Aaryan sat cross-legged in the dim cave, watching the last embers of his fire fade into nothing. The warmth had long since disappeared, leaving only the scent of burnt wood and the faint chill creeping into his bones. His stomach twisted, empty and demanding, but he ignored it. Hunger was easier to endure than the humiliation still gnawing at him.

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue, rubbing his face. “That damn illusion…”

No matter how much he wanted to forget, his mind kept dragging him back—to the absurdity of it all. The ridiculous chase. The sheer desperation with which he had thrown himself into danger, convinced he was some noble hero protecting a creature that didn’t even exist.

And the worst part? He had suspected Dharun of betrayal.

Aaryan exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if that could erase the memory. “Not thinking about it,” he muttered. “Side effects. Just illusions messing with my head.”

The words felt empty, but he forced himself to move on. He focused on his body instead, flexing his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists. The Blood Purification stage had always been a slow, grinding process. Every step forward had felt like dragging a boulder uphill. But now?

Now, power settled into his bones, thick and steady. His muscles were denser. His breath smoother. The Soma Root had done its job, but more than that, the resource sachets he had taken had fueled his cultivation like never before.

Testing his strength, he pulled back his fist and slammed it into the cave wall. A sharp crack echoed through the small space, bits of stone crumbling away. His knuckles stung, but he barely noticed. The impact left a small indentation in the rock.

Not bad.

But his smirk faded as his gaze drifted to the nearly empty sachet beside him. He upturned it, letting the last dried medicinal herbs spill into his palm. A few pitiful scraps—barely enough for a single meditation session.

Aaryan sighed, rubbing his temples. He had stretched his resources as far as they would go, rationed every last scrap of energy, but it wasn’t enough. Staying here wasn’t an option anymore.

Tomorrow was the monthly resource distribution.

And that meant stepping out. Facing people. Facing Dharun.

He ran a hand through his hair, clicking his tongue again. “This is going to be annoying.”

Still, there was no choice. Straightening, he dusted off his robes and stepped toward the entrance of the cave. The past few days had been a quiet, temporary retreat. But outside, the world had been waiting—and it wouldn’t be kind.

Aaryan stepped into the open, blinking against the harsh daylight. The stale air of his cave still clung to him, and his limbs ached from days of stillness. But he pushed forward, ignoring the unease curling in his gut.

The resource hall loomed ahead. A familiar, crowded space filled with disciples who had come to claim their share. He didn’t slow his steps, but his gaze remained sharp, watching, assessing.

And then, at the front of the hall, he saw him.

Dharun.

Aaryan’s fingers twitched, an old habit he had yet to shake. Just his luck.

Dharun stood at the head of the distribution table, overseeing the process with his usual detached efficiency. His sharp eyes flickered over the disciples, dispensing resources with practiced ease, his expression unreadable.

Aaryan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to act natural as he moved forward in line. But with each step closer, a sinking feeling pooled in his gut. There was no way Dharun had forgotten.

And sure enough, the moment their eyes met, Dharun’s brows lifted ever so slightly. Not quite a smirk, but something dangerously close.

“Ah,” Dharun mused as he handed a sachet to the disciple before Aaryan. “Still alive.”

Aaryan’s jaw tightened. He willed his expression to remain neutral. “Just here for my share.”

Dharun didn’t move immediately. Instead, he studied Aaryan, gaze unreadable, assessing something only he could see. Then, in the same measured tone, he said, “No sudden charges today? No wild accusations? Should I be concerned?”

Aaryan stiffened. His ears burned. The whispers had already started, disciples murmuring among themselves, their gazes flickering toward him before darting away. His nails dug into his palms.

“That was—” He started, then shut his mouth. Excuses wouldn’t help.

Dharun exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “If you’re about to blame illusions, don’t. I’ve heard worse excuses, but never from someone who hit the ground that fast.”

Aaryan scowled, snatching his resource sachet the moment Dharun set it down. “Didn’t know you kept track of my schedule.”

Dharun glanced at him—half amused, half indifferent—then dismissed him with a shift of his gaze. Aaryan had already ceased to exist.

“Tch.” Aaryan turned away, biting back the urge to say something else. Letting Dharun get the last word was irritating, but dragging this out would just make it worse.

He had his resources. That was all that mattered.

But as he walked away, something about the encounter stuck with him. Dharun had looked at him just a little too long. His words had been too precise.

It wasn’t just mockery.

He was thinking something.

Aaryan frowned, gripping the sachet tighter. He didn’t like it.

And he hated even more that, for the first time in days, his mind had something new to dwell on.

As the last disciple stepped away, their hands tightening around their newly acquired resources, Dharun finished his task with the same unhurried pace, as if none of this had ever been urgent in the first place. Then, without ceremony, he turned and strolled out of the hall, not sparing a single backward glance.

Aaryan exhaled sharply.

"Next time, I leave first. Before he gets the last word."

The moment Dharun's figure disappeared beyond the entrance, the hall shifted. The invisible tension that had simmered beneath the surface finally snapped. The weight of unspoken intentions came crashing down, breaking into chaos.

Aaryan had barely taken a step before the first attack came.

A shadow lunged from his left—a flicker of movement just inside his periphery. His instincts surged. His body reacted before his mind had fully processed it.

He pivoted, just in time to see the disciple's fist flying toward his face.

Sloppy.

Aaryan sidestepped, fingers closing around the attacker's wrist in one fluid motion. A sharp twist sent the disciple stumbling forward—off-balance, exposed. Pathetic.

His free hand shot forward, striking with ruthless precision. His fist sank into the disciple's gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. The body folded, crumpling inward. Aaryan had already torn the sachet from his waist before he hit the ground, his movements seamless, efficient.

The second attacker had yet to move—but Aaryan felt it. The shift in weight. The sharp inhale. The heartbeat of hesitation just before a decision.

The moment the disciple lunged, Aaryan was already turning. His elbow snapped out, meeting flesh with bone-cracking force. Blood sprayed. The disciple staggered back, hands flying to his shattered nose, eyes wide with shock.

Before his body hit the ground, Aaryan’s foot lashed out. A precise strike. Legs swept out from under him. He crashed down, dazed.

The third hesitated.

“Y-You—!”

Aaryan’s gaze snapped to him, cold and unreadable. The disciple flinched. For a split second, he considered running.

Too late.

Aaryan lunged.

A sharp strike to the solar plexus. A rough yank at his belt. A harsh shove backward. Breath stolen. Resources stolen. Fight over.

The three lay sprawled, gasping, empty-handed. Around them, murmurs stirred—low, uncertain. A few disciples, previously preoccupied with their own struggles, took a step back. Some rethought their targets. Someone swallowed audibly.

Aaryan rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Silence spread around him.

Good.

Let them think twice.

He tightened his grip on the stolen sachets and turned, stepping away without sparing the fallen a second glance.

Then, he felt it.

A shift in the air. A change in presence. A weight settling onto him—too many eyes, too focused.

He turned.

There they were.

Varun stood at the entrance, flanked by his group. The same ones from before. The ones he had negotiated with. Now standing beside Varun, their glares sharp and calculating.

Varun’s grin was slow, deliberate, laced with something just shy of amusement.

“You’re a lucky one, aren’t you?” he mused. “First, you think you can walk away without a scratch. Then, you get bold enough to rob others in plain sight. You really think you’re untouchable?”

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Aaryan’s grip on the sachets remained firm, his expression neutral. He scanned the group, assessing, calculating.

“We’re not here for your little game,” Varun continued, his voice casual, almost conversational. “We’ve had enough of your luck. It’s time to teach you a lesson.”

Aaryan exhaled slowly. The group was closing in, their hostility palpable. This wasn’t just about resources anymore.

This was personal.

“Come on,” one of the disciples muttered from behind Varun, impatient. “Let’s finish him already.”

Varun nodded, smirk unwavering. “You think you can just walk away after what you did to us? Now it’s your turn.”

And just like that, they moved.

Aaryan didn’t.

His gaze flicked across them, cataloguing their movements, their formation, their openings. Fighting all of them? Doable. But effort.

He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight, loosening his grip on the sachets.

“Alright,” he said, voice even. “Before we all commit to a questionable life decision—let’s talk.”

Varun’s smirk didn’t waver. His arms remained crossed, his stance that of a man already entertained.

Aaryan’s lips curled slightly. Yeah, this wasn’t going to work, was it?

Still, for the sake of due diligence…

“Look,” he started, his tone as if stating something obvious, “last time? I thought that it was an illusion. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you—I was just checking if my hallucination budget had increased.”

A muscle in Varun’s jaw ticked.

Aaryan mentally gave himself a point. Progress.

He lifted his hands slightly, sachets still in them. “I don’t have a grudge against any of you. If this is about resources, take them. These, and mine.” His voice remained level. “No need to waste time.”

Murmurs rippled through the group. Some exchanged uneasy glances. Aaryan wasn’t pleading. He wasn’t cowering. He was offering a choice.

Still, Varun laughed.

“You think this is about resources?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You made a fool of me. In front of everyone.”

Aaryan fought the urge to sigh.

Ah. The wounded ego arc.

The other leader—one he had made a trade with earlier—stepped forward, arms crossed. “And you humiliated us by forcing a deal. You think some sachets make up for that?”

Aaryan stared at them for a beat, then nodded like a man solving a grand mystery.

“Ah,” he said, as if the universe had finally clicked into place. “I get it now.”

Silence.

“You all want to beat me up.”

More silence.

Someone coughed.

Aaryan exhaled, like a man putting way more effort into a conversation than it deserved.

Aaryan exhaled, glancing between the group closing in on him. He raised his hands in what could almost be mistaken for surrender, though his posture remained loose, fluid ready. "Okay. Fine. Look—maybe we started off wrong. Maybe—" he waved a hand vaguely between them "—we should all just take a breath. I mean, technically, I could’ve made sure you weren’t getting up for a while, but I was feeling generous."

Varun’s nostrils flared.

Aaryan took that as an important point to acknowledge.

He pressed on. "And sure, maybe I mocked you a little. But is that really worth all this? Wouldn’t it be so much easier if we just—"

Varun’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled into fists.

"No, Aaryan," he said flatly. "You don’t get to walk away this time."

The group moved as one.

Aaryan sighed the sigh of a man who truly, deeply wanted to be anywhere else.

Then he moved.

The first strike came fast—too fast for the attacker’s own good. Aaryan shifted, not resisting, but flowing—his body coiling just enough to let the blow skim past. His arm lashed out, grasping the attacker’s wrist, twisting with a flick of his own momentum.

A startled yelp. Aaryan barely had to exert strength before the man crashed into the dirt.

A ripple. A reaction. A shift.

The others hesitated, but only for a breath. Then they surged forward.

Aaryan moved like water, twisting, redirecting, turning their own weight against them. A palm strike aimed for his ribs—he didn’t block. He flowed with it, twisting just enough to evade, then hooked his leg behind the attacker’s knee and sent them sprawling.

Another came from behind, aiming to grab him—Aaryan bent low, spun his arm around theirs, and let the momentum hurl them into another incoming fighter.

Varun’s face twisted as two of his men crashed into each other like sacks of grain.

"Stop messing around and hit him!"

And they did.

Aaryan felt the first fist slam into his side—he absorbed the force, twisted just enough to weaken the impact, then let himself whip back into motion.

Someone tried to grab him again—bad idea. Aaryan coiled his arm around theirs like a serpent, twisting at just the right angle. A wrist popped. A scream followed.

Another attacker went for his legs—Aaryan leapt, twisting midair, kicking off a shoulder to vault himself over the next incoming strike.

He landed smoothly, catching his breath, heart hammering. Four were down. But more were coming.

Too many.

A blow cracked against his back—another slammed into his ribs. He twisted, tried to slip free, but another strike found him. Then another. A sharp knee crashed into his side, forcing a gasp from his lips.

They were adapting. Swarming him like a pack.

He kept moving. He had to.

He twisted, slipped, bent, but even the perfect flow can be drowned by sheer numbers.

A palm strike. A punch. A kick.

Another hit—his vision reeled.

A heavy fist crashed into his gut. His knee buckled.

Kneel.

Aaryan spat blood onto the ground.

Not happening.

He forced himself up immediately.

A curse slipped through the crowd. "Why is he still standing?"

Varun’s smirk twitched—just slightly. A crack in his certainty.

They had expected him to break.

Instead, he was still here.

And if Aaryan knew one thing about noble brats like Varun?

It wasn’t just that they hated being defied.

They hated the reminder that some people couldn’t be broken.

The fight should’ve ended minutes ago.

Yet, it hadn't.

Aaryan still stood, worn down but unbroken, moving through the chaos with sheer instinct. His technique was sound—fluid, precise, relentless—but no amount of skill could erase the simple truth:

Numbers win fights.

The disciples pressed in, their attacks coming harder, faster, more coordinated. Aaryan twisted, redirected, countered—but even the best flow could be overwhelmed.

A sharp blow slammed into his ribs. Another cracked against his shoulder. His footing faltered.

And still—he refused to kneel.

Beyond the fight, unseen and unmoved, a pair of sharp eyes tracked his every movement.

Aaryan took another hit—a brutal strike to the ribs that should have dropped him.

Dharun’s fingers twitched.

Decision made.

A voice cut through the chaos, low and unreadable.

A voice that only Aaryan would hear.

— “Kneel.”

Aaryan, still locked in combat, barely reacted at first. Then his eyes flickered. His shoulders tensed for just a fraction of a second. He had heard him.

Dharun continued, his voice even. Unmoved. The voice of logic.

— “End this fight. They’ve made their point. You’re outnumbered, worn down. If you kneel, it’ll be over.”

Aaryan barely dodged a punch, twisting away at the last moment. Dharun couldn’t see his expression, but he didn’t need to. He already knew the answer.

— “Kneeling isn’t so bad, Aaryan.” There was the faintest hint of amusement in Dharun’s tone. Not mockery—just curiosity. “It’s a small price to pay to keep fighting another day.”

For a brief moment, Aaryan hesitated.

A breath. A heartbeat.

Then, slowly—**deliberately—**he raised his head, ignoring the pain, standing just a little straighter.

Dharun’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Then, through the haze of pain, Aaryan’s voice came—low, steady, and utterly unshaken.

— "Not happening."

Dharun exhaled—not quite a sigh, not quite a chuckle.

He leaned back, amusement flickering in his gaze like a candle barely lit.

“Very well.”

Then, as if nothing had changed, he continued watching.

Aaryan’s breaths were uneven, each inhale a struggle, every exhale a battle against the crushing weight of exhaustion. His body no longer moved with instinct but with sheer defiance, forcing itself forward despite the agony coursing through his veins. His ribs burned, the sharp, splintering pain of deep bruises and hairline fractures sending fire through his chest with every movement. His right shoulder throbbed, the dull ache of overuse bordering on unbearable. Blood dripped down his temple, warm and sticky, blurring his vision as it trailed past his brow. He didn’t bother wiping it away. There was no point.

The world around him wavered, edges blurring, sounds distorting. His balance teetered on the edge of collapse, yet he remained upright—barely. The circle around him tightened, closing in, every disciple watching, waiting for the inevitable. Their patience was cruel, their silence heavier than any taunt. They thought it was over.

But they didn’t understand.

Aaryan wasn’t like them.

A shift in the air. A step forward. A familiar presence.

Varun.

Even through the haze, Aaryan registered the movement, his senses honing in on the smug figure approaching. The weight of amusement hung in the air, thick with condescension, pressing against his already strained resolve.

“Had enough yet, Aaryan?”

Varun’s voice was infuriatingly casual, his confidence so absolute that he didn’t even raise his guard. He didn’t need to. He was convinced this was the end. The finale. Aaryan was supposed to collapse now, to crumple like so many before him, to kneel, to accept.

Aaryan’s fingers curled into fists.

Varun stopped just within reach, head tilting slightly as he studied Aaryan’s wrecked form, the smirk widening. “I thought you’d be more entertaining.”

Aaryan said nothing. His breaths were fire, his limbs heavy, his body one wrong step from shutting down completely. But his will—his will remained.

Varun sighed, dramatic, bored. “It’s a shame, really. I almost thought—”

Aaryan moved.

There was no thought, no hesitation. Only instinct. Only resolve. Only the single, unyielding truth that had burned in him since the first strike landed: he would not break.

His fist lashed out, raw and unrestrained, a last act of defiance given form.

Varun barely saw it coming.

The impact cracked through the silence, knuckles slamming into jaw, the force of the blow reverberating up Aaryan’s arm. It was not clean. Not precise. Not controlled. It was desperation and fury, an unrelenting refusal to submit.

Varun’s head snapped to the side. His smirk vanished, replaced by something empty, something lost. The breath was stolen from his lungs, his footing stripped away in an instant. His body staggered, knees buckling. A half-step backward. A second of disorientation.

Then he collapsed.

Not gracefully. Not with dignity. His body hit the ground like a marionette with its strings violently severed, limbs limp, consciousness ripped away before he even understood what had happened.

The moment hung in the air, frozen, stretched thin between disbelief and the slow crawl of reality sinking in.

Aaryan wavered, the last remnants of strength slipping from his grasp. His body had nothing left to give. The edges of his vision darkened, the sound of his own ragged breaths drowned beneath the sharp ringing in his ears.

He had won.

But victory meant nothing when there was no strength left to stand.

His knees buckled.

And this time, there was no stopping the fall.

———--------------------------------------------------------------------

Dharun watched without a word.

The scene unfolded precisely as he had anticipated. The fight had lasted longer than expected, but the conclusion had never been in doubt. Not to him.

And yet.

As Aaryan crumpled to the ground, Dharun’s eyes lingered, sharp, unreadable. There was no surprise in his expression—he had known the boy would push beyond his limits. He had known he would refuse to break. That was expected.

What interested him was not the outcome.

It was the way Aaryan had stood. The way he had endured.

The way he had chosen to strike, even when surrender was the easier path.

The way he had looked at Varun—not with fear, not even with rage, but with something colder. Something sharper. A refusal so deeply ingrained that it had driven him beyond exhaustion, beyond reason.

Dharun exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the fallen. The broken. The ones who would never reach beyond what was handed to them.

Then, finally, his eyes returned to the one who had refused to bow.

A faint shift. The barest flicker of something neither approval nor amusement.

Just recognition.

“Interesting.”