The morning sun snted through the windows of the Menon household. The smell of ginger tea drifted from the kitchen while a low murmur of the news echoed from the living room television.

  Sreedharan Menon, seated in his worn recliner, sipped slowly from a steaming tumbler, eyes locked on the screen.

  “What madness…!” he muttered.

  On the news, a blurry clip pyed on repeat: a man in Delhi, suspended mid-air, his body wrapped in faint golden light before crashing through a water tank.

  The anchor’s voice stammered, “—authorities are calling it a hoax, but eyewitnesses cim he flew for nearly twenty seconds before plummeting. The individual survived with only minor injuries.”

  Sreedharan turned to his wife and grandson. “Did you hear that? He flew. Like the cultivators in those old scrolls.”

  Radhamani furrowed her brows. “Is this another of those deepfake stunts?”

  Sreedharan shook his head. “No. That wasn’t tech. That was raw Qi. Chaotic and unrefined… but real.”

  Adithya, half-listening as he tied his Kari sash, looked up. “Flying, you say?”

  Sreedharan leaned forward. “Mark my words, Adi. This is just the beginning. The world’s changing. And you... you're already ahead.”

  A beat of silence passed between them.

  Then he smiled with quiet pride.

  “I always believed the old ways weren’t myths. And now, they’ll all see.”

  Adithya nodded solemnly.

  Outside, the wind rustled the banana leaves. The air carried something strange—hope… and a storm waiting to be born.