Four years.
For an ordinary student, four years could pass in lectures, examinations, friendships, failures, and memories.
At Suryavansh Federal War Academy, four years could forge an entirely different human being.
And for Krishna Li Vardhan—
Four years were enough to make an entire academy remember his name.
The morning sun rose beyond the mountains surrounding Suryavansh Federal War Academy.
Golden light spilled across enormous training grounds where hundreds of cadets stood in formation.
Their uniforms were immaculate.
Their backs were straight.
Their expressions solemn.
At the front of the formation stood a young man.
Nineteen years old.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
His black military uniform fit his athletic frame perfectly.
Four years of relentless physical conditioning had stripped away the last traces of childhood softness from his features.
Yet despite the disciplined appearance expected of an elite cadet, there was something fundamentally wrong with his expression.
He was smiling.
Not the confident smile of a decorated cadet.
Not the polite smile expected before senior officers.
It was the particular smile every veteran cadet of Suryavansh had learned to fear.
The cadet beside him quietly whispered.
“He’s planning something.”
Another answered without moving his lips.
“Obviously.”
“Should we tell the instructor?”
“Do you want to die?”
“No.”
“Then admire the mountains.”
The first cadet immediately stared ahead.
Krishna’s smile widened slightly.
“I can hear both of you.”
Silence.
The two cadets became statues.
Krishna suppressed his laughter.
Four years earlier, he had entered these gates carrying the expectations of his family.
Today, there were few people in Suryavansh who didn’t know him.
But that hadn’t happened overnight.
….
Four Years Earlier
“Again!”
A fifteen-year-old Krishna crashed into the mud.
Rain hammered against the training field.
His arms trembled.
His lungs burned.
Around him, several older cadets had already collapsed.
The instructor looked down at him.
“Done, Cadet Vardhan?”
Krishna lifted his face from the mud.
“No, sir.”
“Then stand.”
Krishna pushed himself upward.
His knees nearly buckled.
The instructor watched without sympathy.
Krishna stood anyway.
That had been his first lesson at Suryavansh.
Talent could make something easier.
Talent could not replace endurance.
His Heaven-Defying System could accelerate his learning.
His previous life’s memories could give him perspectives others lacked.
His extraordinary intelligence could allow him to understand things faster.
But Krishna made one decision during his first month.
He would never allow those advantages to become excuses for laziness.
If everyone trained for six hours—
He trained for seven.
If everyone studied a tactical manual once—
He studied it until he understood why every decision inside it had been made.
If someone defeated him in something—
Krishna remembered.
Then returned.
Again.
And again.
Until he understood exactly why he had lost.
Within months, instructors began noticing something strange.
Krishna wasn’t merely talented.
He was hungry.
….
In his first year, he conquered the classroom.
Military history.
Geopolitics.
Mathematics.
Logistics.
Engineering fundamentals.
Terrain analysis.
Intelligence interpretation.
Military law.
Diplomatic protocol.
Psychology.
Languages.
Krishna absorbed knowledge at a frightening speed.
But what disturbed his instructors wasn’t his memory.
It was his questions.
One afternoon, an instructor presented a famous battle.
“The commander sacrificed the eastern battalion and successfully captured the enemy headquarters.
Strategically, this was considered a decisive victory.”
A hand rose.
The instructor sighed.
“Vardhan.”
Krishna stood.
“Sir, why is it considered a victory?”
Several cadets turned.
The instructor frowned.
“The objective was captured.”
“I understand.”
“Then?”
Krishna looked toward the battlefield map.
“The enemy lost twelve thousand soldiers.”
“Correct.”
“We lost twenty-one thousand.”
“Correct.”
“Our supply lines were damaged.”
“Yes.”
“The civilian population turned hostile afterward.”
The instructor became silent.
Krishna continued.
“The objective was occupied for eleven months before our forces withdrew.”
Silence spread through the classroom.
“So…”
Krishna tilted his head.
“Who decided we won?”
A few cadets struggled not to smile.
The instructor stared at him.
“Are you questioning the official military analysis?”
“No, sir.”
A pause.
“I’m questioning whoever wrote it.”
Laughter exploded through the room.
“VARDHAN!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Outside!”
Krishna walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Sir?”
“What?!”
“Was my analysis wrong?”
The instructor stared at the map.
His anger slowly disappeared.
“…No.”
Krishna smiled.
“Then I’ll happily stand outside.”
That evening, his punishment essay was titled:
The Difference Between Capturing Territory and Winning a War.
It later became recommended reading for junior cadets.
His second year conquered the training grounds.
Krishna wasn’t initially the strongest cadet.
That surprised people.
Some had expected the mysterious Vardhan cadet to dominate everything immediately.
He didn’t.
There were older cadets stronger than him.
Faster runners.
Better marksmen.
More experienced martial artists.
Krishna lost.
And every time he lost, he smiled.
That smile annoyed his opponents.
Because they soon discovered what it meant.
He was learning.
During his first spar with Senior Cadet Han Jisoo, Krishna was thrown onto the mat in forty-three seconds.
“Again.”
The second match lasted fifty-eight seconds.
“Again.”
The third lasted two minutes.
“Again.”
By the tenth match, Jisoo was breathing heavily.
Krishna was bleeding from the corner of his mouth.
Both were smiling.
Jisoo shook his head.
“You’re insane.”
“That’s not a refusal.”
“I hate you.”
“Get in line.”
Months later, Krishna defeated him.
He didn’t celebrate.
Instead, he extended his hand.
Jisoo took it.
“You finally got me.”
Krishna pulled him up.
“No.”
Jisoo frowned.
“I finally understood you.”
That answer spread throughout the combat division.
People began challenging Krishna simply to see what he would learn from them.
He learned Bharat wrestling.
Chinese martial traditions.
Korean striking techniques.
Japanese sword disciplines.
Modern close-quarters combat.
Firearms.
Archery.
Survival.
Mountain warfare.
Urban warfare.
Vehicle operation.
Tactical command.
He never treated another tradition as inferior.
When instructors asked which fighting style he preferred, Krishna simply answered:
“The one that works.”
But Krishna’s greatest victory at Suryavansh wasn’t academic.
It wasn’t physical.
It wasn’t tactical.
It was people.
The academy gathered cadets from every region of the Eastern Federation.
Different languages.
Different cultures.
Different families.
Different social classes.
Arguments were inevitable.
During Krishna’s second year, a confrontation erupted between two cadet groups after a training exercise.
Accusations became insults.
Insults became shoving.
An instructor was seconds away from intervening when Krishna walked between them carrying two cups of tea.
He looked left.
Then right.
“Continue.”
Everyone stared at him.
One cadet snapped.
“Vardhan, stay out of this.”
Krishna sipped his tea.
“I would, but you’re blocking the path to my dormitory.”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“Excellent.”
Krishna handed him one cup.
“Hold this.”
The confused cadet instinctively took it.
Krishna walked toward the other side.
“What are you fighting about?”
“He abandoned our position!”
“I followed the commander’s order!”
“You left six people exposed!”
“You ignored the retreat order!”
Krishna listened.
For nearly ten minutes, he said almost nothing.
Then he asked one question.
“Who communicated the retreat?”
Silence.
They looked at each other.
Krishna raised an eyebrow.
The argument slowly transformed into discussion.
The discussion became reconstruction.
Twenty minutes later, everyone discovered the real problem.
The communication chain had failed.
Neither side had deliberately abandoned the other.
Krishna reclaimed his tea.
“Good.”
The cadet holding it blinked.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Then how did you solve it?”
Krishna took another sip.
“I listened.”
That became another lesson people remembered.
Krishna could talk.
God knew Krishna could talk.
But somehow, when it mattered, he knew when to remain silent.
Unfortunately for Suryavansh’s instructors, wisdom did nothing to cure his mischievousness.
If anything—
It made him more dangerous.
During his third year, every alarm clock in one dormitory mysteriously rang five minutes early.
For twelve consecutive days.
Nobody discovered why.
On the thirteenth day, they stopped.
Everyone relaxed.
On the fourteenth—
They rang forty minutes early.
“VARDHAN!”
Krishna’s laughter could allegedly be heard from another building.
Another time, a particularly arrogant cadet repeatedly boasted that nobody could enter his room without permission.
Krishna accepted the challenge.
The next morning, the cadet woke to discover that nothing had been stolen.
Instead, every object in his room had been moved exactly three centimeters to the left.
The bed.
The desk.
The chair.
The books.
Even his shoes.
The cadet stared at the room for ten minutes.
Then screamed.
Nobody ever proved Krishna had done it.
Commandant Vikramaditya Vardhan certainly tried.
“Cadet Vardhan.”
“Sir.”
“Did you rearrange Cadet Zhang’s room?”
“No, sir.”
Vikramaditya narrowed his eyes.
“Do you know who did?”
Krishna considered.
“I have theories.”
“Share them.”
“That would compromise the investigation.”
Vikramaditya stared at his nephew.
Krishna maintained a perfectly innocent expression.
“Thirty laps.”
“On what charge?”
“Annoying your Commandant.”
“Is that in academy regulations?”
“Forty.”
Krishna saluted.
“Excellent interpretation of executive authority, sir.”
“Fifty!”
Krishna wisely ran.
That evening, Grand Marshal Rudraveer Vardhan received a message from his grandson.
Dadaji, your eldest son has become a tyrant.
Rudraveer’s reply came ten minutes later.
Run faster.
Krishna stared at the message.
Then laughed.
Yet when exercises became serious, nobody laughed.
By the fourth year, Krishna’s reputation had transformed.
The prankster remained.
The smile remained.
The infuriating answers remained.
But cadets had begun noticing something else.
Whenever Krishna was placed in command—
People came home.
During the academy’s largest annual war simulation, Krishna commanded a force deliberately given inferior resources.
His opponents possessed superior vehicles.
Better defensive terrain.
Greater ammunition reserves.
More personnel.
The exercise was expected to test how long Krishna could resist before losing.
Krishna studied the map.
Then smiled.
His officers immediately became nervous.
Jisoo looked at him.
“That’s the smile.”
“What smile?”
“The one that ruins people’s week.”
Krishna pointed toward the mountains.
“We’re not attacking.”
Everyone stared at him.
“Our objective is their headquarters.”
“Correct.”
“So how do we capture it without attacking?”
Krishna looked around the command tent.
“Who said we’re capturing it?”
Silence.
For the next eighteen hours, Krishna surrendered territory.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Observers watching from the academy command center frowned.
Vikramaditya said nothing.
Enemy forces advanced.
Krishna retreated.
They celebrated.
Krishna retreated again.
They became confident.
Then greedy.
Their supply columns stretched.
Their reserves moved forward.
Their communications became dependent upon three mountain relay points.
At 03:17 in the morning, Krishna moved.
Three infiltration teams simultaneously disabled the relay stations.
A fourth unit struck the supply convoy.
Krishna’s main force didn’t attack the enemy headquarters.
They surrounded the army that had left it.
By sunrise, the opposing command discovered that their victorious advance had become an encirclement.
At 08:42—
They surrendered.
Krishna had won while suffering less than one-fifth of the projected casualties.
Inside the observation chamber, an instructor whispered:
“That boy…”
Vikramaditya’s face remained expressionless.
But Grand Marshal Rudraveer, observing remotely, smiled.
Afterward, the opposing commander approached Krishna.
He looked furious.
Krishna offered him water.
“I don’t want your water.”
“That’s unfortunate.
You’re dehydrated.”
“You humiliated us.”
Krishna’s smile disappeared.
“No.”
The other cadet stopped.
Krishna looked directly at him.
“I defeated you.”
There was no mockery in his voice.
“If I wanted to humiliate you, I would tell everyone what mistakes you made.”
The cadet’s expression changed.
Krishna handed him the bottle again.
“Instead, I’ll tell you privately.”
This time, the cadet accepted it.
They spent the next two hours reviewing the battle together.
That cadet later became one of Krishna’s closest military comrades.
That was Krishna.
He defeated people without making them hate defeat.
He could expose someone’s weakness without destroying their dignity.
And slowly—
Suryavansh stopped seeing him merely as a talented cadet.
Four years after Krishna first entered the academy, another graduation ranking appeared.
First — Strategic Command.
First — Military Theory.
First — Diplomatic Negotiation.
First — Battlefield Adaptation.
First — Joint Operations.
First — Leadership Evaluation.
His physical scores stood among the academy’s highest.
His marksmanship ranked among the elite.
His disciplinary record…
That document required considerably more pages.
One instructor stared at it.
“How can the best cadet in Suryavansh simultaneously possess this many disciplinary warnings?”
Another instructor sighed.
“Krishna.”
That explained everything.
Yet beneath those warnings was something far more important.
No bullying.
No abuse of authority.
No dishonesty for personal gain.
No abandonment of comrades.
No exploitation of family status.
Most of his punishments were for unauthorized pranks, challenging instructors too creatively, entering restricted training areas during self-study, or discovering loopholes nobody had anticipated.
One instructor had written:
Cadet Vardhan possesses an extraordinary ability to obey the exact wording of an instruction while completely violating its intended spirit.
Vikramaditya had personally underlined it.
Twice.
The cadets assembled for the final ceremony.
Krishna stood among them.
These weren’t the children who had entered four years earlier.
Some had scars.
Some carried disappointments.
Some had discovered talents they never knew they possessed.
Some had learned humility.
And all had learned responsibility.
A cadet beside Krishna whispered:
“Vardhan.”
“Hm?”
“When we first met, I thought you were arrogant.”
Krishna looked offended.
“Thought?”
The cadet laughed.
“You are arrogant.”
“Much better.”
“But…”
He became serious.
“I understand why now.”
Krishna looked at him.
The cadet glanced toward the academy banners.
“You’re worthy of it.”
Krishna’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Worthy of what?”
The young soldier smiled.
“Vardhan.”
For once—
Krishna had no clever answer.
He looked ahead.
Four years ago, his father had told him:
Proud surnames are inherited.
Respect is earned.
Krishna finally understood.
His classmates weren’t respecting the family standing behind him.
Most of them didn’t even understand what that family truly was.
They respected the man standing beside them.
Krishna smiled.
Not mischievously.
Simply warmly.
“Thank you.”
Hours later, the academy had grown quiet.
Krishna walked alone through corridors he had crossed thousands of times.
Nineteen.
He was nineteen now.
Four years.
He remembered arriving here beside his father.
His mother’s worried eyes.
Ishani’s endless instructions.
Kavya’s fountain pen.
Arjun pretending not to be emotional.
Ananya crying against him.
Dilraba standing outside the gates.
Don’t let them decide what you have to become.
Krishna’s footsteps slowed.
That sentence had never left him.
Because during these four years, something strange had happened.
He had become extraordinarily good at being a soldier.
Perhaps too good.
Commanders wanted him.
Instructors recommended him.
Strategic divisions had already quietly requested his assignment.
Some believed he would become one of the youngest generals in Federation history.
His father undoubtedly expected it.
His grandfather probably expected even more.
Krishna respected the military.
He loved his comrades.
He understood what soldiers protected.
He had learned leadership.
Sacrifice.
Duty.
He would never regret these four years.
But somewhere beneath the uniform—
Another dream remained.
Lights.
Cameras.
Stories.
Characters.
The stage.
The screen.
A life completely different from the one everyone expected.
Krishna touched the old fountain pen inside his pocket.
Kavya’s words returned.
Write something so you remember who Krishna is without Li or Vardhan.
His lips curved upward.
“Ruoxi…”
“You really do think too much.”
He stopped before a massive wooden door.
Two words were engraved upon it.
COMMANDANT’S OFFICE
Krishna knocked.
“Enter.”
He opened the door.
Vikramaditya Vardhan sat behind the enormous desk.
The man who was his Bade Papa at home looked completely different here.
Commandant Vikramaditya Vardhan.
The ruler of Suryavansh.
Four years had not softened him.
If anything, Krishna suspected his uncle had discovered entirely new ways to make cadets suffer.
Krishna entered.
The door closed behind him.
He saluted.
“Cadet Krishna Vardhan reporting, sir.”
Vikramaditya looked at him.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then—
“Sit.”
Krishna sat.
A sealed black folder rested upon the desk.
Krishna’s eyes fell upon it.
There was no academy emblem.
Instead, embedded upon its surface was an insignia he had known since childhood.
The Vardhan crest.
His playful expression slowly disappeared.
Vikramaditya noticed.
“Do you understand why you’re here?”
Krishna looked at the folder.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
Krishna raised his eyes.
“The final Vardhan Examination.”
Vikramaditya leaned backward.
“For four years, you’ve been tested.”
Krishna remained silent.
“Sometimes knowingly.”
A pause.
“Sometimes without knowing.”
Krishna’s eyebrow twitched.
Several suspicious incidents suddenly made considerably more sense.
Vikramaditya almost smiled.
Almost.
“You were evaluated when you won.”
“When you lost.”
“When you were humiliated.”
“When you were praised.”
“When people followed you.”
“When people challenged you.”
“When nobody was watching.”
Krishna’s expression gradually became serious.
Vikramaditya continued.
“The Vardhan Examination does not ask whether an heir can fight.”
“Any competent military academy can produce fighters.”
“It does not ask whether you can command.”
“Suryavansh produces commanders every year.”
His eyes sharpened.
“It asks something much simpler.”
Krishna waited.
“When power is placed in your hands, what kind of man are you?”
Silence filled the office.
Vikramaditya pushed the black folder toward him.
“You passed every preliminary stage.”
Krishna looked down.
“And now?”
“Now comes the examination no academy can simulate.”
Krishna’s fingers touched the folder.
Vikramaditya’s voice became colder.
“The battlefield.”
The atmosphere changed.
No prank.
No classroom.
No simulation.
No instructor standing nearby to stop things when they became dangerous.
Real people.
Real enemies.
Real consequences.
Real death.
Vikramaditya opened another file.
“According to Vardhan tradition, the heir chooses his own final examination.”
Several classified mission dossiers were placed across the table.
Krishna looked at them.
Different regions.
Different objectives.
Different danger levels.
Vikramaditya pointed toward the first.
“Counterinsurgency.”
Another.
“Border reconnaissance.”
Another.
“Hostage extraction.”
Another.
“Naval intelligence.”
Another.
“Special operations.”
Each mission carried a different classification.
Krishna quietly studied them.
Then his eyes moved toward the corner of the desk.
There was another folder.
Unlike the others—
It hadn’t been offered.
Black.
No mission title.
Only a red classification stripe.
Krishna pointed toward it.
“What is that?”
Vikramaditya’s expression changed.
“Not for you.”
Krishna looked at his uncle.
Then at the folder.
Then back at him.
His lips slowly curved upward.
Vikramaditya immediately regretted his wording.
“Krishna.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“I know that expression.”
Krishna reached toward the black dossier.
Vikramaditya placed his hand over it.
“No.”
Krishna raised an eyebrow.
“You said the heir chooses.”
“From the missions provided.”
“You said the heir chooses his own final examination.”
Vikramaditya stared at him.
Krishna smiled.
There it was again.
That damned smile.
“Cadet—”
“What is the mission?”
Silence.
Vikramaditya’s expression gradually lost every trace of familial warmth.
“Krishna.”
This time he used his name.
Not Cadet Vardhan.
Krishna understood.
Whatever was inside that folder was different.
Dangerous enough that his uncle wasn’t speaking as Commandant anymore.
He was speaking as his father’s elder brother.
As his Bade Papa.
Krishna’s smile faded.
“Tell me.”
Vikramaditya studied him.
Then slowly removed his hand.
Krishna opened the folder.
His eyes moved across the first page.
The room became silent.
Then the second.
Third.
Fourth.
His expression changed.
This wasn’t an academy operation.
It wasn’t even an ordinary military deployment.
It was the kind of mission governments denied existed.
A mission whose failure could cost lives far beyond the soldiers involved.
Vikramaditya spoke quietly.
“Three special-operation proposals have already been rejected.”
Krishna continued reading.
“Why?”
“Projected casualties.”
Krishna turned another page.
“Intelligence reliability?”
“Sixty-eight percent.”
“Extraction?”
“Uncertain.”
“Political authorization?”
“Conditional.”
Krishna stopped.
He looked at the map.
His mind began moving.
Routes.
Terrain.
Population.
Enemy movement.
Supply chains.
Political consequences.
Extraction corridors.
Civilian risks.
Dozens of possibilities formed and disappeared inside his mind.
The Heaven-Defying System remained silent.
Krishna didn’t need it.
Not yet.
Vikramaditya watched him.
He had seen this expression before.
During war games.
During tactical examinations.
During impossible problems.
The joking young man vanished.
In his place appeared someone else.
Someone terrifyingly calm.
Someone who looked at chaos and searched for the single thread capable of unraveling it.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Krishna finally closed the folder.
Vikramaditya spoke.
“Choose another.”
Krishna looked at him.
“Bade Papa.”
That single title changed the room.
Vikramaditya’s jaw tightened.
“Your father will kill me.”
Krishna smiled faintly.
“Dadaji will stop him.”
“Your grandfather may help him.”
Krishna almost laughed.
Then he looked down at the black folder.
The humor disappeared again.
“There are soldiers already there?”
Vikramaditya didn’t answer immediately.
“Yes.”
“Civilians?”
“Yes.”
“They’re waiting?”
“Yes.”
Krishna’s fingers rested upon the dossier.
His father’s voice returned from four years ago.
Whatever you choose to become, become someone capable of standing behind his own choices.
Krishna breathed slowly.
Then pushed every other mission aside.
Only the black folder remained.
Vikramaditya stared at him.
“Think carefully.”
“I have.”
“You haven’t even been sitting here thirty minutes.”
Krishna looked into his uncle’s eyes.
“The people inside that mission don’t have thirty minutes.”
Silence.
Vikramaditya’s expression hardened.
“Once accepted, this isn’t a simulation.”
“I know.”
“You may be injured.”
“I know.”
“You may fail.”
“I know.”
Vikramaditya’s voice dropped.
“You may not come home.”
For the first time, Krishna’s eyes flickered.
His mother.
His father.
Dadaji.
Ishani.
Kavya.
Arjun.
Ananya.
Dilraba.
Come home.
He remembered every face.
Every promise.
Then Krishna smiled.
Not the prankster’s smile.
Not the strategist’s smile.
Just Krishna.
“I intend to.”
He placed his hand firmly upon the black dossier.
“But I’ll choose this.”
Vikramaditya looked at his nephew for a very long time.
Then slowly stood.
Krishna stood as well.
For four years, Vikramaditya had treated him more harshly than almost any cadet under his command.
He had punished him.
Challenged him.
Tested him.
Watched him fall.
Watched him stand again.
Today, for perhaps the first time inside Suryavansh Federal War Academy, Vikramaditya did not look at him as a cadet.
He looked at him as a Vardhan.
And perhaps—
As a future commander.
Vikramaditya extended his hand.
Krishna looked at it.
Then accepted it.
“Your final Vardhan Examination begins now.”
Krishna’s grip tightened.
Vikramaditya’s eyes were stern.
But beneath that sternness was something Krishna rarely saw from his uncle.
Pride.
“Come back alive, Krishna.”
Krishna’s familiar mischievous smile finally returned.
“Sir, you spent four years trying to kill me with training.”
Vikramaditya’s eyebrow twitched.
“You failed.”
“Get out of my office.”
Krishna saluted.
“Yes, sir.”
He turned.
“Krishna.”
He stopped at the door.
Vikramaditya spoke without looking at him.
“Your father was right.”
Krishna glanced backward.
“About what?”
Vikramaditya finally looked at him.
“When you entered Suryavansh, you carried the Vardhan name.”
A faint smile appeared upon the Commandant’s otherwise intimidating face.
“Today, you are worthy of carrying it.”
Krishna became silent.
For once—
There was no joke.
He simply bowed his head.
Then left.
The door closed.
Outside, Krishna looked down at the black mission dossier in his hand.
Four years ago, a fifteen-year-old boy had entered these gates.
Today, nineteen-year-old Krishna Li Vardhan stood at the threshold of something entirely different.
He had conquered the classrooms.
The training grounds.
The war games.
His instructors.
His rivals.
And, without deliberately trying—
The hearts of his fellow cadets.
But Suryavansh had never been his true examination.
Everything until now had merely prepared him for it.
Krishna looked toward the distant mountains.
Somewhere beyond them waited a battlefield.
Somewhere beyond that battlefield waited his family.
And somewhere much farther beyond both—
A stage.
A camera.
A dream no Vardhan expected him to choose.
Krishna smiled.
The soldier had finally been forged.
Soon—
The world would discover what happened when that soldier decided he wanted to become an actor.