shantanu's absence stirred whispers in the marble halls.
In the royal court, shadows of intrigue twisted around the throne.
"Without Devavrata, the heir, the kingdom is vulnerable," murmured one noble to another.
"His mother took him away," said another bitterly. "The king's bloodline is lost to the waters."
But Shantanu's heart ached most of all. He stood alone on the palace balcony, gazing toward the river that held his son.