The night was heavy, still, and quiet. The training ground lay open beneath the pale light of the moon, its dirt surface cracked and scattered with faint impressions of countless strikes and footsteps that had worn themselves into the earth. The wooden dummies stood like silent sentinels, shadows stretching long behind them, their carved bodies scarred from hours of repeated strikes. The air was cool, brushing softly against Rudura's skin, carrying with it the earthy scent of dirt and iron.
Rudura stood there, a boy of just ten years, yet burdened with a weight far greater than most men would ever bear. In his hands rested the heavy iron sword, its hilt rough, its edge gleaming faintly under the silver light of the moon. It was no child's toy, no training stick—this was a weapon meant for killing. Its weight pulled against his small arms, each moment reminding him of his body's limits. His hands trembled slightly, but his gaze—sharp, determined, and unyielding—remained locked on the dummies before him.
The boy should have been asleep. Any other child his age would have been wrapped in blankets, dreaming carelessly, shielded from hardship by the walls of their home. But Rudura was no ordinary child. His nights were not spent in peace—they were carved by resolve. His bed may have been where he awoke each morning, but the dirt of the training ground was where he lived.
He raised the iron sword. The metal sang faintly as it sliced through the still air. His arms quivered beneath its weight, but he forced them steady. Tonight, he had only one goal—to revise every single movement Malavatas had taught him.
The moon bore silent witness as Rudura set his stance. Feet apart, knees bent, weight grounded into the dirt. His grip firm, though his small hands could barely wrap fully around the hilt. Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, though the night was cool.
He inhaled.
He exhaled.
And then he struck.
Fuck… this sword is so heavy.
Each swing felt like carrying a mountain. The iron sword pulled down against my bones, my muscles screaming in protest. But I clenched my teeth. I couldn't stop. Malavatas's words echoed in my mind—his sharp gaze piercing me even now, though he wasn't here.
"If you wish to defeat the Gupta Empire, push beyond your limits."
I raised the blade again, tightening my grip until my knuckles whitened. I slashed downward. The sword cut through the air but struck the wooden dummy weakly, bouncing back instead of sinking in. The jarring vibration rushed up my arms, making them ache.
I staggered but didn't fall. I couldn't fall.
Not now.
I readjusted my stance. My legs dug into the dirt, toes gripping, knees bent. Malavatas had said balance was everything—without balance, the sword would control me instead of the other way around. I took another breath and struck again.
This time, the blade bit into the wood, but only an inch. The dummy stood tall, mocking me. I growled, pulling the sword free.
"Damn it…" I whispered to myself, sweat rolling down my cheek.
Rudura repeated every lesson. First, the grip—both hands locked tightly around the hilt, thumbs aligned, wrists firm. Then, the stances—low guard, high guard, side guard, each position testing the endurance of his arms. His small frame trembled under the weight, but his eyes carried fire, burning away any weakness that dared to surface.
Hour after hour, he drilled.
Strikes.
Defenses.
Holding the sword high until his shoulders burned as if stabbed with fire.
Every movement was painstakingly slow—not from lack of skill, but because his body was only ten years old. His spirit surged forward like a storm, but his muscles chained him back. Still, he refused to stop.
The moon shifted slowly across the sky. Shadows deepened, stretched, then shifted again as time passed. Yet Rudura remained.
I practiced the defenses next. Raising the sword to block, shifting my stance, pivoting my footwork. Every block sent shocks down my arms, though no enemy stood before me—only the ghosts of the battles I would fight one day.
I swung again at the wooden dummy. The iron sword hit the chest with a loud thunk. Wood splintered slightly, but not enough. I pulled the sword back, chest heaving, arms shaking. My lungs burned, but I ignored the pain.
I changed stances. Again. And again. The dirt beneath my feet was torn, carved by my relentless steps. My sweat dripped into the ground, mixing with it until the earth darkened.
"Come on… hold it together…" I muttered.
The sword's weight dragged on me like a chain, but I forced myself to hold it upright for as long as I could. My arms trembled violently, but I counted the seconds in my head. Ten… twenty… thirty… until finally, my strength gave out and I let the blade fall into the dirt with a dull thud.
Panting, I bent down, hands on my knees. My vision blurred for a moment. My body begged me to stop.
But my heart screamed louder.
I can't quit. Not yet. Not ever.
And so he continued. He practiced every attack he knew—vertical strikes, diagonal slashes, thrusts. Each one clumsy at first, but repeated until muscle memory began to shape them into something sharper, cleaner.
The dummies bore the marks of his persistence. Shallow cuts carved across their wooden frames, splinters falling to the dirt with each strike. The night rang with the sound of iron striking wood, the echo sharp in the silence.
Finally, he attempted what Malavatas had shown him—cutting the wooden dummy in half.
He raised the sword above his head, every muscle in his body coiled with tension. His eyes locked onto the target. The night seemed to hold its breath with him.
He swung.
The sword struck hard—but the blade stuck halfway, biting deep but not cutting through. Rudura gritted his teeth, pulling it free with effort. He tried again. And again. Each time, the blade sank deeper, but the dummy stood.
I don't know how many times I tried. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. Maybe more. My arms were burning, my legs numb, my palms raw from gripping the hilt. The blisters hurt, but I didn't loosen my grip.
Each strike was better than the last, but still not perfect. Still not enough. I felt like screaming, but I didn't. I just kept going.
"Again!" I muttered through clenched teeth, swinging once more.
"Again!" The sword struck, sparks flying as the edge carved deeper.
My breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat stung my eyes, but I blinked it away.
Finally, the dummy creaked, its wooden chest groaning under the pressure of repeated strikes. I slashed one last time, but my strength gave out before the cut could go through. The sword slid free, leaving the dummy scarred but unbroken.
I collapsed to my knees, gasping. My body wanted to give in—but my will didn't.
I looked at the dummy, scarred from my countless attempts, and whispered, "I'll get better. I have to."
The moon now hung high overhead, casting a cold glow over the boy's exhausted form. His small body trembled from fatigue, but his spirit burned fiercely, refusing to be extinguished.
And though he didn't know it, a shadow watched him from afar. From the window of his chamber, Malavatas observed silently. His eyes, sharp as blades, narrowed slightly as he saw the boy's persistence.
The man's thoughts were his own, his expression unreadable—but the faintest spark of something stirred in his chest.
The boy bled sweat, not blood, tonight. Yet his recklessness, his refusal to surrender, was shaping him—chiseling him into something more than just a ten-year-old child.
The night grew quiet again, save for the sound of Rudura's heavy breathing. He sat in the dirt, iron sword lying beside him, its edge stained with wood shavings.
His body begged for rest, and finally, he relented. He lay down on the cool ground, the stars watching him above.
Before his eyes closed, he whispered to himself—
"I got to become better…"
And then, sleep claimed him.
(Continued in Chapter 34)