Surya settled back onto his mat as Elenav moved to check the others, the older warrior offering him a warm, fleeting smile that stirred a tumult of emotions within. Gratitude for Elenav's kindness warred with anticipation of the training ahead, all underscored by a fierce resolve to rise above his low Samskara—his body's pitiful potential, as the system had declared. With his spine straight and legs crossed in a meditative padmasana, he rested his palms downward on his knees, fingers brushing the soft rushes of the mat. Closing his eyes, he followed Elenav's guidance, the misty air of the Energized Training Chamber (ETC-1) cool against his sunburned skin.
He drew a deep breath, the Ether-laden mist tingling as it flowed through his nostrils, sharp and invigorating like the scent of rain-soaked earth. In his mind's eye, he pictured it swirling into his lungs—a sacred prana gifted by the devas. He imagined a luminous white essence lingering there as he exhaled, then willed it to spread, a gentle current coursing from his belly to his toes, up through his arms, and into the crown of his head. Each breath cycled the energy, dissipating by the fifth exhalation, leaving him to repeat the process with steadfast focus.
For long minutes, the chamber's stillness enveloped him, broken only by the soft rustle of his peers shifting on their mats. Surya persisted, his breaths rhythmic, his imagination unwavering, yet no change stirred within. Then, after ten minutes, faint gasps echoed around him—sharp intakes of air followed by Elenav's swift footsteps as he guided those youths out. Surya pressed on, undeterred, the library's lessons on body refining flickering in his memory: nine stages, nine smeltings, a path to power he'd vowed to climb for his father's honor.
Twenty minutes in, after countless breaths, a warmth blossomed in his chest, subtle at first, like embers kindling beneath a havan's logs. His pulse quickened—he'd felt it, the Ether's touch! He urged the heat outward, envisioning the white prana threading through his limbs, but subsequent breaths only stoked it hotter. The warmth morphed into discomfort, then a searing ache that clawed at his lungs. Panic flickered; he held his breath, cheeks puffing as he fought the pain, but his body betrayed him. A ragged gasp burst forth, mirroring the others, and the heat surged anew.
Elenav was at his side in an instant, a calloused hand pressing against Surya's back. The warmth ebbed away, drawn out with his next exhalation, leaving him trembling but steady. He opened his eyes to find the chamber nearly empty—only two others remained, their faces taut with concentration. Elenav's expression was tinged with sorrow as he guided Surya out into the morning light, the silver crystal atop ETC-1 glinting like a watchful sentinel.
Outside, the scene split starkly. Some youths beamed with pride, their chests puffed out as they whispered excitedly, while others lay sprawled on the grass, sobbing into their patched dhotis. Surya's heart sank at Elenav's look, but a quiet fire steadied him. Back on Earth, he'd shrunk before braggarts, his confidence a fragile thing despite a life not truly wanting. Here, though, miracles unfolded—the system, his parents' unwavering love, a destiny to dominate the world. Low Samskara or not, he wouldn't falter.
Two boys approached, their strides cocky, faces alight with glee. The leader, plump with a pug-like nose and a belly straining his kurta, wagged a chubby finger. "Clueless slum rat! The sooner you gasp out of the ETC, the higher your Samskara. My baba trained here—he told me. You're nearly last, a low-grade nobody. Do my chores, or a high-grade like me will make you regret it." His companion snickered, folding his arms over a slightly less faded tunic.
Surya's lips twitched, the absurdity of the pudgy boy's swagger coaxing a laugh from deep within. "Did your baba pass or fail?" he asked, voice light but edged.
The boy—Epok, Surya later learned—faltered, anger flashing before embarrassment crept in. "He… failed. But I'll succeed where he didn't!" he blustered, regaining his strut.
"I wager he did. Best not faint, though—rumor has it Guru Arjun roasts plump shishyas who collapse for his morning meal." Surya turned away, stifling another chuckle as Epok's bravado dissolved into a sheen of sweat. A lesson for the bully, he thought, relishing the small victory.
Minutes later, all twenty youths stood assembled, the last stragglers emerging from ETC-1. Elenav faced them, his saffron kurta bright against the green expanse. "I'll call names by Samskara—high-grade first, then mid, then low. Form three groups." His voice carried a trainer's authority as he listed off the roster. Epok's name rang out among the high-grades, his smirk returning as he joined five others. The mid-grades followed, seven strong, their expressions a mix of relief and resolve.
Surya's name fell among the low-grades, no surprise after Epok's taunt and the system's initial F-grade warning. Six stood in his group, but only he and one other—a wiry boy in a hole-riddled dhoti—remained upright. The rest wept, curled on the grass, their dreams bruised by the verdict. Surya's trust in PAM-1's promise held him steady, but curiosity tugged at the other boy's calm. Stepping closer, he offered a hand. "I'm Surya. You?"
The boy's gaunt face, framed by dark hair, softened with a faint smile, determination glinting in his eyes despite the verdict. "Kiran," he said, voice quiet but firm, gripping Surya's hand. "Nice to meet you." A kindred spirit, perhaps—another slum child unshaken by fate.
Elenav's call cut their exchange short. "You're graded now—training begins today. For three months, no rest, no reprieve. Daily tasks must be completed before sleep; unfinished, you'll toil into the night. Weekly sparring pits you against each other—winners ease their load, losers bear more. Heed my words: don't lose."
He paused, letting the weight settle, then grinned faintly. "Your paid pilgrimage through naraka starts now. First task: ten laps around the grounds—five kos, near enough. Run swift if you want prasad at midday."
Surya exchanged a glance with Kiran, a silent pact forming—low-grade or not, they'd endure. As the group scattered toward the training field's edge, Epok jostled past, muttering, "Watch your back, rat." Surya ignored him, focusing on the path ahead, the Trishul medallion warm in his pocket. Three months of hell awaited, but with it, the forge to rekindle his family's honor.