The training ground was quiet in the morning, the dirt floor still holding the coolness of the night before. The faint wind rolled across the wide, open field, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the distant rustle of leaves from the banyan tree that loomed at the edge. The sun had only just begun to climb, painting the horizon with streaks of pale gold.
Rudura stood in the middle of the field, his small hands tightening around the hilt of the heavy iron sword. The blade dragged slightly when he lifted it, his ten-year-old body straining under the weight. Sweat was already running down his back, not from exertion, but from the pressure he knew was about to come.
Across from him, Malavatas watched silently. His arms were folded, his tall frame casting a shadow that seemed to stretch endlessly over the dirt ground. His eyes were sharp, unwavering.
Without saying a word at first, Malavatas reached down and picked up a small piece of wood — no bigger than his hand. It had splintered edges, probably cut off from one of the broken dummies lying nearby. He weighed it casually in his palm before tossing it lightly in the air, catching it again with effortless precision.
"Your task today," Malavatas finally spoke, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade itself, "is to split this. In the air. With your sword."
Rudura's eyes widened slightly. He had expected another dummy, maybe another exhausting drill of cutting through wood until his body collapsed. But this — this was something else. Something smaller. Something faster.
Malavatas tossed the wood up once more, his expression unreadable. "Cutting a falling dummy is one thing. But cutting something small… that requires patience, timing, and precision. Not just strength."
Rudura gritted his teeth. His pulse quickened. His hands gripped the sword tighter.
"Patience, timing, precision…" he muttered under his breath. Why the fuck does this matter? I just want to cut and win! I want to get stronger. Strong enough to crush the Gupta Empire.
The thought seared in his mind, but deep down, beneath the fire of frustration, another truth stirred. He remembered every time his blade had glanced off instead of cutting cleanly. Every sloppy strike. Every moment where his recklessness had left him drained.
Maybe… maybe Malavatas was right. Maybe his impatience was why he couldn't yet land perfect strikes.
But Rudura didn't voice this. Not yet.
Malavatas's eyes narrowed as if he could sense Rudura's inner conflict. Without another word, he tossed the small piece of wood into the air, its arc lazy but swift, spinning down toward the dirt.
"Now."
Rudura lunged, swinging his heavy blade upward. The iron groaned in his hands as he pulled it through the air. The blade sliced just beneath the falling wood — missing it entirely. The chunk of wood hit the ground with a dull thud.
Silence.
Rudura stood frozen, panting already. His shoulders burned. His grip ached.
Malavatas bent, picked up the wood again, and tossed it back into the air with the same calm motion. His voice was cold but steady. "Again."
Rudura snarled under his breath, dragging the sword back into position. His arms shook, not from fatigue, but from rage at himself.
The wood spun. Rudura swung.
Another miss.
And again.
And again.
Each failure stung like fire against his pride. The dirt around him grew marked with faint cuts and grooves where his sword had struck nothing but ground. His small hands blistered under the iron hilt, but he refused to loosen his grip.
Malavatas's expression remained unchanged, though his eyes flickered with quiet observation.
So, he bleeds and strains, yet does not stop. Good. Persistence is the root. But if he cannot learn to wait… all of this is meaningless.
He tossed the wood again.
Rudura's chest heaved. Sweat ran into his eyes. His arms screamed at him to rest. But his gaze locked on the spinning wood, every muscle in his body tightening in focus.
The blade rose.
This time, he hesitated. Just for a breath.
The piece of wood fell into the sword's path.
Shhhkkk.
The wood split in two.
Half of it clattered onto the dirt. The other half bounced once, then rolled to a stop near Rudura's feet.
For a moment, silence held the training ground.
Rudura stood with his blade still raised, breathing hard, staring at the split piece of wood. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest. His hands trembled — not from exhaustion this time, but from the sharp thrill of success.
Malavatas finally broke the silence. His voice was calm, but his eyes carried a faint glint of approval.
"One strike, clean and true. That is better than a hundred wild ones."
Rudura lowered the sword slowly, his chest rising and falling. Inside, his thoughts were a storm.
One strike… clean and true. Why the fuck does that feel so different? Why does it feel… right?
But even as his pride wrestled with his doubt, a small fire sparked inside him. A realization he didn't want to admit: Malavatas might be right.
Still, Rudura only muttered under his breath, voice hoarse: "I'll become better. Stronger. No matter how many times it takes."
Malavatas didn't answer. He simply turned, looking toward the wide field, his thoughts hidden behind his cold eyes.
This boy… his recklessness will either break him… or forge him into something greater than even Chandragupta.
The dirt floor, scarred with Rudura's missed strikes, lay as silent witnesses to his persistence.
The training ground had only just begun to see what this boy would become.
(Continued in Part-2)