The sun rose slowly above the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pale orange and gold. The training ground stretched open like a wide scar across the land, its dirt floor still damp from the dew that had settled overnight. The wooden dummies stood in rows like silent sentinels, their surfaces marked by past strikes and gouges. A light breeze carried the earthy scent of dirt and old wood, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the iron swords that leaned against the weapon racks at the edge of the field.
It was morning, and Rudura was already there, his small frame tense, his ten-year-old hands gripping the heavy iron sword tightly. The blade felt heavier today, as though it had grown more stubborn overnight. His breaths came sharp, misting in the morning air. Every muscle in his body remembered yesterday's training—the aches, the burning arms, the soreness that lingered in his shoulders. But none of that mattered. Not now.
He was waiting for Malavatas.
And soon, he appeared.
The tall figure of Malavatas walked onto the training ground with the same calm, composed stride as always. His long robe swayed against the dirt, and his sharp eyes scanned the place with the precision of someone who had lived in training grounds far longer than homes. His hands carried nothing at first, but his presence alone was heavier than any weapon.
"Rudura," Malavatas said, his voice steady, cutting through the crisp morning air. "You woke up early again."
Rudura straightened, panting slightly. "I… I want to be ready before you arrive."
A faint shadow of a smirk touched Malavatas's lips, but it vanished quickly. He walked to the side, picked up an apple from a small wooden basket he had brought with him, and turned toward Rudura.
"Today's first task," Malavatas said, holding up the apple. "You will cut this while it falls. No hesitation. No clumsy swing. Just precision."
Rudura's eyes widened slightly. "An apple…?"
Malavatas's gaze hardened. "Don't underestimate it. Cutting something small, light, and moving tests more than strength. It tests focus. Control. Timing. The kind of things you lack."
Rudura bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to let the sting of the words show on his face. His grip tightened around the sword hilt. He wanted to say something back, but deep inside, he knew Malavatas was right.
Malavatas tossed the apple high into the air. It rose, spun, and began its descent.
"Now!"
Rudura swung with all his might, arms straining under the weight of the iron sword. The blade whooshed through the air and slammed into the dirt with a heavy thunk. The apple bounced harmlessly away, untouched, rolling across the ground.
Rudura's face burned.
Malavatas only shook his head. "Too slow. Too desperate. You cannot force the strike. Again."
He picked up another apple. Tossed it.
Rudura tried again. Another miss.
The next one—miss.
And the next.
Time blurred into a series of failures. The dull thud of the blade striking dirt over and over again echoed across the empty ground. Sweat trickled down Rudura's forehead, stinging his eyes. His arms trembled, every swing slower than the last. He cursed under his breath each time.
"Fuck!" he growled after the tenth miss, his voice cracking with frustration. His chest heaved, his hands blistered, but he didn't stop.
Malavatas stood silently, watching him. His expression remained unreadable, but his sharp eyes missed nothing—the boy's raw determination, his trembling body, the reckless way he refused to quit.
Another apple tossed. Another miss.
It went on. Fifteen times. Sixteen. Seventeen.
Rudura's shoulders screamed in pain, and his vision blurred, but he clenched his teeth and swung again.
Then came the twenty-first.
The apple arced through the air, spinning gracefully, glinting faintly in the morning light. Rudura steadied his breathing. His arms shook, but his eyes locked onto the apple, tracking its every motion. For a split second, everything slowed.
The sword sliced upward.
SHHHHT!
The apple split perfectly in two, the halves falling to the dirt on either side of the blade.
On his twenty-first try, he finally succeeded.
Rudura blinked, stunned. His chest surged with a mix of disbelief and relief. He let out a shaky laugh, part joy, part exhaustion.
Malavatas, however, did not smile. He only said, "Good. But remember—this was only once. Do not mistake one success for mastery."
Rudura swallowed, his throat dry. "I… I understand."
Malavatas stepped forward, his robe brushing against the dirt. He raised his own iron sword, heavier and longer than Rudura's, and turned toward one of the wooden dummies.
"Now, watch closely," he said.
In a blur, the sword moved.
CRACK!
The wooden dummy split perfectly down the middle, falling apart with clean edges as though it had been sliced by something far sharper than iron. Rudura hadn't even seen the strike—it was over before his eyes could follow.
"One perfect strike," Malavatas said, lowering his sword. His voice carried a weight that pressed into Rudura's chest. "One perfect strike is worth more than a thousand weak ones. Perfection ends the fight. Imperfection drags it on until you die."
Rudura's eyes widened, staring at the two halves of the dummy lying in the dirt. His heart pounded. His mind repeated those words, turning them over. But deep inside, a spark of disagreement flickered.
One perfect strike… but what if one isn't enough? What if more is needed?
He didn't voice it, of course. Not to Malavatas.
Instead, he bowed his head slightly. "I'll remember."
The training continued until his arms were nothing but fire and his legs threatened to give out. By the time Malavatas finally dismissed him, the sun had climbed high, and the training ground shimmered with heat.
Rudura lay on his back in his small room, staring up at the ceiling. His iron sword rested against the wall beside his bed, the faint light catching on its dull blade. His body ached, but his mind was restless.
Why was he enduring this? Why was he pushing his frail, ten-year-old body so far past its limits?
The answer rose in him like a tide.
Because this was his second chance.
In his past life, in the modern world, he had dreamed of building something great—a legacy, an empire of his own. But in that world, empires were impossible. The age of kings and conquerors had long ended. He had died with that dream unfulfilled, a bitter taste of failure lingering even at the end.
But here… here, in this life, the chance was real.
He clenched his fist.
He would build his empire. He would carve it out of the world with his own hands, and this time nothing would stop him.
And not just for himself.
He thought of Chandragupta Maurya, whose name would echo through history. He thought of Malavatas, who was giving him the tools, the guidance, the harsh lessons that no one else could. They believed in him. They expected something from him.
He wouldn't let them down.
Not this time.
The moon rose high, silver light spilling across the training ground. The dummies stood like silent figures under the stars, their shadows long and eerie on the dirt floor. The night air was cool, almost sharp, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves from the trees beyond.
Rudura stood there again, the iron sword heavy in his small hands. His arms ached, but his determination burned brighter than the pain.
He swung
He practiced till his body gave up.
His body was tired, but his mind wasn't .
I will become stronger, and I mean It
(Continued in Chapter 33)