Aaryan’s training had never been about talent—it was built on effort, repetition, and sheer will. While others balanced cultivation with rest, he pushed himself to exhaustion, refining every movement until it became second nature. Every strike, every dodge, every adjustment was practiced until there was no hesitation left.

And his body bore the proof.

The familiar ache of fatigue still lingered, but it no longer slowed him. His muscles, once merely conditioned, had grown denser—honed by relentless strain. Calluses had hardened across his palms, the skin on his knuckles roughened from countless impacts. His arms, once lean, now carried a wiry strength, the veins subtly pronounced beneath the skin. The deep burn in his legs had dulled to something familiar, almost welcome. His body no longer resisted the demands he placed upon it—it adapted, absorbed, became stronger.

Where his movements had once been deliberate, now they were instinctive. He no longer thought about dodging—his feet adjusted before his mind processed the strike. He no longer hesitated before countering—his body reacted, refined by endless repetition.

Yet, deep down, Aaryan knew—it still wasn’t enough.

It was nearing the end of the second month, and besides practicing, Aaryan had done little else. His days blurred into a cycle of motion and stillness—pushing his body to its limits, refining his techniques, and forcing himself to recover just enough to do it all over again.

And it showed.

Coiling Serpent Bind had transformed from a rigid technique into an instinctive response. What once felt like a memorized sequence now flowed effortlessly, his body reacting to force as naturally as breathing. His redirections were smoother, his counters sharper, and the gaps in his defense had nearly vanished.

The Purification Sutra, however, was another matter. Progress was slow—frustratingly so. Unlike combat techniques, which sharpened through repetition, the Sutra required deep internal refinement, a process that couldn’t be rushed. But Aaryan’s dedication never wavered. Each day, he endured the slow, grinding process of aligning his breath, his body, and his inner flow.

And in the end, it was working.

His breath was steadier, his recovery faster, and the strain that once left him aching for days now faded in hours. He had yet to master it, but the difference from where he had started was undeniable.

Stronger. Faster. Sharper.

Yet, even as his body adapted, exhaustion still clawed at him—a dull weight in his limbs, a tightness in his lungs, a stiffness that only faded when motion took over. No matter how much he improved, there was always another edge to hone, another weakness to eliminate.

Which was why, as night fell, Aaryan wasn’t resting.

He was testing himself once more.

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A single lantern flickered in the cave, its dim glow casting restless shadows across the stone walls. Aaryan stood at the center, blindfolded, his breathing slow and steady. Above him, a weighted staff—its ends heavy enough to mimic the force of an opponent—hung suspended from a thin rope.

With a small push, he set it swinging.

The first pass was predictable—a slow arc slicing through the air. He felt it before he heard it, the subtle displacement of air brushing against his skin. He barely moved, tilting his head just enough to let it pass harmlessly by.

The second swing came faster, sharper. He ducked, his muscles responding a fraction of a second before his mind fully registered the motion.

Good.

Then, without warning, he struck the staff mid-swing, sending it into an erratic, unpredictable spin.

Now, the real test began.

Aaryan remained still as the weighted staff carved wild paths through the air around him. The force of its swings stirred the strands of his hair, the rush of displaced air his only warning.

His heartbeat slowed, matching the rhythm of his breath—not rushed, not erratic, but controlled. He didn’t rely on sound alone, nor the predictable hum of the spinning weapon.

He felt it.

His foot slid half an inch to the left—just enough to avoid a grazing strike. His spine curved at the last moment as the staff cut through empty space where his ribs had been. Each movement was precise. Subtle. Instinctive.

A downward strike came next—fast and punishing—but his body had already reacted. His weight shifted, knee bending, torso twisting, allowing the blow to pass harmlessly behind him. A sweeping arc followed, but he sidestepped, his balance unshaken, his breath unbroken.

No wasted energy. No unnecessary tension.

Every motion was fluid—adapting without force, bending without breaking.

The staff whirled faster, desperate to find an opening. Aaryan let it come. His awareness extended beyond the strikes—he felt the shift in momentum, the subtle drag as its speed slowed.

And then—silence. The staff wobbled once, its final swing barely disturbing the air before it came to a stop.

The staff lost its force, its momentum spent.

Aaryan stood untouched. His breath steady. His body relaxed. Not a single drop of sweat marred his skin.

He exhaled slowly, pulling off the blindfold.

His golden eyes gleamed in the dim lantern light.

This wasn’t luck.

It was control.

Speed. Power. Brute force. He had seen them all. But this? This was something different.

A battle is decided before the first strike lands.

If he could read his opponent’s intent before they moved, he wouldn’t need to fight harder. He’d fight smarter.

Was this the result of discipline alone, or was something deeper—something beyond his understanding—guiding his movements?

For now, it didn’t matter.

Control was everything.

And soon, he would have to prove it.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The lantern’s glow flickered one last time before Aaryan snuffed it out with a flick of his fingers. Darkness settled over the cave, but his mind remained sharp, his body still humming with quiet energy. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

Enough for tonight.

The morning air greeted him as he stepped outside—crisp, laced with the faint scent of damp stone and incense drifting from the distant meditation halls. The sect was already alive—sharp sounds of wooden weapons clashing, the occasional grunt of impact, and the murmur of quiet conversations blending with the hum of training grounds.

Like every morning, Aaryan found himself at his usual spot—a vantage point overlooking the sparring area, where disciples tested their strength against each other. Some fought with purpose, their movements precise. Others wasted energy, swinging wildly, their footwork a mess.

He had no plans to join them. He was content watching, learning.

But, of course, someone had other plans for him.

A loud, cocky voice cut through the air.

“Still just watching, huh?”

Aaryan blinked and turned slightly. A disciple swaggered toward him, all muscle and arrogance. Jayan—peak third level of Anima—grinned like he had already won something.

“I was wondering when you’d stop lurking in the shadows,” Jayan said. “You ever plan to fight? Or is standing around looking deep your only technique?”

Aaryan barely reacted.

Ah. One of those guys.

“You know,” Jayan continued, stretching his arms, “a lot of people think you’re some hidden expert.” He smirked. “I don’t buy it.”

Aaryan gave him a slow look. “That’s nice. Want a medal?”

The crowd immediately stirred.

“Did he just—?”

“Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Jayan’s smirk twitched. “Cute. But jokes won’t get you out of this. Fight me.”

Aaryan sighed, rubbing his temple. “Do I have to?”

“What, scared?”

The murmurs started.

“Aaryan hasn’t even reached the first level of Anima, right?”

“Jayan’s peak third level. This is—this is actually insane.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never seen Aaryan fight. Maybe he’s hiding something?”

“I mean, he has dodged every challenge so far…”

“Well, finally. Someone’s calling him out.”

Jayan cracked his knuckles. “Come on, let’s see what all the hype is about.”

Aaryan exhaled. “You’re really not going to leave me alone, huh?”

“Nope.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

The crowd buzzed with anticipation. Finally, Aaryan was fighting.

Jayan grinned, rolling his shoulders. Then, with an air of supreme confidence, he gestured at himself.

“I’ll give you a free hit. Go on, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Aaryan didn’t move at first. The crowd watched, waiting for a clever retort, some witty comeback.

Aaryan gave Jayan a half-lidded stare, resisting the urge to yawn. This was going to be over in seconds, wasn’t it?

Then, without a word—

Punch.

Aaryan casually stepped forward and drove his fist into Jayan’s gut.

The moment Aaryan’s fist connected, a dull, sickening thud echoed across the training grounds. Jayan’s body locked up, his breath catching in his throat as a delayed shockwave rippled through his spine.

Jayan’s face twisted. His entire body froze, mid-word, mid-breath. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the peak third-level disciple suddenly… malfunctioned.

For a solid two seconds, he just stood there, mouth open, making no sound.

Then, like a sack of rice losing its balance, Jayan’s knees buckled.

His breath whooshed out of his lungs in a long, painful wheeze. His arms, once raised confidently, flopped to his sides like limp noodles. He tilted—not dramatically, not gracefully—just a slow, pathetic topple to the ground.

“…Mistakes were made.”

Thud.

The entire sparring ground froze.

A disciple at the back dropped his wooden sword.

Another whispered, “Holy—” but forgot to finish the sentence.

“Did… did Jayan just die?”

“No, but his pride might’ve.”

The disbelief was palpable.

The stunned silence stretched on. Nobody moved. Even the air itself seemed to pause, as if the entire sect was trying to process what had just happened.

Aaryan rolled his shoulders, barely acknowledging the scene. He flexed his fingers—no soreness, no resistance. Really? That was it?

He had killed level one beasts in the selection trial before even stepping into the sect. Compared to that, knocking out an unprepared opponent without even showing his techniques?

It wasn’t much.

If anything, Jayan should be grateful. Aaryan could’ve actually fought back.

Jayan’s eyes were wide, his mouth moving but no words coming out. The sheer betrayal on his face was something Aaryan wished he could frame and hang in his cave.

After a long pause, Aaryan sighed dramatically. “What?” he said, tilting his head. “Did you expect me to throw out some smart answer and walk away?”

Jayan’s breath hitched.

Aaryan smirked. “I can’t become that predictable, can I?”

Jayan tried to speak. He got as far as, “You—” before Aaryan patted his shoulder.

“There, there,” Aaryan said cheerfully. “You did great.”

The crowd exploded.

Some were howling with laughter. Others were genuinely confused.

“I—what—HOW?!”

“He didn’t even—how did Jayan not even last five seconds?!”

“WAIT, DID AARYAN JUST BECOME THE STRONGEST FIRST-LEVEL DISCIPLE WITHOUT EVEN REACHING FIRST LEVEL?!”

Jayan groaned.

Someone in the crowd very gently patted his back.

“There, there,” they whispered. “At least you tried.”

Aaryan stretched lazily. “Welp, that was fun.” He turned and started walking off.

Jayan, still lying on the ground, gasped, “Wait—what just happened?”

Aaryan waved without looking back. “Breakfast is calling me.”

“…What the hell does he eat?!” someone from the crowd blurted.

The crowd erupted again.

Jayan wheezed, rolling onto his side.

“I should have stayed in bed.”

He lay there, staring at the sky, rethinking all his life choices.

The night was deep, the sky a vast ocean of darkness speckled with cold stars. The sect lay silent, wrapped in stillness, but within a secluded cave, the air stirred—not with wind, but with motion.

Aaryan stood at the center, blindfolded, breath steady, body poised. Sweat clung to his skin, a thin sheen catching the dim lantern glow, but he ignored it. Around him, three weighted staffs hung suspended by taut ropes, their metal-capped ends gleaming like waiting predators. Unlike before, where a single staff had tested his reflexes, now three spun and lashed through the air, weaving an unpredictable web of motion, seeking weakness.

And he moved.

The first staff sliced toward his ribs—he twisted, shoulder dipping just enough to let it pass. The wind of its motion whispered against his skin, but he was already shifting, already sensing the second strike. It came high, a sudden arc toward his temple. His spine bent, just enough for it to graze the tips of his hair as it whooshed past.

The third came for his legs. Low, fast, merciless.

He leapt.

His feet barely skimmed the ground before he landed, weight fluid, never stiff. The rhythm continued—strike, evade, adjust, repeat. His breath followed the pattern, deep and measured, his muscles moving without thought, without hesitation.

For the first time, he was getting it.

But he wasn’t perfect—not yet.

A split-second miscalculation.

One staff clipped his shoulder—a dull, aching thud. Another brushed his ribs, the sting sharp enough to make him inhale through clenched teeth. He felt the impact radiate through him, but his feet never stopped. His body absorbed the force, adjusted mid-motion, continued as if nothing had happened.

Pain meant nothing. Hesitation was the real enemy.

Minutes bled into hours. The rhythm of swinging wood, sharp breaths, and near misses formed a symphony of instinct and endurance.

His body paid the price.

The grazes became raw welts, streaks of red where the metal edges had scraped him. The clipped shoulder throbbed, a deep pulse of discomfort. The weight on his legs grew heavier, his knees trembling under the repeated strain. His palms, slick with sweat, ached from reflexive clenching. A sharp sting on his forearm told him one of the staffs had left something behind—a thin, burning cut.

Maybe someone watching would think he was insane.

Maybe he was.

He trained past exhaustion, past reason, until his limbs felt like stone, his breath a ragged whisper in the still air. His muscles burned, the dull ache settling deep in his bones.

And then—his body finally gave in.

A sudden misstep. His knee buckled. His muscles locked.

The next strike would land—

Except the staffs had already slowed, their momentum spent.

Aaryan stood there, swaying slightly, barely holding himself upright. His entire body trembled, not in fear, but in exhaustion. His vision swam as he exhaled, letting the blindfold slip from his fingers.

The flickering lantern glow greeted him, warm and distant. The sharp tang of sweat and blood filled the air, the faint sting of his wounds ignored.

With no strength left to stand, he dragged himself toward his cot, each step a battle against gravity.

His legs wobbled, nearly giving out beneath him. Each breath came shallow, his vision blurred at the edges. The cave walls seemed farther than before, but he kept moving.

He collapsed onto the rough bedding with a heavy sigh, limbs sprawled, breath uneven. His back pressed against the firm fabric, the aches settling in, but his mind remained sharp.

He was stronger than before.

But still not enough.

The day after tomorrow was resource distribution.

And he had no intention of being weak when that time came.

His breath slowed. His eyelids drooped, leaden and unmovable. His thoughts flickered, slipping away, until the world blurred into a haze of aching limbs and lingering heat.

Then—nothing.

The lantern’s glow wavered once, then went out.

The cave fell into darkness.