The days that followed were anything but restful.
While the world buzzed with the news of two students awakening God-tier elements, Om stayed far from the spotlight. With Mark as his mentor, he buried himself in relentless training, choosing sweat and bruises over applause.
Oddly, Rudra hadn't visited since the celebration. Om had tried to contact her, even gone to her house once, but it was clear she was avoiding him. He didn't know why. But between training and exhaustion, he didn't have time to dwell on it.
Instead, he focused entirely on improving.
On the third morning after the exam, Om had asked Mark if they could spar directly—one-on-one combat.
Mark had laughed so hard, Om almost reconsidered.
But eventually, the older man agreed—with one condition: they would fight virtually first.
What followed humbled Om in ways he couldn't put into words.
The moment the virtual battle began, Mark moved.
A blur.
A blink.
And Om's avatar was already dead.
It wasn't even a duel—it was a massacre.
What frightened Om most was this: he had no idea how he was killed. One second, Mark stood before him. The next, darkness. No visible strike, no sound, no time to react.
"Again," Om muttered.
And again, Mark struck him down.
By the fourth match, Mark was laughing as he killed him repeatedly. Not maliciously—more like a lion toying with a cub. Eventually, Mark slowed down deliberately to give Om a chance to learn, and even then… Om couldn't land a single hit.
Yet, he refused to quit.
Even after ten defeats, he stood and said, "Again."
Mark's laughter faded. It was replaced by a small, approving smile.
That was how their routine began.
Every day, they fought. For hours.
And though Mark held back 99% of his power, it was like sparring with a war-hardened general. His footwork was perfect. His blade felt omnipresent. Om could barely see the attacks coming, let alone counter them.
Still, he learned.
He lost—but learned.
Every mistake became a lesson. Every dodge, a revelation. Mark watched it all with amusement, impressed despite himself by Om's stubborn progress.
One morning, after another series of punishing sparring matches, Mark said, "If you manage to scratch me today, I'll teach you a Body Art."
Om wiped the sweat from his brow. "What's a Body Art?"
Mark smiled. "A Body Art is a technique. A set of movements refined over centuries, used to kill or defeat enemies. The greatest chakra warriors created their own styles. These arts are ranked according to chakra stages—from First to Seventh. Some are so powerful, they could flood cities or slice mountains."
Om stared at him. "Is that even possible?"
Mark grinned. "Yes. But only if you're worthy. Most people never even see a true Body Art in their lifetime."
"Why not?"
Mark's eyes darkened slightly. "Because they've been buried—or hidden. Political reasons. Family secrets. Greed. But don't worry. You'll learn one. Not from Gurukul—but from me."
Om tilted his head. "Whose art is it?"
Mark looked into the distance for a moment, then replied, "A man named Aswa. One of the strongest people I've ever met."
Om nodded slowly. "Okay. Let's fight."
Mark didn't waste time.
In a flash, he appeared behind Om, swinging a wooden practice sword.
But Om, already attuned to Mark's rhythms, ducked just in time, pivoting to return a counter-strike. Mark jumped back with ease, laughing as he moved.
Om shifted into a basic military stance and charged again.
Mark dodged each blow, his footwork changing with every motion. It felt like trying to hit a ghost—every angle, every approach, was met with a graceful evasion.
But Om was watching. Learning. Noticing.
Even when he failed, he grew faster.
The fight dragged on for over an hour.
Om was drenched in sweat. Mark, somehow, still hadn't broken a sweat. He laughed, even while dodging—dodging not out of arrogance, but out of pure joy.
Then, something changed.
Om slipped—just slightly. He lost his balance, and Mark saw the opening. He lunged forward to finish it.
But Om, frustrated, eyes blazing, looked up at him—and something in that gaze made Mark falter.
Pressure.
It wasn't chakra. Not elemental. Just pure, unfiltered willpower.
That second of hesitation was enough.
Om twisted, regained his balance, and launched a last-ditch strike.
Mark recovered, but not in time to avoid it fully. The blade grazed his coat—a clean cut.
Silence.
Om panted heavily, blinking in disbelief.
Mark looked down at his torn sleeve… then up at Om.
"You scratched me," he said flatly.
Om beamed. "I scratched you! Now teach me the Body Art!"
Mark sighed dramatically. "You don't waste time celebrating, huh?"
They exited the virtual space and entered a private military-grade training room Mark had access to.
"Real world now," Mark said, handing Om a real training blade. "Don't worry—I'll just show you the form. You won't need to fight back."
Om nodded, though tension crept up his spine. Fighting Mark virtually was one thing. In the real world, it felt like facing death.
"Alright," Mark said, drawing his sword with fluid grace. "Attack me."
Om charged.
Mark didn't move.
With one casual motion, Mark deflected the strike using a single forward slice.
Again, Om attacked.
Same result.
He changed angles. Targets. Speed.
Mark used the same forward slice every time to counter it.
Eventually, Om dropped to his knees, breathing hard, his arms shaking.
Mark was still smiling.
Om gasped, "That… is the technique?"
Mark lowered the sword. "That's it. The most basic move—but also the most powerful one."
"A… slice?"
Mark chuckled. "All warriors know it. But very few understand it. It's not about strength. It's about timing, intent, and absolute precision. In the hands of a master, a single slice can end a battle before it starts."
Om frowned. "It's… disappointing. I thought it would be more… dramatic."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Want to see it used offensively?"
Without waiting, he attacked.
Om blocked the first strike, but Mark kept moving—same slicing motion, again and again, relentless, elegant, devastating.
Om's defenses crumbled.
Within seconds, his sword clattered to the ground, and Mark stopped with the blade lightly pressed against Om's shoulder.
A drop of blood formed from the shallow cut.
Om winced. "You could've just explained it without hitting me."
Mark laughed. "Where's the fun in that?"
Om sighed and looked at his wound. "Alright… this really is a good art."