The morning sun sat low in the sky, stretching long shadows across the training field. The packed earth bore scars from yesterday's sparring — cuts of wooden swords etched into the dirt, footprints where Rudura had collapsed more than once, still faintly visible. No dew softened the ground here; the field was hard, unforgiving, and honest.
Rudura arrived earlier than usual, his body aching, his shoulders stiff, his palms raw with blisters. Each step reminded him of yesterday's defeat, the memory of Malavatas swatting him aside like he was nothing. His chest burned with the same shame that had haunted him through the night.
But he came anyway.
And Malavatas was already there.
The tall figure stood by the banyan tree, the morning light sharpening his silhouette. His wooden practice sword rested casually in his hand, yet his presence weighed heavier than steel. He wasn't practicing. He wasn't stretching. He was simply waiting — waiting for Rudura, waiting for the right moment.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint whistle of a breeze across the field.
The boy came again.
Malavatas studied Rudura's walk — slow, steady, heavy. Pain lingered in the way his shoulders sagged, but his steps never faltered. Most men, after yesterday, would have stayed in bed. But Rudura dragged himself here with eyes that still burned.
A Ten-year-old child in a new life… carrying eyes of someone far older.
There was no mockery in Malavatas's gaze. No pity. He simply waited, measuring the boy silently. This was no ordinary student.
Malavatas finally spoke, his voice deep and steady, carrying across the field.
"Rudura."
The boy stopped and straightened. His grip tightened on the wooden sword hanging by his side.
"What is your goal? Why do you raise your sword, even when your body screams to stop?"
The question fell like a hammer on Rudura's chest.
Rudura's throat tightened. His hands trembled, not from fear but from the weight of the question. For a moment, he thought of lying — saying something simple, something safe. But no. That wasn't him.
He raised his head, meeting Malavatas's piercing eyes.
"I want to defeat the Gupta Empire… for now."
The words felt insane, even as he spoke them. A single boy, barely able to land a blow on Malavatas, declaring war against an empire. But Rudura didn't care. His heart pounded, and every vein in his body screamed that this was the truth.
Fuck it, he thought. If I don't say it now, when will I?
The training field fell silent. Even the breeze stilled. Malavatas's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the boy.
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't childish fantasy. There was fire in those words — raw, reckless, but unshakable.
So… that's his aim. Not survival. Not honor. An empire.
Malavatas let the silence stretch, then finally nodded.
"To defeat the Gupta Empire," he said slowly, "you must train harder than any man alive. You must push yourself beyond your limits. Break yourself, and rebuild yourself. Again and again."
He lowered his sword slightly, his voice sharpening like a blade.
"If you cannot surpass your limits, Rudura, you'll remain nothing. Forgotten dust under someone's boot. But if you succeed… even empires will kneel before your name."
His fists clenched. The words didn't crush him; they lit him on fire. He felt his pulse hammering, his breath quickening. Forgotten dust? No. He wouldn't fucking allow that.
"Then give me that chance," Rudura growled. His young voice cracked but did not break.
This boy…
Malavatas's lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile.
"Tomorrow," he said, his tone now deliberate, each word heavy, "I will give you a task. If you can complete it, I will tell you how the Mauryan Empire rose — the empires Chandragupta Maurya conquered, and the wisdom of his guru… my father."
The weight of history settled in the air.
Rudura's heart pounded. The name Chandragupta Maurya carried a shadow that stretched across centuries, and behind it, the promise of knowledge — power, legacy, destiny.
This wasn't just about swordsmanship anymore. This was the door to the very foundation of empires.
But Malavatas wasn't giving it away. He was demanding it be earned
That Night
The field was silent, but Rudura's breaths tore through it like blades.
Each inhale scraped his throat raw, each exhale burned, white mist rising in the cool night. His arms felt like lead, his shoulders like they were about to rip from his sockets. Yet he raised the sword again.
Whoosh—THWACK!
The wooden blade cut against the air, slicing invisible enemies. His imagination painted them in front of him: faceless Gupta soldiers, armored, laughing, their spears pointed at his chest.
He swung at them. Again. Again. Again.
His knuckles split. His palms were slick with blood, the wood sticky and slippery beneath his grip. But he refused to stop.
"Fuck… fuck… fuck!" Rudura snarled with each strike. His voice cracked with exhaustion, but his rage fueled him. The curse wasn't just against the pain — it was against fate itself. Against weakness. Against being forgotten.
The boy's swings had no form now, no rhythm. They were wild, raw, desperate. And yet, there was beauty in the chaos. Every ragged swing carved something deeper into him — not into his technique, but into his will.
And in the world of swords, sometimes will was sharper than steel.
His knees buckled. He collapsed into the dirt, face-first, gasping. The ground was cold and smelled of dust and sweat. His fingers twitched, reaching for the sword, but his body screamed enough.
No.
Not yet.
He clawed forward, dragging his aching body, his nails tearing against the packed soil until he wrapped his bloody hand around the wooden hilt again.
"Get up."
The voice was his own, hoarse, broken, but commanding.
"Get the fuck up, Rudura."
He forced himself to his feet. His vision blurred, stars danced in his eyes, but he raised the sword once more. His shadow stretched long under the moonlight, trembling but unyielding.
From the shadow of the banyan tree, Malavatas watched.
He had not left the field. Not fully. Something had told him the boy wouldn't.
And he was right.
The child's body was failing — yet he still stood, swinging, cursing, rising. Most men would have broken after an hour. The boy was still fighting the night itself.
Malavatas's lips tightened. For the first time, he felt a strange weight in his chest — not pity, not admiration, but recognition.
This was the raw fire his father had once spoken of. The kind that could forge kings.
The night dragged on. Rudura swung until his body no longer obeyed him. Until the sword slipped from his fingers and he couldn't pick it back up.
And even then, lying flat in the dirt, his lips moved, whispering into the soil.
"Gupta Empire… Mauryan Empire… Malavatas…"
His voice was barely audible, but steady.
"One day, I'll rise beyond you all."
The earth carried his vow, soaking it in blood, sweat, and tears.
The stars above flickered coldly, silent witnesses to a promise that would shake the roots of history.
The training field did not answer him. But somewhere in the darkness, fate had already shifted, ever so slightly, as if acknowledging the boy's defiance.
Tomorrow, the task would begin.
And Rudura would either break completely… or take his first step toward a destiny greater than empires.
(Continued in Chapter 28)