The training arena smelled faintly of metal, dust, and the sweat of dozens of bodies in motion. A low hum of voices filled the air, a mixture of excitement and competitive energy.
In one corner, Dawon crouched low, its tail wrapped tight around its body. The lion's head was tucked into its paws, its flanks trembling in uneven breaths. It had never been in a place like this — a place where the ground itself seemed to vibrate with the force of other beings testing their strength.
Om knelt beside him, his palm resting lightly on Dawon's scarred back.
"Stay here," he murmured, his voice calm, almost coaxing. "And try to enjoy this."
The words floated between them, gentle but carrying a weight of reassurance. Dawon's ear twitched at the sound. Still, fear lingered — yet the warmth of Om's touch steadied him enough to part his paws just a little.
He had to watch. He needed to watch.
Bhanu's voice carried easily over the noise, deep and commanding.
"Warm-up drills. Everyone, line up!"
The crowd shifted, feet scuffing against the polished arena floor. The smell of ozone from elemental bursts tingled faintly in the air as stretches and light movements began. Om moved easily through the warm-up motions, though his eyes kept drifting back to Dawon.
Minutes later, Bhanu's tone sharpened.
"Clear the floor. Mock battles begin now."
The arena opened up, the space suddenly feeling enormous. The other tutors stepped forward, offering last-minute instructions to their groups.
"Master Om, you're with my group," Bhanu called.
Om joined the cluster of trainees, but as the others peeled away to prepare, Bhanu stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Wait here."
Om's brows drew together. "Why?"
Bhanu leaned close, his voice low enough that only Om could hear.
"You can win against anyone here. I know it. But the forest fight…" His gaze flicked briefly to Om's side as if remembering the blood and torn muscle. "…your body isn't ready for that strain again. You pushed too far, Om. You almost broke yourself."
Om's lips curved into the faintest smirk.
"That was life or death. This isn't. I'm here to learn, not to lose control. Trust me — I won't go overboard."
Bhanu's eyes searched his for a beat longer, then he nodded and stepped away.
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Om returned to Dawon and leaned against the lion's side.
"Watch closely," he whispered. "This is the level we need to reach — no, surpass. So no one can threaten us again."
Dawon didn't understand every word, but the tone — steady, resolute — was enough. His tail uncurled slightly, and he shifted so that his side pressed back against Om's.
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The first battles started, and the arena came alive. Sparks of elemental energy flared; steel rang against steel; shouts and cheers rose from the watching trainees. Dawon's golden eyes tracked every movement, his breathing slowing. This wasn't just violence — it was rhythm, skill, even… joy.
That realization stirred something in him.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them.
"Om," said a familiar voice.
Om looked up to see Raghav, the principal, hands folded behind his back, his smile warm.
"How are you holding up?"
Om rose and bowed lightly. "Well, sir. And you?"
"Better now," Raghav said, his eyes scanning Om as if searching for signs of lingering injury.
"I heard about the assassination attempt. I'm relieved to see you standing strong."
Om hopped lightly on his feet, showing his ease. "As you can see — no injuries."
"Sharp as ever," Raghav replied with a faint chuckle. "You might have noticed a few changes here."
"I heard the attempt on me forced a meeting of all family heads," Om said. "More training, more security — seems like the right move."
Raghav's smile deepened. "Indeed. Enjoy your time here, Om."
As he walked away, Om caught the briefest flicker of thought in the man's eyes — He's changing.
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The air shifted. Lights seemed to dim, and a hush spread as Bhanu's voice cut through the crowd.
"Next battle: Master Om versus Dev!"
Dev emerged from the opposite side, fiery red hair spilling wildly around his face, eyes alight with the hunger of a man who had been waiting for this moment. His claymore, strapped across his back, hummed faintly — a dangerous blend of wind and fire.
"He knows about my broken inheritance", Om thought. "And he thinks it'll be to his advantage."
Dawon's ears flattened, his muscles tensing.
The moment Bhanu's hand dropped, Dev was a blur — the claymore clearing its sheath in a flash of fire and wind. He didn't run; he launched, the force of his leap leaving cracks in the floor tiles.
"Let's see that broken inheritance in action!" he roared.
Vajra Kaya flared to life around Om, a shimmering field catching the claymore's first strike with a ringing clang. The impact forced Om back, his heels carving a trench in the stone floor. His shoulders screamed from the pressure, but he locked his stance, refusing to yield.
Dev's grin widened — then he flung a hand skyward. Above Om, a fireball the size of a wagon wheel bloomed, whipped into a frenzy by wind. The heat hit first, a dry wave that tightened the skin.
Gurutva Akarshan formed in Om's palm, a black pinprick that pulled at the blazing mass. For seconds, light and shadow wrestled, the fireball shuddering violently before collapsing into the singularity with a muffled pop.
The exertion made Om's arm heavy, his breath coming shorter — but Dev wasn't done. Wind wrapped around him as he launched high, spinning his claymore to form a slicing vortex.
"You can't dodge this!"
The air screamed as the wind blades struck. Om ducked, twisted, and sidestepped, each motion jerky and narrow. The edges of the blades chewed at Vajra Kaya, leaving trails of sparks; a few slipped through, cutting hot lines across his arm and shoulder. The smell of scorched cloth mixed with the sharp tang of blood.
From the sidelines, Dawon growled low, his claws scraping against the floor.
[Master,] Zero's voice rang in Om's mind, calm but firm. [Ulka-Patt is inadvisable. Collateral damage would be severe.]
Om gritted his teeth and pushed the thought aside.
Dev landed hard, chest heaving, sweat running into his eyes. The smirk was gone, replaced by stubborn rage. Gathering every shred of energy, he poured wind and fire into his claymore until it glowed white-hot, the air around it warping.
He charged.
The hum in Om's body deepened to a bass vibration. Gurutva Akarshan surged — not pulling, but pressing, the weight around Dev multiplying until the stone beneath him cracked. His charge slowed, then faltered; the claymore dipped; his knees buckled.
With a strangled grunt, he dropped to the ground, pinned beneath a weight no muscle could lift. The blade hit the floor with a dull, final thud.
Bhanu's voice cut the silence. "Winner — Master Om!"
Cheers rose, mingled with whispers.
Dawon's chest swelled, and a short, sharp roar broke from his throat — pride and relief in one sound.
Om managed a tired smile in return, the weight of the battle settling into his bones. He knew the crowd saw a victory. But beneath the applause, he felt the truth — every fight was still costing him more than it should.