The first rays of dawn slid through the cracks of the training hall, casting long golden stripes across the wooden floor. Rudura stirred awake, blinking as the morning light burned his tired eyes. His body screamed with soreness—his arms, his shoulders, even his fingers felt as though fire had seeped into every joint.
But he didn't complain. He didn't even groan.
Instead, he slowly sat up, brushing the dust from his clothes. His wooden sword lay beside him, a silent reminder of last night's vow. He picked it up, held it tightly, and whispered under his breath,"Today… I'll go further."
His legs wobbled as he stood, but the fire inside him was stronger than the ache in his body.
Outside the training hall, the morning air was fresh and cool. Birds called from the branches of the towering banyan trees, their cries sharp and cheerful. Dew glistened on the grass, tiny jewels sparkling in the light. The world looked alive, vibrant—and Rudura felt alive with it.
And standing in the middle of that morning calm was Malavatas.
The young boy froze. Malavatas wasn't training with his sword. He wasn't sparring with anyone. He was simply standing beneath the old banyan tree, eyes half-closed, breathing as though he were one with the world itself.
Rudura swallowed. Even without moving, Malavatas radiated power. It wasn't the kind of power that screamed. It was silent, calm, yet overwhelming.
"Come," Malavatas said without looking at him, his deep voice steady as the earth.
Rudura hurried forward, gripping his wooden sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"You spoke yesterday of strength," Malavatas continued, his eyes finally opening. "Strength is nothing without control. A raging fire burns everything—including itself. But a controlled fire… can forge steel."
Rudura nodded, though he didn't fully understand. He wanted strength, but he didn't yet know what Malavatas truly meant.
Malavatas's gaze shifted upward. A leaf had broken free from the banyan tree, fluttering gently in the breeze as it fell. He reached for the wooden sword strapped at his waist.
"Watch closely."
The leaf drifted, swaying left and right, carried by the morning wind. Just as it passed in front of him—shhhk!
The wooden blade moved. So fast that Rudura barely saw it.
The leaf fell in two perfect halves, split cleanly in midair. Both pieces touched the ground at the same time, lying side by side like mirror images.
Rudura's mouth fell open. His young heart pounded as if it would burst.
"Again," Malavatas whispered.
Another leaf descended. Another silent slash. This time, the leaf was cut not into two—but into four even pieces. Each half of a half spun away, floating down like tiny green feathers.
Rudura staggered back, eyes wide. It wasn't strength. Malavatas hadn't even looked serious. It was something else. Something beyond strength.
"How… how did you do that?" Rudura asked, his voice trembling.
Malavatas turned his sword, letting the morning light glint along the dull wooden edge. "Not strength. Not speed. Patience."
"Patience?" Rudura frowned. "But you cut it so fast—"
"Because I waited," Malavatas interrupted calmly. "The leaf will always fall. The wind will always move it. A warrior does not chase. He waits. He watches. He strikes when the world itself guides his blade."
Rudura bit his lip. He stared at another falling leaf and gripped his sword. "Then… let me try."
He rushed forward, eyes locked on the drifting green shape. His heart hammered in his chest. Now!
He swung with all his strength. Whhhack!
The leaf tumbled harmlessly to the ground, whole and untouched.
"Again!" Rudura shouted, teeth gritted. Another leaf fell. He swung harder. Miss. Another. Miss. Again and again he tried, his arms burning, sweat pouring down his forehead. Each miss stung worse than the last.
Malavatas watched in silence, his calm eyes never leaving Rudura.
Finally, Rudura fell to his knees, panting, his sword clattering beside him. His small chest rose and fell rapidly. Tears threatened at the corner of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
"I can't do it…" he muttered bitterly.
Malavatas stepped closer, his shadow falling over the boy. "You cannot because you are forcing it. You swing at the leaf as if it is your enemy. But the leaf has no grudge against you. You must listen, not fight."
Rudura looked up at him, confused but desperate.
Malavatas pointed at the branches above. "Stand. Breathe. Feel the wind. Do not cut the leaf. Let the leaf guide you."
Rudura clenched his fists, then slowly rose to his feet again. He picked up his wooden sword, his arms shaking, but his eyes fierce. He looked at the falling leaves.
This time, he didn't rush. He didn't swing wildly. He forced himself to breathe. He waited.
One leaf danced in the air, twirling, twisting gently as though mocking him. He focused. His heartbeat slowed. The world around him seemed to fade. It was just him… and the leaf.
His sword rose.
Shhhk!
The blade cut through the air. The leaf fluttered to the ground, untouched. Rudura groaned in frustration, but Malavatas's lips curled into the faintest smile.
"Better," he said softly. "You're learning."
Rudura wanted to scream, to throw the sword, to curse his weakness—but he didn't. Instead, he stood there, sweat dripping, staring at the leaf as though it were his greatest enemy.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher. Leaves fell one after another. Rudura swung, missed, swung again. His arms throbbed with pain, but he refused to stop.
By evening, his body had given out completely. He collapsed to the ground, his sword slipping from his hand. The banyan tree above seemed endless, its leaves still rustling as if laughing at his failure.
But Rudura wasn't crying. Not this time.
As the moon rose, painting the courtyard in silver light, Rudura pushed himself up on trembling arms. He stared at the sword lying before him. His lips curled into a stubborn, exhausted smile.
"Malavatas…" he whispered to the empty night. "I swear… one day, I'll cut more than just a leaf. I'll cut through limits. I'll reach beyond even you."
The vow hung in the night air, burning hotter than any fire.
And though no one heard it, the ancient banyan tree seemed to shiver, as if recognizing the birth of a will that could one day shake empires.
(Continued in Chapter 27)