Year: 1606 CE | Location: Dwarka Coastal Harbor
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The air along the emerald coastline of Dwarka was still that morning—too still.
The waves rolled in soft murmurs, and the ever-watchful humanoid guards stationed at the invisible periphery of the camouflaged harbor paused their patrols. Their infrared and sonic sensors simultaneously picked up an anomaly on the horizon. A large wooden ship, unlike any local fishing vessel, was steadily approaching through the ocean mist.
It was not meant to be there.
Deepak Rawat stood atop the observation deck of Tower-7, his synthetic robe flapping in the ocean breeze. His eyes, enhanced by ocular implants, narrowed as he watched the ship draw closer. "That's no coincidence," he whispered.
Within minutes, the control room of Dwarka buzzed to life.
Aditya burst in. "Mama (uncle), there's a big ship—old style—sailing straight into our cloaked zone! That's statistically—"
"Impossible," Deepak completed, already moving. "Unless… Lord Krishna wills it."
All systems in Dwarka were placed on silent defensive alert. Defensive drones hovered hidden beneath the waves, robotic falcons tracked the skies, and yet… not a single weapon was drawn.
This wasn't an invasion.
As the ancient ship creaked into the concealed port—its eyes met by an otherworldly shoreline of camouflaged structures, artificially grown coral towers, and robotic stewards disguised in flowing robes—its crew stood dumbstruck. They looked like shadows from the past, emaciated but proud, dressed in silks torn by sea storms. Their banners bore the twin fish insignia of Vijayanagar's Aravidu Dynasty.
Aboard was Achyuta Bhatta, philosopher and royal emissary, his body thin from the journey, his spirit unwavering. Clutching a scroll bearing the royal seal of King Venkatapati Raya, he stepped off the gangplank, knees shaking but head held high.
Before him stood four towering figures robed like sages of old. But their eyes gleamed with the uncanny serenity of artificial intelligence. They spoke in perfectly timed Sanskrit, their tones laced with authority and grace.
One of them bowed slightly. "Welcome, Achyuta Bhatta. What brings the stars of Chandragiri to the hidden coast of Dwarka?"
The emissary fell to his knees, weeping. "The heavens themselves have sent you, haven't they? Our land is collapsing. We seek knowledge. We seek survival. We seek… divine intervention."
From a distance, the Rawat family watched through a projection from the observation dome. Sanno pressed her hands together. "Lord Krishna has sent them to us."
Sonu was more cautious. "We've remained hidden for six years. If we expose too much too soon, economies will collapse. Armies will invade. The world isn't ready."
Neha nodded. "Then we must become their teachers. Slowly. Patiently. Just as we would with children. But instead of being gods, we become guides."
Khushboo added, "Let the robots take the front as sages and mystics. They'll be seen as divine, not mechanical. Meanwhile, we go among them… as humans."
Deepak remained silent, his mind spinning with possibilities. He looked out at the ship, then up at the statue of Lord Krishna atop the Temple of Time.
"We've built Dwarka to heal the Earth," he said finally. "Perhaps it's time we begin with Bharat."
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From the deck of the ship, a teenage sailor named Varadrajan—the son of a spice merchant—stood staring wide-eyed at the structures around him: crystalline domes that shimmered like water, towers built with metals he couldn't name, vines of glowing flowers that bloomed without sunlight.
He whispered to himself, "Are these the cities of the gods? Did we die and enter Vaikuntha?"
A group of humanoids walked past him—silent, serene, radiating calmness. One bent to return a dropped object to a sailor with mechanical precision, yet its gesture was deeply human.
He trembled. "They know everything… even our hearts."
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Inside the Dwarka Welcome Hall, a chamber lined with holographic frescoes painted to resemble murals of old Bharat, Deepak finally met Achyuta Bhatta in person.
"I am Deepak," he said, clasping the old philosopher's hand. "Not a god, not a king—just a man with memories of tomorrow."
Achyuta's eyes welled. "Then tomorrow must be beautiful, if it births men like you."
He unfurled the scroll. It was hand-written on silk, sealed in wax, and bore these desperate words from King Venkatapati Raya:
> To those who walk with the wisdom of the stars,
I offer the tears of my land.
The Vijayanagar Empire crumbles.
Its people suffer.
Its enemies close in like fire to forest.
If you be divine or mortal, come forth.
Teach us to heal our soil, to feed our children, to stand once more with pride.
Let the Dharma of Bharat not fade into the night.
I await you at Chandragiri, my heart open, my people broken.
— Venkatapati Raya
Aravidu Dynasty, 1606 CE
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Later that night, as Deepak sat in the temple gardens of Dwarka beneath a full moon, Aditya approached him.
"Mama… are we going to help them?"
Deepak looked up. "Yes."
"But how? The world will know we're not from here…"
"No," Deepak said gently. "They will see sages. Warriors. Artists. Teachers. Robots will guide. Humans will build. Slowly. So their hearts rise with their hands."
He stood, his eyes filled with a vision only he could see. "We begin the journey to Chandragiri tomorrow."
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And so began the unexpected union of past and future—when a dying empire reached into the mists and touched the hand of destiny…