The two halves of the split wood lay on the dirt like trophies. To anyone else, it might've seemed like nothing more than a tiny achievement. But for Rudura, it felt like a war cry — proof that he could, at least once, land the perfect strike.
Yet Malavatas didn't let him bask in it for long.
"Again," the master ordered, his voice sharp, cutting the brief silence like a blade.
Rudura clenched his jaw. His chest was still heaving, his arms still trembling, but he raised the iron sword once more. The weight felt heavier now, as though the blade itself wanted to test whether he'd give in.
Malavatas tossed another piece of wood into the air. It spun, fell — Rudura swung.
Thwack!
Miss.
The sword hit dirt, scattering dust. The sting of failure gnawed at Rudura's pride. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood.
"Again."
The wood went up. Rudura swung.
Shhhk!
Another clean split.
This time, Rudura didn't even realize he'd done it until the halves fell away on either side of him. His heart leapt, but he forced himself not to smile. Malavatas's cold gaze didn't allow for celebration.
The cycle continued. Success. Failure. Failure. Success. Each strike carved grooves into the dirt. Each miss felt like a curse etched into his bones. His body screamed to stop, but his spirit refused.
By the tenth attempt, his shoulders were burning. By the twentieth, his hands were raw. The iron sword seemed to mock him, dragging at his grip, pulling him down with every swing.
And yet, Malavatas's voice came again, steady, merciless:
"Again."
Rudura's breaths came ragged now. Sweat stung his eyes, dripping into the dust beneath his feet. He raised the sword again, but his mind snarled at him.
Why the fuck does this matter? he thought angrily. I just want to cut and win! To destroy! To make my empire!
But then, deep in his chest, something twisted. A whisper, small but unyielding.
You missed because you rushed. You hit because you waited. Maybe… maybe that's the difference.
The next piece of wood spun in the air. Rudura's eyes locked onto it. His arms screamed at him to strike now — to end it quickly — but he forced himself to wait. To breathe. To let the piece of wood fall into the sword's path.
Shhhkk.
Split clean in two.
Rudura exhaled sharply, his chest shaking with the force of it.
Malavatas gave a faint nod. "Better. You're beginning to see it."
But Rudura didn't answer. His throat was too dry, his mind too clouded.
He kept going. Strike after strike. Miss after miss. Success after success.
By the time the sun reached its peak, Rudura was drenched in sweat, his clothes sticking to his small frame, the dirt ground littered with cut halves of wood. His hands were blistered, some even bleeding, but he didn't loosen his grip.
At last, Malavatas raised a hand. "Enough for now."
Rudura staggered, almost dropping the sword. His body was done. His spirit wasn't.
"I can do more," he panted, lifting the blade again. "I… I won't stop here."
Malavatas's eyes narrowed, studying the boy. For a moment, silence hung heavy between them.
Then the master spoke, his voice quieter, but sharper than steel. "Do not mistake persistence for recklessness. A blade swung blindly only dulls itself faster. Learn when to strike, and when to hold back."
Rudura's lips pressed into a thin line. His pride wanted to argue, to curse, to shout that he wasn't weak. But deep down, the words struck.
Malavatas turned his gaze to the scattered wood on the ground. His thoughts, hidden behind his stoic face, stirred.
He bleeds, sweats, and still refuses to yield. Persistent beyond measure… even Chandragupta struggled with restraint at this age. But this boy… if he survives his own recklessness, he may surpass even him.
Without another word, Malavatas walked toward the edge of the field, leaving Rudura standing there with the sword still heavy in his grip.
Rudura stared down at the dirt, chest still heaving, body trembling. The words replayed in his mind like echoes in a cave: One strike, clean and true.
He tightened his grip, whispering to himself through gritted teeth.
"I'll become better. I'll become stronger. No matter how many times it takes."
The training ground was silent again, except for his harsh breaths. But the vow hung in the air like an invisible flame.
That night, under the pale glow of the moon, Rudura returned to the field alone. His body screamed for rest, but his spirit burned too hot to sleep. He picked up the iron sword again, his blistered hands wrapping around the hilt with renewed defiance.
He began retracing everything he had learned — the stances, the grips, the cuts. He swung until his shoulders threatened to give out. He struck at the dummies until his arms could barely raise the blade.
Most of his strikes were clumsy, heavy, far from perfect. But he didn't stop.
The night carried the sharp thwacks and shhhks of steel meeting wood, echoing beneath the banyan tree.
Finally, as the moon neared its peak, Rudura lifted the blade once more. His body was at its limit, but his eyes burned with fire.
He swung.
Shhhkk!
The wooden dummy split perfectly down the middle.
For a moment, silence. Then Rudura let the sword fall to his side. His chest heaved, his face twisted into a tired but stubborn grin.
"I got to become better," he whispered to the night.
From a high window of his room, Malavatas watched silently. His arms were folded, his expression unreadable, but his thoughts carried weight.
Most of my students gave in long before this. Even Chandragupta had nights where his will broke. But this boy… his fire does not waver. Reckless, yes. But persistent beyond reason. He may truly be the one to shape destiny.
The master stepped back from the window, letting the night swallow his presence.
On the field below, Rudura finally collapsed into the dirt, asleep beside the sword that was slowly becoming a part of him.
The moon kept its silent vigil, bearing witness to the vow of a boy who refused to stop.
(Continued in Chapter 36)