The sun hung high above, its golden glare spilling across the vast training ground. The earth below was packed dirt, rough and uneven, stretching out in a wide oval that seemed to go on forever. Heat shimmered in the distance, and the shadows of the towering banyan trees surrounding the field stretched short under the noon light.
Rudura stood there, staring at the endless track like it was a beast waiting to swallow him whole. His small hands gripped the iron sword at his side, sweat already pricking his forehead. He glanced at Malavatas, who stood calm as always, arms folded behind his back, his robes unmoving even as a faint breeze rustled the air.
"Today," Malavatas's voice cut through the silence, deep and steady, "you will not strike a sword. You will run. Twenty rounds around this ground, without stopping."
Rudura blinked. For a moment, he thought he misheard.
"…Wait, what the fuck? Run?" His voice cracked, disbelief laced in every word.
"Yes," Malavatas replied, unbothered. His eyes locked on Rudura with a calm weight that offered no room for argument. "Twenty rounds. You will not stop. You will not complain. Your sword will mean nothing if your legs collapse before your battle even begins."
Rudura's mouth hung open. His ten-year-old body, still aching from the past days of sword drills, screamed at the thought. "You've got to be shitting me… twenty rounds? Around this whole fucking ground? That's not training, that's torture!"
But Malavatas didn't flinch. His silence was louder than any scolding.
Rudura groaned and kicked at the dirt, muttering, "Fine, fine! But if I die out here, it's on you, old man."
He broke into a jog, his small legs kicking up puffs of dirt with every step. At first, it didn't seem too bad. The breeze kissed his face, and his feet thudded in rhythm. One round in, he grinned to himself.
"See? Not so hard," he muttered.
But by the time he hit the fourth round, his grin vanished. His legs felt heavier, like weights tied to his ankles. Sweat rolled down his back, soaking into his shirt. His breaths came shorter, harsher.
"Fuck this ground," he hissed, dragging his feet. "Why is this thing so fucking big?!"
From a distance, Malavatas stood unmoved, his sharp eyes never leaving Rudura. In his silence, he measured more than steps. He measured willpower, stubbornness, and the fire that refused to die.
He has the same recklessness as Chandragupta… Malavatas thought, eyes narrowing just slightly. But Rudura's fire—it burns differently. It doesn't care about perfection or grace. It only wants to defy. That persistence, that defiance… it can forge him into something beyond.
Meanwhile, Rudura stumbled into his eighth lap, his breath ragged. His chest heaved like a bellows, each inhale scratching at his throat.
"Fuuuuck… my legs are burning… why the hell am I doing this?" he muttered, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Somewhere in the blur of pain, his mind shot back to his vow. His dream empire. His chance to etch his name into history.
If I give up now… then everything's just words. And I'm sick of being weak. Sick of being laughed at. I'll run until my legs snap if I have to.
By the twelfth round, his shirt clung to him, drenched. His vision blurred at the edges. Every step felt like stomping into fire. His lips cracked, and dirt clung to his sweaty skin.
"Shit… shit… shit…" he cursed under his breath, dragging his feet. His small fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
Malavatas finally spoke, his voice carrying across the ground like steady thunder. "Do not fight your body, Rudura. Flow with it. Pace is strength. Endurance is victory."
Rudura shot him a glare mid-run, eyes blazing. "Easy for you to fucking say! You're not the one running!"
Malavatas's lips curved, just slightly. He had heard those words before—years ago, from another stubborn boy. Chandragupta had spat nearly the same words once, his face twisted in defiance. But Rudura's tone… it had no bitterness. Only raw hunger.
The fourteenth round stretched into eternity. Rudura's steps slowed to a crawl, but he kept moving. His mind screamed at him to collapse, to let the dirt swallow him. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest.
Why… am I still moving? he thought, dizzy. Because I said I'd be better. Because I swore I'd build what I couldn't in my last life. Because if I can't even do this… then I don't deserve to dream.
By the eighteenth round, his body was no longer his own. His legs were dead wood, his arms swung like loose ropes. Each step was dragged out of sheer will. His breaths came as broken gasps, his voice hoarse.
"…two more… just two more…"
The world swam around him, the golden sun bleeding into the dirt like fire.
When he finally stumbled across the twentieth lap, he didn't raise his hands in victory. He collapsed. His body hit the dirt with a dull thud, chest heaving like he'd just crawled from a battlefield.
Malavatas approached, his steps slow and deliberate. He looked down at the boy sprawled in the dirt, face red, eyes half-shut but still burning with refusal to quit.
He stood there for a moment longer, watching the boy's trembling shoulders. In his mind's eye, he saw echoes of another boy, long ago, standing in the same dirt with the same fire.
Chandragupta… you were special. But this child… this Rudura… he might be something even more.
The sun dipped low, painting the sky orange as the day bled into evening. Servants carried Rudura back to his quarters, but the boy's eyes refused to shut until he collapsed into his bed. His body was broken, but his spirit whispered in the dark:
"…I'll… get better…"
And then he was gone, swallowed by sleep, dirt still clinging to his skin, the fire in his chest burning even in dreams.
(Continued in Chapter 37)