The morning sun crawled over the horizon, its faint orange light slipping into the training ground, spilling across cracked dirt and the lifeless wooden dummies that stood like silent witnesses. The air smelled of earth, sweat, and iron, thick and heavy, as though the ground itself remembered the violence it had endured the day before.
Rudura stirred in his bed, the rough blanket clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. His hands burned with blisters, fresh and raw from yesterday's struggle. Every attempt to curl his fingers around the bedsheet sent a ripple of pain through his arms. His shoulders throbbed as if weights had been tied to them overnight.
"Fuck…" Rudura muttered, teeth clenched, staring at his palms. The skin was cracked, raw, yet already hardened by stubborn resolve.
He sat up slowly, fighting the ache that screamed for him to stay down. But Rudura wasn't made to stay down. He swung his legs off the bed, his bare feet brushing the cold floor. For a brief moment, the boy who had once lived another life—before fate pulled him into this body—felt the fragility of being ten years old.
Yet that weakness only fueled the fire.
By the time Rudura staggered into the training ground, Malavatas was already there, standing tall with his arms crossed. His iron sword gleamed faintly in the morning light, reflecting the sun like liquid fire. His expression was calm, but his eyes—sharp and cutting—studied Rudura like a craftsman assessing flawed iron ore.
"So," Malavatas said, voice deep and steady, "you came."
Rudura straightened his back, despite the ache in his muscles. He wanted to look unbroken.
Malavatas's gaze dropped to Rudura's hands. Blisters. Red cracks. A child's body straining under the weight of a man's weapon. For a fleeting second, the corners of his lips curved into something resembling a smirk. Not mockery—respect.
But then, his eyes hardened again.
"You bled through the night," Malavatas said coldly. "Reckless fool. But sometimes, recklessness…" His eyes narrowed, voice dropping like iron on stone. "…sometimes it forges greatness."
Rudura's chest tightened. Reckless fool. He wanted to shout back, I'm not just reckless—I'm determined. But all he did was clench his fists tighter.
Malavatas studied the boy, silent for a long moment.This child is too young. His body is not ready. His arms will break before they harden. And yet… look at his eyes. Fire. Fire that does not yield.
The fire reminded him of Chandragupta Maurya . The fire that had built an empire from dust.
Perhaps… this one is destined to carry a heavier blade than he realizes.
But fire, Malavatas knew, without discipline, only burns itself out. Today, Rudura had to learn more than just swinging an iron sword. He had to learn to stand. To balance.
Malavatas unsheathed his sword in a slow, deliberate motion. The iron whispered against the scabbard—shhhk—before settling into his grip like a natural extension of his arm.
"Yesterday, I taught you to hold iron," Malavatas said. "Today, I'll teach you to stand with it."
Rudura frowned. "Stand?"
"Without balance, your sword is nothing but dead weight. You are ten years old, Rudura. Every strike you make is slow, not because of your spirit, but because of your body. Balance will be your weapon until strength catches up."
He thrust the sword into the dirt before Rudura. Thunk.
"Show me your stance."
Rudura grabbed the hilt, groaning as the weight dragged his arm down. He planted his feet apart, knees bent, sword raised high. His arms shook almost immediately. Dirt shifted under his heels.
Malavatas walked around him slowly, like a wolf circling prey.
"Too wide," he said, nudging Rudura's foot with his own boot."Too stiff," he added, pushing Rudura's shoulder until he nearly toppled."Too tense," he murmured, watching the boy's knuckles whiten.
Rudura gritted his teeth. "I'll fix it."
He adjusted, tried again. But every swing he made wobbled, his feet slipping in the dirt. Each strike came down clumsy, slow—thud—against the wooden dummy. The sound was flat, lifeless.
"Fuck!" Rudura spat, chest heaving. "Why can't I—"
"Because you're still a child," Malavatas cut in, sharp but not unkind. He raised his own sword in one smooth motion.
"Watch."
Malavatas stood in perfect silence, feet rooted like stone in the dirt. He exhaled once. Then—
Shhhk—SWOOSH—CRACK!
In less than a heartbeat, his sword cleaved the wooden dummy clean in half. The halves collapsed into the dirt with a heavy thud.
Rudura hadn't even seen the strike. His eyes widened.
It wasn't just speed. It wasn't just strength. It was balance. Precision. The iron obeyed Malavatas's body as if it were alive.
Rudura clenched his fists around his own sword. His hands stung, his arms trembled, but his fire only grew hotter.
"One day," he whispered under his breath, "I'll do that. No matter what it takes."
The training ground became an anvil. Rudura was the raw ore, beaten, bent, pressed into shape by Malavatas's relentless hand. Every failed strike was a hammer's blow, shaping him. Every slip in the dirt was another spark. And though his body cried for rest, his spirit only screamed louder.
The moon climbed high, silver light spilling across the dirt. The training ground was empty—except for Rudura.
He stood alone, sword in hand, feet buried in the dirt, sweat dripping down his face. The night was quiet except for the sound of his labored breathing and the faint shhhk-thud of his clumsy strikes.
He wasn't swinging wildly tonight. No. Tonight was about balance.
He planted his feet.He raised the sword.He whispered to himself, again and again:
"Balance before power… balance before power…"
The sword dragged his arms down, heavy as a mountain. He stumbled, fell face-first into the dirt. His lip split, blood mixing with soil.
For a long moment, he lay there, chest heaving. The weight of the world pressed on his small body.
But then, slowly, painfully, Rudura pushed himself back up. He spat dirt and blood. He stood again. Feet planted. Sword raised.
The moonlight gleamed off the iron. His eyes burned brighter than the stars above.
"One day," Rudura vowed into the silent night, voice raw, "I'll strike down giants. I'll cut through empires. Even if my body breaks a thousand times before then—I'll fucking stand."
The night carried his words into the darkness, as if even the heavens were listening.
(Continued in Chapter 31)