The room had remained silent for nearly three minutes.
Under normal circumstances, three minutes meant very little.
Inside this particular hall, however, those three minutes felt extraordinarily long.
No one reached for the tea placed before them.
No one shuffled the documents scattered across the long sandalwood table.
Even the assistants standing beside the walls instinctively controlled their breathing.
Several elderly men and women sat on opposite sides of the table.
Their clothes were different, their languages of scholarship different, and even the traditions they represented had developed separately across centuries.
Yet at this moment, every one of them wore almost exactly the same expression.
Disbelief.
At the head of one side sat Acharya Vedant Shastri, one of the most respected representatives of the Indian religious and cultural community within the Eastern Federation.
His white hair reached his shoulders, while a simple sandalwood mark rested upon his forehead.
Across from him sat Master Liang Wenru, representing one of the Federation’s most important Chinese cultural and religious preservation councils.
Beside them were Buddhist scholars, historians of ancient civilization, Sanskrit researchers, classical Chinese archivists, archaeological experts and representatives from several cultural preservation institutions.
Usually, bringing so many scholars into one room guaranteed arguments.
Today, strangely, nobody was arguing.
Because spread across the table before them were copies of Krishna Li Vardhan’s works.
Or, as most of the Chinese entertainment industry currently knew him—
Li Yichen.
Acharya Vedant slowly removed his spectacles.
He cleaned them.
Put them back on.
Then looked at the pages again.
It was already the third time he had done so.
Finally, Master Liang couldn’t endure the silence anymore.
“Are we certain?”
Nobody immediately answered him.
Master Liang frowned.
“I am asking whether we are absolutely certain that this young man has never entered the restricted archives.”
A middle-aged official sitting farther down the table immediately responded.
“We have verified it.”
“Once?”
“Three times.”
“And?”
“No authorization.”
Master Liang’s fingers tapped lightly against the table.
“What about his production team?”
“Checked.”
“His writers?”
“Checked.”
“Researchers?”
“Checked.”
“Family connections?”
The official hesitated for a fraction of a second before choosing his words carefully.
“We investigated every legitimate route through which his creative team could have obtained access to restricted cultural records.
We found nothing.”
Silence returned.
An elderly Sanskrit scholar suddenly laughed.
It wasn’t amusement.
It was the helpless laughter of someone whose understanding of a situation had completely failed him.
“Then someone explain this.”
He lifted several pages.
“Explain how he wrote this.”
Nobody did.
Because they couldn’t.
The Eastern Federation was young compared to the civilizations from which it had been born.
India.
China.
Korea.
Japan.
Pakistan.
Five ancient cultural regions had eventually been brought beneath one federal structure, but political unity could never automatically repair what history had destroyed.
Wars had destroyed libraries.
Foreign invasions had scattered manuscripts.
Political turmoil had erased traditions.
Natural disasters had buried temples.
Entire schools of philosophy had disappeared.
Countless stories survived only in fragments.
Some ancient myths existed merely as names written upon damaged stone tablets.
Others survived as incomplete verses copied by monks generations after the originals had vanished.
There were even stories remembered differently by different regions.
For decades, the Federation had spent enormous resources recovering those fragments.
Archaeologists excavated ruins.
Historians compared foreign records.
Linguists reconstructed dead dialects.
Religious institutions preserved oral traditions.
Digital restoration teams attempted to recover damaged texts.
Some recovered materials were eventually released publicly.
Others remained restricted because scholars themselves had not yet reached a consensus regarding their interpretation.
And yet—
A young actor had written scenes remarkably similar to several of them.
Not identical.
That would almost have been easier to explain.
Instead, the disturbing part was that Krishna’s versions sometimes filled the missing portions between surviving fragments with such natural continuity that the ancient records suddenly made more sense.
Acharya Vedant opened another document.
“Devavrata.”
The single name caused several Indian scholars to straighten.
He continued.
“The oath.”
His voice became quieter.
“The relationship between the son and the father.
The sacrifice.
The consequence of the promise.
The transformation of Devavrata into Bhishma.”
Another scholar nodded slowly.
“The surviving references never provide a complete narrative.”
“Exactly.”
Acharya Vedant placed his palm upon Krishna’s manuscript.
“But his interpretation connects four separate fragments preserved in four different archives.”
A woman responsible for ancient literary preservation added,
“And he does not write Bhishma merely as an invincible warrior.”
Her expression became complicated.
“He writes him as a man imprisoned by the greatness of his own promise.”
That sentence caused the room to become silent again.
Master Liang looked toward her.
“Explain.”
She turned several pages.
“According to Yichen’s interpretation, Bhishma’s vow is glorious when viewed at the moment it is taken.
A son sacrifices his future for his father’s happiness.
People celebrate him.
Heaven itself seems to recognize the magnitude of the sacrifice.”
She paused.
“But then Yichen asks another question.”
“What happens when a promise survives longer than the circumstances that created it?”
Several people looked at one another.
She continued.
“Bhishma becomes the pillar holding his dynasty together.
But because he binds himself absolutely to his oath, there are moments when the very virtue that made him great prevents him from acting freely.”
Acharya Vedant closed his eyes.
“Exactly.”
His fingers trembled slightly.
“That is why I have been unable to sleep properly since reading this.”
Master Liang stared at him.
The old Acharya laughed softly.
“I have spent forty-seven years studying what remains of our ancient traditions.
Forty-seven years.”
He tapped the manuscript.
“And this boy makes me feel as though an old storyteller simply sat beside him one evening and told him everything we lost.”
No one laughed.
Because several people had privately experienced exactly the same feeling.
Another scholar pushed forward Krishna’s broader notes concerning the Mahabharata.
Dharma.
Family.
Ambition.
Promises.
Brotherhood.
Jealousy.
Duty.
Love.
Revenge.
Political legitimacy.
The responsibilities of kings.
The consequences of silence.
The difference between righteousness and self-righteousness.
The tragedy of good men making choices that gradually create terrible outcomes.
These were not notes for a simple mythological spectacle.
They were the foundations of an entire civilization presented through human beings.
Acharya Vedant looked at the character names Krishna had reconstructed.
Bhishma.
Karna.
Arjuna.
Bheema.
Yudhishthira.
Duryodhana.
Draupadi.
Kunti.
Gandhari.
Shakuni.
Dronacharya.
Balarama.
And eventually—
Krishna.
His gaze stopped there.
For a long time.
Then he murmured,
“He understands something very important.”
“What?”
“He isn’t treating them as gods and legends first.”
The others looked toward him.
“He is treating them as people first.”
Acharya Vedant’s eyes sharpened.
“That is why audiences will understand them.”
Master Liang leaned backward.
Although the Mahabharata originated primarily from the Indian civilizational inheritance of the Federation, he understood immediately why the project mattered far beyond one region.
China had lost things too.
Everyone had.
Old legends.
Ancient heroes.
Forgotten dynasties.
Philosophical stories that once taught children morality without making morality feel like a lecture.
If entertainment could restore emotional connections to those traditions—
Then perhaps cultural recovery did not have to remain trapped inside museums and academic journals.
Master Liang suddenly asked,
“What else has the boy written?”
An assistant changed the display.
Several other works appeared.
The scholars began discussing them.
Some contained references to ancient philosophy.
Some used cultural symbolism with startling accuracy.
Others transformed incomplete mythological concepts into modern entertainment without making them feel cheap.
More importantly, Krishna did something that many creators failed to do.
He didn’t lecture his audience.
He entertained them.
People laughed.
People cried.
People discussed characters.
Young viewers repeated dialogues.
Fan communities debated motivations.
And somewhere inside all that entertainment, forgotten cultural ideas began quietly returning to public conversation.
Master Liang’s expression gradually changed.
“This…”
He looked toward the Federation cultural representative.
“This is precisely what the cultural revitalization plan was created for.”
The official nodded.
“Yes.”
Acharya Vedant looked up.
“What plan?”
The official was silent momentarily.
Then he realized that almost everyone present possessed sufficient clearance.
He opened a document on the central screen.
At the top appeared the emblem of the Eastern Federation.
Below it were several words.
Eastern Civilization Cultural Restoration and Entertainment Initiative.
Shen Lihua, who had been invited because of her professional association with Krishna and her involvement in several of his projects, had been sitting quietly near the end of the table.
Her eyes widened.
She had heard rumors.
Almost every major entertainment company had.
But rumors were very different from seeing the actual policy.
The official began explaining.
“The Federation reached a conclusion several years ago.”
He looked around the room.
“Archives can preserve civilization.”
His finger touched the screen.
“But archives alone cannot make people love civilization.”
Nobody interrupted.
“A recovered manuscript stored inside a protected building may survive another thousand years.
But if ordinary citizens never know the people, emotions and ideas contained within it, then culturally speaking, part of that civilization remains dead.”
The next page appeared.
Film.
Television.
Animation.
Literature.
Games.
Music.
Opera.
Digital entertainment.
Museums.
Education.
Tourism.
Cultural exhibitions.
Every sector was listed.
“The Federation therefore established a long-term policy.
Any creator capable of producing a work that successfully reconstructs, represents or revives an important portion of the ancient cultural heritage of the Eastern Federation—and whose interpretation can withstand evaluation by recognized historical and religious authorities—can receive federal cultural support.”
Shen Lihua’s heart started beating faster.
“How much support?”
The official looked at her.
“That depends upon the project.”
“Funding?”
“Possible.”
“Historical locations?”
“Possible.”
“Museums?”
“Possible.”
“Artifacts?”
“Replicas, certainly.
Authentic artifacts depending upon preservation requirements.”
“Military assistance for large scenes?”
“If approved and necessary for cultural production.”
Her eyes grew wider.
“National broadcasters?”
“Yes.”
“Theatre distribution?”
“Yes.”
“International promotion?”
“Yes.”
“Cross-state release?”
“Naturally.”
Shen Lihua stared at him.
The official smiled faintly.
“The principle is relatively simple, Miss Shen.”
He closed the document.
“If someone genuinely succeeds in restoring something that belongs to the civilization of the entire Eastern Federation, then the Federation will not allow that person to carry the burden alone.”
Acharya Vedant looked down at Krishna’s manuscript again.
“Then submit his work.”
“We intend to.”
“Not intend.”
The old man’s voice suddenly became firm.
“Submit it.”
Several people looked toward him.
He placed his hand firmly upon the Mahabharata notes.
“I will sign the recommendation.”
A second Indian religious representative nodded.
“So will I.”
Another scholar followed.
“And I.”
Master Liang smiled.
“Add my name.”
The official blinked.
“Master Liang, Mahabharata belongs primarily—”
“To Indian civilization?”
Master Liang interrupted.
“Historically, yes.”
He looked toward the other representatives.
“But we are discussing the Eastern Federation.”
His eyes carried a trace of amusement.
“If Indian civilization recovers one of its greatest lost epics, should the Chinese state of our Federation stand outside and applaud politely?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
He tapped the table.
“We help.”
The Korean representative smiled.
“Then perhaps we should add our names as well.”
The Japanese representative nodded.
“Agreed.”
Something changed in the atmosphere.
What had begun as an academic review gradually became something much larger.
Shen Lihua looked at the signatures appearing one after another.
For several seconds, she simply stared.
Then—
Her lips slowly curved upward.
Yichen.
That brat.
Did he even understand what he had done?
Probably not.
No.
Knowing him, he would hear that several of the Federation’s most respected religious and cultural masters had formally recognized his work and respond with something ridiculous like—
“Does that mean they’ll give me a discount if I visit the museum?”
She suddenly stood.
Everyone looked toward her.
“Excuse me.”
The official blinked.
“Miss Shen?”
“I need to tell someone something.”
“Now?”
“Immediately.”
She grabbed her handbag.
Acharya Vedant watched her hurry toward the door.
Then he smiled.
“Going to find the boy?”
Shen Lihua stopped.
She turned.
“Yes.”
The old scholar’s eyes became gentle.
“Tell him something from me.”
“What?”
“Tell him not to rush.”
Shen Lihua became serious.
Acharya Vedant looked once more at the name written across the manuscript.
Mahabharata.
“If he truly intends to bring this story back…” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
His voice softened.
“…then tell him that some stories should not merely be filmed.”
“They should be carried.”
At almost exactly the same time, the young man responsible for throwing an entire room of cultural scholars into confusion was facing a considerably more dangerous challenge.
Variety-show hosts.
“Yichen!”
Krishna immediately raised his hands.
“I haven’t done anything.”
The studio erupted into laughter.
One of the Happy Camp hosts stared at him.
“I haven’t even accused you yet!”
“Experience.”
Krishna nodded solemnly.
“When someone calls my name in that tone, innocence must be declared immediately.”
Another wave of laughter swept through the audience.
Ju Jingyi lowered her head, shoulders trembling.
Kim Se-jeong clapped while laughing.
Chen Zheyuan looked away as though he wanted everyone to understand that he had absolutely nothing to do with this man.
The host pointed toward Krishna.
“You see?
This is exactly what I was talking about!”
Krishna looked confused.
“What?”
“You make trouble and then look innocent.”
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“It is the truth!”
“Where is the evidence?”
The host turned toward the other three.
“Tell everyone.
Is Li Yichen troublesome?”
Three hands immediately rose.
Krishna stared at them.
The audience exploded.
He slowly turned toward Ju Jingyi.
“You too?”
She tried to control her smile.
“You replaced my script once.”
“That was educational.”
“You replaced three pages with a restaurant menu!”
The audience roared.
Krishna calmly nodded.
“And did you discover what you wanted for dinner?”
Ju Jingyi froze.
Kim Se-jeong nearly fell against Chen Zheyuan laughing.
The host slapped the table.
“He’s impossible!”
Krishna gave the audience a dignified bow.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise!”
“I accept constructive criticism very positively.”
The atmosphere inside the Happy Camp studio had been cheerful from the beginning.
The four young actors were currently among the most discussed faces associated with Pyaar Kii Ye Ek Kahaani, and naturally the production had invited them together.
Krishna could easily dominate such an environment.
His reactions were fast.
His humor was natural.
He understood timing instinctively.
But what the hosts gradually noticed was something subtler.
Whenever a question was directed toward Ju Jingyi, Krishna allowed her to answer.
Whenever Se-jeong found an opportunity to tell a funny story, he didn’t interrupt.
Whenever Chen Zheyuan received attention, Krishna deliberately leaned back and let him have the moment.
Only when someone became stuck did Krishna step in.
A host turned toward Chen Zheyuan.
“Zheyuan, Kabir is quite different from you personally.
How did you understand him?”
Chen Zheyuan paused.
He had prepared for many questions.
Apparently not that one.
“Well…”
Krishna immediately looked toward him.
He could see the gears desperately turning inside his friend’s head.
“…Kabir…”
The host smiled mischievously.
“Yes?”
Chen Zheyuan glanced sideways.
Krishna silently mouthed—
You’re finished.
Chen Zheyuan almost laughed.
The audience noticed.
“What did Yichen say?”
“Nothing!”
“He definitely said something!”
Krishna shook his head innocently.
“I was encouraging my colleague.”
“What encouragement?”
“I told him his answer would determine whether he gets dinner.”
Chen Zheyuan finally laughed.
The tension disappeared.
Then he found his words.
“Kabir is someone who initially looks simple because he doesn’t possess Abhay’s supernatural mystery.
But that was actually the difficulty.
I couldn’t rely on powers or darkness.
I had to make him feel like a normal young man whose emotions still mattered even when surrounded by extraordinary people.”
The host nodded.
Krishna smiled slightly.
Good answer.
Later, a question caught Kim Se-jeong off guard.
“If you could change one thing about Misha, what would it be?”
Se-jeong blinked.
“Change?”
“Anything.”
She thought.
Krishna leaned toward her microphone.
“Her friendship standards.”
Se-jeong immediately turned.
“What is wrong with my friendship standards?”
“You became friends with us.”
Laughter erupted again.
Se-jeong hit his shoulder.
“Yah!”
Krishna dodged dramatically.
“Violence!
On national television!”
The host laughed.
“But Yichen, aren’t you included in those poor friendship choices?”
“Exactly.”
Krishna nodded.
“I am self-aware.”
Even Se-jeong couldn’t continue pretending to be angry.
After laughing, she answered naturally.
“I don’t think I would change much.
Maybe I would let Misha understand earlier that being cheerful doesn’t mean she always has to hide when she is hurt.”
The atmosphere softened.
Krishna gave a small approving nod.
Another good answer.
The recording continued.
Games followed.
Then challenges.
Then promotional discussions.
Naturally, Krishna cheated in one game.
Or rather, according to Krishna, he had discovered an “alternative interpretation of the rules.”
According to everyone else, he cheated.
At one point Ju Jingyi chased him halfway across the stage while the hosts encouraged her.
Krishna hid behind Chen Zheyuan.
“Brotherhood!”
Chen Zheyuan immediately moved aside.
“Justice.”
“Betrayal!”
The studio shook with laughter.
By the time recording ended, everyone was exhausted.
Krishna thanked the staff personally before leaving.
It had become a habit.
Lighting assistants.
Camera operators.
Makeup staff.
Production assistants.
People remembered such things.
Not because Krishna behaved like an unreachable celebrity descending from heaven to acknowledge ordinary mortals.
He simply treated work as work.
Everyone contributed.
Therefore everyone deserved basic respect.
By the time he returned to his new villa, night had already settled over the city.
The villa itself was comfortable without being absurdly extravagant.
Krishna had barely entered when he noticed a familiar pair of shoes.
He stopped.
Then looked toward the living room.
Shen Lihua sat on the sofa.
A folder rested upon her knees.
Krishna glanced at the clock.
Then at her.
Then at the clock again.
“Should I be worried?”
Shen Lihua stared at him.
“Why?”
“You are waiting inside my house at this hour holding documents.”
He removed his jacket.
“That combination usually means either I became rich or I am being sued.”
“You…”
She took a breath.
“Come here.”
“That sounds like the second option.”
“Yichen!”
“Coming.”
He walked over and sat opposite her.
Only then did he notice that her expression was unusual.
She was excited.
Very excited.
Krishna’s teasing expression faded slightly.
“What happened?”
Shen Lihua placed the folder before him.
“Your works were reviewed.”
“By?”
“Religious representatives.”
Krishna became still.
“From the Indian cultural councils?”
“Not only them.”
She began naming the institutions involved.
Indian religious scholars.
Chinese cultural masters.
Historians.
Archivists.
Preservation experts.
Representatives from other Federation states.
As the list continued, even Krishna raised an eyebrow.
“That’s quite a reading club.”
Shen Lihua ignored him.
“They compared your work with surviving ancient records.”
Krishna leaned back.
“And?”
“They recognized it.”
He stopped moving.
Shen Lihua smiled.
“Officially.”
For perhaps the first time that evening, Krishna didn’t immediately joke.
His eyes lowered toward the folder.
Recognition.
Praise.
Popularity.
Fan admiration.
Commercial success.
But this was different.
He knew the stories he carried did not truly originate from him.
They belonged to another world.
Another history.
Another civilization.
In this world, much of that inheritance had disappeared.
When he first realized how much had been lost, something inside him had always felt uncomfortable.
Now—
Those stories were beginning to return.
Krishna gently touched the folder.
“What exactly did they say?”
Shen Lihua explained everything.
The shock.
The comparison with ancient fragments.
The discussion regarding Bhishma.
The cultural restoration policy.
Then she reached the part that made her almost unable to remain seated.
“The Federation has a cultural and entertainment initiative.”
Krishna listened.
“If a creator successfully develops a work that matches or credibly reconstructs lost ancient records, and recognized authorities approve its cultural authenticity, the Federation can provide support.”
“What kind?”
Shen Lihua stared at him.
“What kind do you want?”
Krishna laughed.
“That’s a dangerous answer.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She began listing possibilities.
Filming locations.
Historical consultation.
National archives.
Production coordination.
Distribution support.
International promotion.
Museum cooperation.
Infrastructure.
Large-scale sets.
Potential logistical support for battle scenes.
Krishna’s expression gradually became thoughtful.
“Unconditional?”
“Within law and reasonable production requirements, essentially yes.”
He whistled softly.
“The Federation really wants its mythology back.”
“Of course it does.”
Shen Lihua leaned forward.
“Yichen, do you understand what this means for Mahabharata?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
Krishna looked at her.
“Would dancing help?”
She stared at him.
He raised both hands.
“Fine.”
Then his expression changed.
The playful actor disappeared.
The storyteller emerged.
“I’ve actually been thinking about Mahabharata for a long time.”
Shen Lihua immediately became attentive.
Krishna stood and walked toward the large window.
The city lights spread beneath them.
“If we directly make Mahabharata, it can succeed.”
“Of course.”
“But I don’t want it merely to succeed.”
She frowned.
Krishna turned.
“I want people to know them.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
He began walking slowly.
“Bhishma.”
“Karna.”
“Arjuna.”
“Bheema.”
“Duryodhana.”
“Draupadi.”
“Kunti.”
“Drona.”
“Balarama.”
“And the others.”
He stopped.
“Think about the problem.
If Mahabharata begins and I introduce dozens of important people one after another, audiences will understand the story.”
He shook his head.
“But understanding isn’t enough.”
“What do you want?”
Krishna smiled.
“I want them to grow with these characters.”
Shen Lihua’s eyes changed.
Krishna continued.
“Imagine audiences meeting Devavrata before they ever know him as the old Bhishma.”
He spread his hands.
“They see him young.”
“A prince.”
“A son.”
“A warrior.”
“They watch him love his father.”
“They watch him surrender the throne.”
“They hear him take that terrible vow.”
“They celebrate his sacrifice.”
Krishna’s voice gradually became quieter.
“And then years later, when Mahabharata truly begins, they see an old man standing before the throne.”
Shen Lihua imagined it.
Krishna continued.
“The audience won’t say, ‘That’s Bhishma, an important elder from the Kuru dynasty.'”
He shook his head.
“They’ll say—”
“That’s Devavrata.”
Something ran through Shen Lihua’s body.
Krishna smiled.
“They will remember the young man.”
“They’ll remember his father.”
“They’ll remember the vow.”
“They’ll remember what he surrendered.”
“And every time Bhishma is forced to choose between his conscience and the throne he swore to protect…”
Krishna tapped his chest.
“…the audience will feel the weight here.”
Shen Lihua slowly stood.
“Solo films.”
“Exactly.”
“You want separate films before Mahabharata.”
“Not for everyone.”
Krishna shook his head.
“That would become exhausting.
Only characters whose lives can independently carry stories and whose histories make the central epic emotionally stronger.”
“Like Bhishma.”
“He should be first.”
“Why?”
“Because Bhishma is foundation.”
Krishna answered without hesitation.
“Before Pandavas.”
“Before Kauravas.”
“Before Kurukshetra.”
“There was Devavrata.”
His voice became firm.
“If I want to build this series properly, the first film cannot depend primarily on spectacle.”
“It needs credibility.”
“It needs dignity.”
“It needs performance.”
“It needs to tell the audience that we are not making mythology merely to show gods throwing divine weapons at each other.”
Shen Lihua nodded.
“We are telling human stories.”
“Exactly.”
She walked toward him.
“And who plays Bhishma?”
Krishna smiled.
“I already have my first choices.”
“Who?”
“For the older Bhishma…”
He paused.
“Amitabh Bachchan.”
Shen Lihua’s eyebrows rose.
Then Krishna added,
“And for Devavrata in his younger years—Abhishek Bachchan.”
She stared at him.
“Father and son?”
“Father and son.”
Krishna’s eyes carried unmistakable excitement now.
“Think about it.”
“Abhishek carries the youth of Devavrata—the prince, warrior, son and heir.”
“Then Amitabh carries everything that remains after decades of promises, victories, losses and responsibility.”
Shen Lihua slowly smiled.
“The resemblance would also make the transition natural.”
“Exactly.”
“And there is something else.”
“What?”
Krishna’s smile disappeared.
“For the first film, I need trust.”
He looked toward the folder containing the religious councils’ recognition.
“If audiences see Amitabh Bachchan standing as Bhishma, they will understand immediately that we are taking this seriously.”
Shen Lihua nodded.
“And Abhishek?”
“People underestimate how useful that casting can be.”
Krishna sat down again.
“Devavrata cannot feel like old Bhishma wearing a younger face.”
“He should have hope.”
“Confidence.”
“Warmth.”
“He hasn’t yet lived through the consequences of his vow.”
Krishna looked thoughtful.
“His sacrifice must initially feel victorious.”
“Only history turns it tragic.”
Shen Lihua remained silent.
Then she suddenly picked up her handbag.
Krishna blinked.
“What?”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Bachchan residence.”
Krishna looked at the clock.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Lihua-jie.”
“What?”
“Normal people call before visiting legendary actors.”
She froze.
Then slowly looked at him.
Krishna smiled.
“I am occasionally useful.”
The call was made.
The answer came sooner than expected.
They were welcome.
By the time Krishna and Shen Lihua reached the Bachchan residence, Krishna had already organized the central concept in his mind.
He hadn’t brought a commercial presentation.
No projected revenue.
No market analysis.
No merchandise estimates.
No box-office predictions.
Only the story.
They were welcomed inside.
Amitabh Bachchan entered first.
Even Krishna had to acknowledge that some people possessed presence independent of camera angles.
Age had not diminished it.
If anything, time had refined it.
Abhishek joined them shortly afterward.
Greetings were exchanged.
Tea arrived.
For several minutes, conversation remained ordinary.
Amitabh finally looked toward Krishna.
“I have been hearing your name quite frequently recently.”
Krishna smiled.
“I hope mostly for good reasons.”
Abhishek laughed.
“That depends on who is talking.”
“Then I withdraw the question.”
The atmosphere relaxed.
Amitabh looked toward Shen Lihua.
“You mentioned an important project.”
Shen Lihua glanced at Krishna.
He understood.
This part belonged to him.
Krishna placed a manuscript upon the table.
On its cover was a single word.
BHISHMA
Both father and son became still.
Amitabh’s eyes remained on the title.
“Bhishma?”
“Yes.”
Krishna leaned forward.
“I intend to create Mahabharata.”
Neither interrupted him.
“But not immediately.”
That surprised them.
Abhishek asked,
“Then this is…?”
“The beginning.”
Krishna opened the manuscript.
“I don’t want audiences to meet Bhishma as an old man standing behind a throne.”
His voice was calm.
“I want them to meet Devavrata.”
Amitabh’s gaze sharpened.
Krishna continued.
“I want them to know the boy before the vow.”
“The prince before the sacrifice.”
“The son before the guardian.”
“The man before history turns him into Bhishma.”
Abhishek slowly reached for the manuscript.
Krishna allowed him to take it.
“The first film would follow Devavrata’s youth, his relationship with his father, his training, his responsibilities as heir and the circumstances eventually leading him toward the vow that changes not only his life but the future of an entire dynasty.”
Amitabh remained silent.
“And Mahabharata?”
“Later.”
“How much later?”
“When the foundation is ready.”
Krishna smiled faintly.
“I want important characters to receive space before the central epic.”
He explained the concept.
Not every character would receive a film.
That would dilute the project.
But certain pillars deserved independent stories.
Characters whose decisions shaped generations.
Characters whose lives began long before Kurukshetra.
Characters whom audiences should love, admire, question or even dislike before seeing them stand on opposite sides of history.
“By the time the central Mahabharata films arrive,” Krishna said, “I don’t want the audience choosing sides because one actor is more famous than another.”
Amitabh’s lips curved slightly.
“I want them conflicted.”
That made Amitabh look directly at him.
Krishna continued.
“When Karna and Arjuna face one another, I want half the theatre wanting Arjuna to win and the same people not wanting Karna to die.”
“When Bheema and Duryodhana fight, I want audiences to remember everything that brought those two men to that moment.”
“When Bhishma lies upon the bed of arrows…”
His eyes moved toward Amitabh.
“…I don’t want the audience looking at a legendary warrior finally defeated.”
His voice softened.
“I want them to feel as though someone they have known for years has finally reached the end of a journey.”
Silence filled the room.
Amitabh looked down.
His fingers slowly touched the manuscript.
“And you want me to play that man.”
“Yes.”
Krishna then looked toward Abhishek.
“And I want him to play the man before him.”
Abhishek blinked.
“Me?”
“Devavrata.”
Krishna nodded.
“The transition between you naturally carries something makeup cannot manufacture.”
Abhishek looked toward his father.
Krishna continued.
“But resemblance isn’t the main reason.”
He looked directly at Abhishek.
“I need young Devavrata to feel alive.”
“People already know Bhishma as sacrifice.”
“I want them to temporarily forget the tragedy waiting for him.”
Krishna leaned back.
“If the audience watches Devavrata and spends half the film thinking, ‘This man deserves everything,’ then his vow hurts much more.”
Abhishek’s expression became serious.
Amitabh finally asked,
“How much liberty are you taking with the source?”
That was the question Krishna had expected.
“Enough to tell a coherent film.”
Amitabh’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“But?”
“Never enough to betray its spirit.”
The elder actor watched him.
Krishna pushed the folder from the religious councils forward.
“The work has already been reviewed against surviving ancient records.”
Amitabh opened it.
His expression changed as he saw the signatures.
Abhishek leaned closer.
For several moments neither spoke.
Amitabh looked up.
“They approved this?”
“Yes.”
Shen Lihua finally spoke.
“More than approved.”
She explained the Federation initiative.
The cultural restoration plan.
The institutional support.
The recognition that Krishna’s reconstruction corresponded astonishingly well with surviving fragments.
As she continued, Amitabh’s expression became increasingly solemn.
“This would receive Federation backing?”
“If the final project continues meeting the required standards,” Shen Lihua replied, “yes.”
“Across the Federation?”
“Across the Federation.”
Abhishek slowly closed the folder.
He looked at the word written across the screenplay.
BHISHMA.
For a moment, nobody discussed salary.
Nobody discussed dates.
Nobody discussed billing.
The conversation had moved beyond that.
Amitabh finally looked toward Krishna.
“Why are you doing this?”
Krishna didn’t answer immediately.
He could have given the perfect answer.
He was capable of it.
Something poetic.
Something inspiring.
Something that could become tomorrow’s headline.
Instead, he chose something simpler.
“Because people shouldn’t have to lose their stories twice.”
Amitabh’s eyes changed.
Krishna looked down at the manuscript.
“They were lost once to history.”
His fingers rested upon its cover.
“If we know enough to bring them back and still choose not to…”
He looked up.
“…then the second loss would be our choice.”
No one spoke.
Abhishek exhaled slowly.
His father remained motionless for several seconds.
Then Amitabh opened the manuscript again.
“What do you need from me?”
Shen Lihua smiled.
Krishna’s own smile appeared slowly.
“Bhishma.”
Amitabh nodded.
“You have him.”
Krishna looked toward Abhishek.
The younger Bachchan laughed.
“After that speech, do I really have the option of saying no?”
“Of course.”
Krishna nodded seriously.
“I would simply sit outside your house every morning looking disappointed.”
Abhishek stared at him.
His father suddenly laughed.
Shen Lihua covered her forehead.
Krishna continued solemnly.
“I am very persistent.”
“I’ve heard.”
“So?”
Abhishek looked once more at the manuscript.
Then at his father.
There was something strangely fitting about it.
A father and son portraying two eras of one of civilization’s greatest sons.
One would portray the man before the promise.
The other would portray the man who spent a lifetime carrying it.
Abhishek extended his hand.
“I’m in.”
Krishna shook it.
“Welcome, Devavrata.”
Then he turned toward Amitabh.
For once, the mischievousness disappeared entirely.
Krishna stood.
He brought his palms together respectfully.
“Welcome, Pitamaha.”
Amitabh looked at him for a long moment.
Then returned the gesture.
And smiled.
That evening, there were no cameras.
No reporters waited outside with knowledge of what had happened.
No entertainment portal announced a casting coup.
No fan club knew that two generations of the Bachchan family had just agreed to enter one of the most ambitious cultural projects attempted by the Federation’s entertainment industry.
There were only four people inside a quiet room.
A manuscript rested upon a table.
Across its cover stood one name.
BHISHMA.
Yet somewhere far away, inside protected archives, fragments of ancient manuscripts slept beneath carefully controlled light.
Words written by forgotten hands.
Names belonging to people whose stories had once crossed kingdoms and generations.
Stories that history had broken apart.
For centuries, those fragments had waited.
And now—
A young actor who called himself Krishna Li Vardhan in one part of his world and Li Yichen in another had unknowingly placed the first stone of something much larger than a film.
The Federation wanted its stories back.
The scholars had given their recognition.
The government was prepared to lend its strength.
And two actors had just agreed to become the first faces of a forgotten age.
Krishna stepped outside the Bachchan residence and looked toward the night sky.
Shen Lihua walked beside him.
For once, she remained silent for nearly a minute.
Then she asked,
“Who comes after Bhishma?”
Krishna’s lips curved upward.
“Already thinking about the second film?”
“Someone has to.”
He placed his hands inside his pockets.
“Bhishma comes first.”
“And afterward?”
Krishna continued walking.
Shen Lihua followed.
“Yichen.”
“Hmm?”
“Who?”
He stopped.
For several seconds, he seemed to consider countless names.
Then his smile slowly became mischievous again.
“One foundation at a time, Lihua-jie.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You already know.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Yichen.”
He began walking faster.
She followed.
“Tell me!”
“No spoilers.”
“This isn’t a television drama!”
“It will be.”
“Li Yichen!”
His laughter drifted into the night.
Behind them, inside the Bachchan residence, Amitabh Bachchan was still sitting with the screenplay open before him.
Abhishek had not moved either.
On the first page were only a few lines.
A prince stood beside the river.
Young.
Proud.
Beloved by his father.
Unaware that one day the world would remember him not by the name given at his birth— but by the terrible promise he had yet to make.
Devavrata.
Before Bhishma.
Before the Kuru tragedy.
Before the war that would shake an age.
Before Krishna spoke the wisdom that generations would remember.
There had first been a son who loved his father enough to surrender his future.
And soon—
The Eastern Federation would remember him.