At sixteen, Aarav had become more than a name—he was a symbol.
A symbol of youth, hope, and charm that enchanted not just Mohenjo-Daro, but the neighboring settlements across Aryavart. Wherever rivers carved the land and trade routes whispered promises of distant lands, stories of the boy with the flute and the fearless voice traveled with the wind.
---
"He's not a boy anymore," whispered a merchant's daughter at the festival grounds.
And it was true.
He had grown tall and broad-shouldered, with a sculpted frame earned from years of training and labor. His long, tied-back hair shimmered under the sun, and his deep eyes seemed to see straight into the hearts of those he spoke with.
On his shoulder: the sacred janevu.
Around his waist: a soft dhoti and his flute, always resting like a second limb.
When he smiled—people listened.
---
Festival of Winds – Mohenjo-Daro
It was the largest celebration of the year, held near the great riverbank.
Aarav stood on the temple dais, overseeing the arrangements with the priests and elder traders. This time, he was not just a guest—he was an organizer.
"The dancers from the north haven't arrived," muttered one priest.
"The grain for offerings is late too," said another.
Aarav raised his hand, silencing the chaos with just a glance.
"Send a rider to the east gate. The dancers came last year from there. And the grain?" He turned to a nearby merchant. "Use your storehouse. I'll settle the cost myself after the festival."
The merchant blinked. "Why would you do that?"
Aarav smirked. "Because it's not my festival. It's Bharat's."
---
That evening, as the crowds surged and drums thundered, a scuffle broke out. Tensions rose. Someone shouted, someone pushed.
And then—Aarav stepped forward.
He took the flute from his waist. But instead of playing it, he raised his voice.
"Brothers!" he shouted, "Are we not the same soil? Are we not children of the same river? Is this what we offer the gods—fists and fury?"
Silence.
Then whispers. Then cheers.
The crowd calmed, and the celebration continued. The elders looked at one another and nodded.
"He will be a great man."
---
But Aarav didn't rest on praise.
He began shadowing merchants, learning the flow of trade routes, bartering, and cargo ledgers. He traveled to small towns, and larger cities—Kalibangan, Rakhigarhi, and even toward Sapta Sindhu.
He memorized rivers, routes, prices, and the rhythms of commerce.
Everywhere he went, women gathered in doorways just to catch a glimpse of him. Children ran behind his cart. Young girls sent him flowers in clay pots. He laughed gently, charming but never unkind.
---
One night, while sharing firewood and barley with a caravan, a girl beside him asked:
"Why do you travel so much, Aarav?"
He looked at the stars.
"Because Bharat is vast," he said. "And I want to know every inch of her before I protect her."
She blushed.
"And the women?"
He grinned, cheeky. "They're part of Bharat too."
---
The System remained silent.
But it watched as Aarav rose.
He was no longer just a reincarnated soul.
He was becoming the voice of a civilization.
And somewhere ahead... his first true test was waiting.
---
End of Chapter 8