Inexplicably slow was the sun trying to pierce the horizon, spreading streaks of gold, orange, and an imperishable twilight-purple. The dew of the morning seemed to be an enemy to the palace grounds, with restless drops still descending on the grass and cool and clammy underneath bare feet. The training yard stood mute — wooden posts were marked like sentinels drawn to the imminent battle.
A small figure stood alone at the center of that yard.
Punishing little hands of Rudura grasped the coarse hilt of the wooden practice sword. Heavier on his frame than anything his body liked, lighter than the burden of his heart was to carry. He was inhaling sharply while each exhale came in faint frost in the fresh morning air. His dark eyes were not sleepy but burning intensely-with restlessness-and with life.
His feet once more found their place, grounding the toes, bending the knees just enough, relaxing the shoulders: relevant adjustments that he had paid attention to the day before. And his heart was pounding out of his chest.
In that moment-
"Swoooosh!"
That blade sliced clean through the silence.
The tip hit the dummy, reverberating up his arms. Rudura gritted his teeth against the sting. He wrenched his torso, pivoted on his right foot, raised the sword again.
"Haaaah! Swoooosh! Crack!"
With the strike louder than beforeHarder this time, making the dummy's surface groan under strain. His sweat-slicked palms fought to keep hold of the sword as he dragged it back to a ready position. The yard was alive with a steady rhythm.
"Swish... swish... thud... swoooosh!"
There were no swing-offs for practice. For Rudura, this was war.
In his mind, the wooden dummy was not inert wood but a soldier of the Gupta army. The clangs of imaginary armor rung inside his ears.
A soldier thrust his spear at him. Rudura ducked low, rolling across the grass with his sword slashing along the middle of the dummy's body.
"Thud! Haaaah!"
Another soldier swung an axe down from high position. Rudura raised his sword to block, and though the wooden blade vibrated violently in his grip, he forced it upward with his other hand, shoving the imaginary weapon aside and countering with a diagonal slash.
"Swoooosh—CRACK!"
Sweat splattered from his brow with that strike's force. His young frame was trembling, but he clenched his teeth and refused to yield.
More. Faster. Stronger.
He slashed again.
"Swish! Swish! Swish!"
The air screamed with his blade cutting through it as each time was sharper than the prior one. The rhythm went wild, yet his stance refused to crumble.
If I can't handle this dummy, how will I ever face the real test? How will I ever pass the end-year trial? How will I ever find out about that book… about 'Échecs humains'…?
From the side of the yard, Malavatas watched silently. The mentor's arms folded over his chest, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Rudura's shoulders tightened too much at the top of a swing. His knees trembled with strain after each pivot. His breathing was loud, ragged, far too quick for this stage.
But still… his control was shocking for a boy his age. Where other children would flail wildly, Rudura's strikes carried intent. His blade didn't sing randomly — it followed an invisible enemy's movements.
He's not just practicing, Malavatas thought. He's fighting.
Rudura's vision blurred, but he pressed on. The wooden dummy became ten soldiers. Twenty. Spears and swords rained down in his mind's eye. He dodged one thrust, bent backward under another, his blade darting up to catch the next.
"Clack! Thud! Swoosh—haaah!"
His feet pounded across the yard, splashing dew into the air. His strikes grew harsher, sharper, his movements faster, until the sound of his blade cutting air became a storm.
"Swoooosh! Swish! Crack! Crack! Crack!"
His throat burned, his arms screamed, his knees buckled, but his heart roared louder:
Don't stop. If you stop now, you'll never reach it. Never reach the truth. Never reach Rome. Never reach strength.
The dummy bore the brunt of his storm. Its wooden body rattled, faint cracks forming on its surface. Every hit echoed like a drumbeat in the quiet yard.
"Thud! Thud! THUD!"
Rudura lunged forward, thrusting the blade deep into the dummy's center. The impact rattled his entire frame, his palms splitting faintly from the pressure. He pulled back with a sharp cry.
"Haaaaaah!"
Sweat sprayed, his chest heaving like a bellows. His body begged him to stop. His lungs burned like fire, his arms like molten iron. Yet still, he raised the blade.
He staggered left, slashed high.
"Swish!"
He staggered right, slashed low.
"Crack!"
He spun clumsily but forced the blade down in a powerful arc.
"THUUD!"
The dummy shuddered, a piece of splintered wood falling from its surface. Rudura stumbled back, barely keeping himself upright. His breath was ragged, his body trembling uncontrollably.
But his eyes — his eyes still burned.
"Enough."
The voice boomed like thunder.
Rudura froze, his blade half-raised, his chest heaving. He looked to the side, meeting Malavatas's piercing gaze.
"No," Rudura rasped, voice raw. "I can still—"
"You cannot." Malavatas stepped forward, his footsteps calm, deliberate. "Strength is not built in one day."
The boy's grip shook, his lips trembling. "If not today… then when?"
Malavatas stopped before him, crouching slightly. He placed his broad hand over Rudura's trembling ones, steadying the blade.
"Listen carefully." His voice was low but powerful, each word sinking deep into Rudura's mind. "A sword is not moved by your arms. It is moved by your body. And your body… is not moved by strength. It is moved by time. Time spent practicing. Time spent failing. Time spent rising again. That is how warriors are built. Not in a single day."
He adjusted Rudura's grip, making the boy's small fingers tighten correctly around the hilt. "Hold your sword like this. Let it become a part of you. The sword does not rush. And neither should you."
Rudura's panting slowed. His gaze dropped to the blade, then back up to his master. The words carved themselves deep into his chest. Still, his heart whispered its rebellion.
Maybe not today. But I'll prove myself in the end-year test. I'll prove it to him. To everyone.
For a moment, silence ruled the yard again. Then Rudura's voice, though weak, broke through.
"Master…" His small frame shook, but his eyes never wavered. "Fight me. A practice match. With swords."
Malavatas arched a brow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "You want to fight me?"
"Yes." Rudura's grip tightened. His stance, battered but steady, showed no fear. "I need to see… how far I've come. Even if I lose."
Malavatas studied him for a long, heavy moment. The air grew thick. Then, finally, he nodded.
"…Very well."
The teacher and student stood face to face. The morning light gleamed faintly off the wooden swords. The air vibrated with tension, the silence before the storm.
The duel was about to begin.