Ten days later.
The training arena was bathed in the muted gold of a setting sun, the long shadows stretching across cracked stone tiles that had endured weeks of punishing exercises. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the lingering gusts of energy released during sparring.
Dozens of trainee inheritors sprawled across the arena, bodies splayed in exhaustion, muscles tight and quivering. Sweat-drenched clothing clung to them like second skins. Some simply lay flat on their backs, staring at the sky above the School building, while others hunched over, forearms braced on knees, panting through ragged breaths.
Om bent forward, hands braced on his knees, trying to regulate the fire in his lungs. The day's training had pushed him beyond normal limits, yet the familiar ache was one he had learned to accept. Beside him, Dev was crouched in a similar position, stretching one leg at a time, wincing faintly at the tension pulling through his thighs.
Dawon lay sprawled at Om's side, golden eyes half-lidded. Every so often, his tail flicked, brushing against Om's foot. Though his body appeared relaxed, there was a subtle alertness in the flicker of his ears and the twitch of his whiskers.
The arena was alive with the soft symphony of fatigue: water bottles opening with a hiss, soft clatter of weapons being stored, and the deep, rhythmic breathing of those who had pushed themselves too far.
Captain Bhanu, the instructor —stepped onto the central platform. Every trainee in the arena instinctively straightened, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Bhanu's presence carried a weight that seemed to bend the light around him, and his sharp gaze scanned the group with the precision of a seasoned tactician.
"On your feet," he said, boots clicking against the platform.
Murmurs died instantly. Even Dawon lifted his head slightly, as if sensing the significance in Bhanu's simple command.
"Listen closely. I'll be brief." His voice carried across the arena, calm, controlled, yet demanding absolute attention.
"You've all been training here long enough to understand where you stand," Bhanu began, pacing deliberately.
"I've seen your progress, your weaknesses, and your limits. Today, I can give you an accurate measure of your combat capability."
He paused, letting his words settle like stones in a still pond.
"As of now, each of you has reached roughly half the strength of a Rathi-level inheritor."
A collective murmur swept through the trainees. Some nodded, impressed by the figure, others frowned, realizing just how far they still had to go.
Zero's voice resonated in Om's mind, short and factual:
[Analysis: Half-Rathi Level
-Current combat capacity: approximately 2,500 human-equivalent opponents simultaneously. -Survival probability in a multi-engagement scenario: 48–52%.]
Om absorbed the information, the cold precision of Zero's calculation offering him a clinical perspective amidst the human chatter.
Bhanu's gaze swept the arena. "For the annual W.I.A. trial—the licensing and universities admission exam—you must achieve peak Rathi-level strength. That is, the power and endurance to withstand, engage, and survive against 5,000 normal human warriors simultaneously."
Even Dawon tilted his head at the scale of the statement, his instinctive understanding of danger tickling at his awareness.
Bhanu's voice sharpened. "Until now, your training has been one-on-one. That was intentional. Every duel was designed to make you intimately aware of your inheritance—its potential and its limits. But war, real war, is not a polite exchange of blows."
The weight of his words hung heavily over the arena.
"That changes now."
The words carried a quiet menace. The Forbidden Zone—never mentioned lightly—had the power to shift the bravest of hearts.
Bhanu stopped pacing, eyes locking on the group. "We are going into the Forbidden Zone."
Gasps echoed across the arena. The forbidden zones were untamed territories, teeming with mutated beasts, chaotic elemental phenomena, and ancient remnants of the Catastrophe. They were living tests of endurance and cunning, and only the most skilled or reckless dared enter.
Dev's hand shot up. "Captain, to enter a Forbidden Zone, don't you need at least Ati-Rathi strength? We're not there yet. How will we survive?"
Bhanu's expression remained impassive. "Correct—you would die in the untamed sections. We won't be going there."
"Our main target is a Chinese- maintained sector of our forbidden zone. It's a conquered sector with a good training environment for trainees. Although it's still a highly dangerous place."
Zero chimed in, succinct and clinical:
[Sector Analysis – Forbidden Zone, Controlled Entry
-Status: Chinese-maintained sector. Casualty probability reduced to 41% relative to wild zones.
-Creature density: high, but population control mechanisms active. Encounter risk with foreign inheritors: moderate.]
The trainees murmured among themselves. The tension was tangible, their imaginations filling in the dangers Bhanu had only hinted at.
Bhanu continued, "The creatures here favor dense populations. That makes it the perfect place to train for combat in compact, chaotic environments. You'll learn to manage multiple opponents, navigate confined spaces, and adapt when pressed from all angles."
He let his words sink in. Then his tone sharpened.
"You may encounter trainee inheritors from other nations. If you do, avoid engagement. Keep your distance. Any incident is not just reckless—it's an international matter."
Zero interjected:
[Probability Estimate – International Contact
-Non-lethal encounters: 63%. Hostile escalation: 29%.
-Accidental fatalities: 8%. Recommendation: maintain distance, minimize exposure.]
Bhanu's gaze swept across the trainees one last time. "Three days to prepare. Train smart, pack light, but pack for survival. When we enter, there's no retreat."
Om exhaled slowly, feeling the familiar pulse of the language in his forehead, a reminder of his true goal. Dev's gaze was sharp, calculating, already forming strategies in his mind. Dawon remained near, restless but at ease enough to trust Om's lead.
The group began dispersing. Trainees whispered among themselves, exchanging nervous but excited glances.
Zero's voice cut in one last time, cold and analytical:
[Master!]
[Operational Forecast
[The Probability of squad survival in controlled Forbidden Zone with current training metrics: 71%.
-Variables: creature behavior unpredictability, foreign inheritor contact, terrain instability, and emotional response under multi-target stress conditions.]
The data zero presented to Om was neither comforting nor alarming—simply data. And in this world, facts were more reliable than hope.
Om glanced down at Dawon, curled up in the corner, golden eyes half-closed, sensing tension he could not understand but instinctively reacting to. Om placed a hand gently on the lion's mane.
"I know you ran from there," he murmured.
"but the world out there… it's bigger, more crowded, and more dangerous than anything. If we want to get stronger we must go there."
Dawon's tail flicked in response, a soft, instinctive agreement.
Om turned to Dev. "Three days. Enough time to prepare, but short enough to remind us how much we don't know."
Dev nodded. "I've been waiting for a challenge like this. Crowded conditions, unpredictable enemies—it's what training should have been all along."
Zero's final assessment pinged in Om's mind.
[Your need to prioritize spatial awareness, maintain formation with high-value targets (Om, Dawon), monitor enemy density, minimize collateral engagement, track foreign inheritor positions.]
Om sighed. He was getting tired of Zero continuously mechanical response.
The sun disappeared entirely behind the peaks, leaving the arena in a dim glow. Trainees began filtering out, heading to their quarters, the air alive with anticipation and subdued fear.
Om stayed a moment longer, hand still on Dawon, contemplating the coming mission. The Forbidden Zone awaited. Crowded, chaotic, and deadly—but perfectly designed to push them to the next level.
For tonight, there was rest. But in three days, nothing would be familiar.
And Om welcomed the challenge.