Elenav's words hung heavy in the misty air, a mantra igniting the three-month ordeal ahead. For Surya and his fellow shishyas, naraka descended upon the Trishul of Dharma ashram's sunlit grounds with relentless fury.
Each dawn broke with a grueling mandate: fifty kos of running—roughly twenty-five kilometers—around the sprawling training field, the earth hard beneath their sandaled feet, dust rising in clouds that stung their eyes. Sweat plastered their patched dhotis to their skin, the morning chill giving way to a blistering heat that mirrored their exhaustion. After the run came tasks to batter their bodies further—chopping stacks of firewood with blunt axes until splinters bit their palms, or hauling water from a distant well in clay pots that sloshed and strained their wiry arms. By dusk, every muscle screamed, and many a night echoed with choked sobs for mothers and fathers left behind in the slums.
Were it not for the respite of the Energized Training Chamber (ETC-1), surrender would have claimed them all. Two hours daily, Surya sat cross-legged on the soft rush mats, the chamber's mist swirling around him like the breath of the devas. He breathed deeply, visualizing the Ether as prana—white and luminous—settling in his lungs, then threading through his body. Unlike that first searing test, the overburdening heat never returned. Each day's toil left his cells ravenous, soaking the energy with an ease that soothed his aches, spreading it from his core to his fingertips in gentle waves.
The ETC sessions split by Samskara: high-grades, like the pudgy Epok, basked in thirty minutes, lounging afterward with smug grins; mid-grades endured an hour, stealing brief rest; but Surya's low-grade group slogged two hours, emerging only to stumble into combat training. No reprieve softened their path.
Elenav oversaw it all, his saffron kurta a constant beacon. In fight training, he taught a foundational art rooted in stability—Kalaripayattu's essence distilled. "Stand firm as a banyan before you strike," he'd say, his voice cutting through their fatigue. They balanced on bamboo poles three feet high, legs trembling as they fought to stay aloft. A fall brought sharp pain and peals of laughter from peers, a sting Surya endured more than once as he climbed back, jaw set. Hours later, Elenav demonstrated dodges—lithe twists of the torso—then punches and kicks, simple yet precise, drilled into them against rubber effigies shaped like warriors.
Surya thrived here, hanging on Elenav's every word, lingering longest at the effigies. Each strike honed his form, the rhythm of fist against rubber a pulse of growing strength. Despite the exhaustion, he woke daily with a grin, addicted to the fire kindling within—power to lift his family from shame.
Yet sparring tested him cruelly. Buoyed by his diligence, Surya entered the weekly bouts with confidence, his technique earning Elenav's rare nod: "Top-tier grasp, lad." Against Epok, though, skill faltered. The once-plump boy, now leaner from training, landed a stray fist to Surya's gut, halting his breath. Stunned, Surya's dodges lagged, and Epok pounced, raining blows until Surya yielded, sprawled on the dirt. "Low-grade trash," Epok sneered, strutting off. Elenav's rule—no grave injuries—spared him worse, and Surya embraced defeat as a step, not a fall, wisdom gleaned from two lives.
Ranked sixteenth, his tasks swelled—more wood, more water—but he welcomed the burden, a forge for his resolve. When despair clawed, he summoned his father's weary face after fruitless days, his mother's blistered hands fed by Rajesh's trembling own, their powerlessness his own. "I shall not give up!" he roared inwardly, defiance drowning the pain, driving him through each dawn.
Weeks bled into months, and Surya transformed. Baby fat melted, replaced by taut, sun-darkened muscle; hearty prasad—dal, roti, and ghee—filled out his once-scrawny frame. On the ninetieth day, as the sun crested the ashram's fields, the system's voice returned, a balm after its long silence.
[_Ding_ Development Complete.]
[_System detects bodily changes. Refresh host description?]
"Yes," Surya replied, pulse racing to quantify his gains.
[Host status refreshing.
Level: Sadhak Human-0
Samskara: F
Condition: Hidden injuries detected
Level Progression: 27%
Exp Points: 20
Faction Points: 1]
Disappointment stung—27% after three months' torment? Missions had yielded 15% in mere days! Low Samskara's curse was stark—high-grades might quadruple that progress. Yet the system's promise lifted him. "Details on the technique," he demanded, eager for its secrets.
[System Absorption Technique-1 (SAT-1) developed. New feature: Absorption Technique Deployment unlocked due to resource focus.
Samskara hinges on bodily pathways—channels ferrying prana for refining. At birth, their breadth is set: wide paths yield high Samskara, swift energy flow, and efficient training; narrow paths, as in host, demand more time and Ether, exhaling much unabsorbed. SAT-1 empowers the system to guide absorbed prana, targeting not just muscles and bones but these pathways. Invisible to human senses, they're untapped in standard refining. Live monitoring ensures even tempering, healing hidden injuries over time.]
Surya's mind spun, the library's lessons echoing—potential tied to unseen channels. SAT-1 could widen them, a miracle to defy his F-grade fate. A chill crept in, though—Elenav's rumors of monstrous techniques. "Side effects?" he asked, voice tight.