The courtyard was still when Zed stepped onto the cobblestones. The sun had not yet breached the horizon; the faint silver of dawn skimmed the roofs of the Latian compound. The echoes of laughter from the Rune Ceremony still lived inside him, but now they pressed his shoulders forward instead of pulling him down. His feet carried him across the grounds, past the old willow tree by the lake where fireflies lingered over the water, past the moss-stained garden wall where elders once meditated.
The weapons pavilion loomed ahead, its carved beams etched with dragons and phoenixes, guarded by a pair of apprentices slumped against their spears. They gave him sidelong glances but did not speak as he pushed through the heavy door.
Inside, the smell of oil and iron greeted him. Racks lined the walls — spears tall as trees, swords gleaming, bows strung tight, shields hanging in ordered rows. He paused, scanning them all, and then his eyes settled on the daggers. Short, plain, almost overlooked among the clan's favored blades. He reached out, lifted one, tested its weight. Too light, almost like a toy. But when he curled his fingers around the grip, it fit, as if waiting for him.
The first slash was clumsy. The point wobbled, the arc too shallow. He tried again — jab, pull back, thrust. Each movement snagged on hesitation. He cursed under his breath and struck the practice post. The dagger barely chipped the wood.
He switched grips — hammer, reverse, pinched. The reverse grip dug into his wrist; the hammer grip felt stiff. Again and again, he tested each, stabbing, slashing, adjusting his footing. His toes slid on stone until he learned to pivot his heel, let his weight follow the blade. He slashed left, feinted right, stabbed forward, then tried stringing them together. Awkward at first, then smoother. His arms burned, palms raw, sweat stinging his eyes. But the daggers began to feel less foreign. More like extensions of his arms.
Two hours passed in relentless repetition before he could no longer lift his arms.
He set the daggers down, chest heaving, and turned toward the staff rack. Long poles of oak and ash leaned together, worn smooth from generations of use. He chose one and stepped into the square again.
The staff was heavier, demanding balance. The first swing nearly dragged him sideways. He gritted his teeth, tried again, wider stance, knees bent. The staff hummed as it cut through the air. He stabbed forward, twisted, swept low. His body lagged behind the wood. He forced himself to move with it — step, pivot, thrust, draw back. Sweat darkened his tunic as he pressed on.
The drills grew into sequences: a stab to the chest, sweep at the knee, upward strike to the chin. He repeated it until his shoulders screamed. Then he reversed the sequence, guarding against phantom blows. Each time he faltered, he restarted, grinding the motion into muscle and bone.
When his arms shook too badly to continue, he returned the staff and reached for the nunchaku. The chain clinked softly, the twin rods swinging with an unruly weight. The first spin smacked his ribs so hard he staggered. He hissed, tried again, teeth clenched, learning to let his wrist guide instead of resist. The arcs smoothed. He swung left, caught it under his arm, spun it behind, lashed out. Slow at first, then faster, until he stumbled and the rods clattered to the floor. He picked them up, bruises forming under his shirt, and swung again.
Hour after hour passed, his body pushed to breaking. When at last he staggered from the pavilion, his arms felt like lead, his palms blistered and torn.
But he wasn't done.
He crossed the compound again, toward the training grounds by the lake. The cobblestones bit at his soles, his breath fogging in the cooling air. He filled two wooden buckets with stones from the shore, slung them over a pole across his shoulders, and began walking the perimeter wall. Each step burned into his legs. When the pole slipped, he gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. Round after round, sweat poured off him, soaking the stones.
Push-ups followed, then squats, then lunges until his thighs quivered. He climbed the hill behind the willow tree with rocks strapped to his back, collapsing halfway before dragging himself upright again. His body rebelled, but he refused to stop. The clan mocked him as weak — then he would make strength his weapon.
Only when night fell did he finally collapse in the courtyard. But he didn't sleep.
Instead, he sat cross-legged in the grass, body bruised and trembling, and closed his eyes. His breath came ragged, uneven. He tried to steady it, pulling air deep into his lungs, forcing it along paths he dimly felt within his body. His head spun from exhaustion, but as the breath sank lower, his skin prickled with a strange heat. His veins burned; his chest tightened, then loosened. Something stirred in his core.
The more battered he was, the clearer the sensation became. On nights when he trained to collapse, when every muscle screamed and his bones ached, the breathing drew sharper lines inside him, mapping unseen channels. It hurt — gods, it hurt — but it worked. He realized then why so many before him had failed. They approached the technique fresh, clear-minded, rested. But this breathing was not meant for rest. It was meant for the battlefield — for the war god who grew stronger only as blood and exhaustion dragged him deeper.
And so, battered and broken each night, Zed breathed as though his lungs were bellows forging his body into steel.
Days bled into weeks. Weeks into months.
Each morning began with weapons — daggers gripped until his knuckles bled, staff combinations drilled until his arms numbed, nunchaku strikes that bruised him into precision, whips cracking until his shoulders blistered. He rotated them, day by day, until the movements became instinct. Five hours he gave to weapons. The rest to the body — stones carried, hills climbed, sweat dripping onto cobblestones.
And every night, he sank into that punishing rhythm of breath, Asura's Breath, on the edge of collapse, where pain sharpened the flow of air into power.
A year passed like this.
The whispers faded, though not forgotten. To most, he was still the clan's failure, too quiet to be worth more ridicule. But in the mirror of the lake, his reflection no longer showed a soft, spoiled heir. His frame had hardened, lean muscle stretched over bone, his movements steadier, sharper. The baby fat was gone. His shoulders carried strength he had earned alone.
His father noticed. One evening, Varun watched silently from the edge of the courtyard as Zed carried a boulder strapped to his back up the training hill. He said nothing when his son collapsed at the peak, chest heaving, sweat running in rivers. But when Zed returned home late that night, dragging his feet, he found a fresh set of training clothes folded neatly on his bed.
Zed touched the fabric, rough and simple. His chest tightened. His father had said no words, but none were needed.