Surya stepped onto the packed-dirt arena, the past week's trials flickering through his mind like a temple lamp's unsteady flame.
It had begun in ETC-1, the chamber's mist curling around him as he sank onto his mat, the familiar tingle of Ether kissing his skin. The system's voice had hummed in his skull the moment he entered:
[Ether-rich environment detected. SAT-1 auto-deployed. Notify if host wishes to halt.]
He'd stayed silent, trusting the process. A heartbeat later, a prickling sensation danced across his body—tiny pinpricks, like ants swarming his flesh. Hastening to his cross-legged stance, he closed his eyes, breath steadying as he sought the cause.
The prickling flared into a storm of agony, as if a hundred sadhus wielded unseen tridents, stabbing relentlessly into every inch of him—his arms, his legs, his chest. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto the mat as he clenched his fists, resisting the urge to cry out. Three months of naraka had taught him to endure, but this tested even that resolve. Just as he teetered on the edge, ready to command a halt, the pain dulled, ebbing to a bearable throb.
Three minutes—that's all it had been since he sat, yet it felt like lifetimes strung together in a cycle of torment. The ache lingered, a constant drumbeat disrupting his thoughts, leaving room only for its rhythm. He endured the first session thus, emerging with trembling limbs but unbowed spirit. Later, sparring brought a spark of hope.
[_Ding_ PAM-1 can develop Combat Technique-1 (CT-1). Time: 24 hours. Proceed?]
Surya's heart leapt—he'd half-anticipated this boon.
"Yes," he replied, then added, "Will the system shut off again? And why so quick?"
[System assures host: No diversion needed. Host's diligence in Kalaripayattu basics—etched into muscle memory—eases development. System praises host's effort, the bedrock for CT-1's advance.]
Relief warmed him. He'd once wondered if slacking might yield the same from the system, but Nalini's voice—echoing an Earth matron's wisdom—had urged him on: "Karma rewards toil." His labor hadn't withered.
A day later, the system chimed:
[CT-1 development complete.]
That night, under a crescent moon, Surya slipped into the ashram's fringing woods, the scent of neem and damp earth thick around him. Expecting the system to seize his limbs as with SAT-1, he whispered, "Deploy CT-1," and stood loose, waiting.
[CT-1 deployed.]
A white silhouette shimmered into being before him, ethereal as a yaksha in the gloom. Surya froze, half-fearing a forest spirit, until it lunged, fist arcing toward his gut.
"NAHIN!" His shout scattered roosting mynas, wings flapping in the dark.
No pain came. Blinking, he saw the fist phased through him, and the system clarified:
[White figure is CT-1's illusion, conjured to hone host's intuition and skill. Training modes:
1. Mimic: For basic stances—skipped, as host masters the three moves.
2. Combat: Illusion spars to sharpen prowess.]
Surya laughed at his own fright, tension melting. Nightly, he returned, battling the figure's ceaseless barrage—punches from shadows, kicks slicing air. Each bout forged his reflexes, his flow unshaken by speed or chaos, edging toward instinct's realm.
Competition day dawned. At first light, he refreshed his stats, breath catching at the revelation:
[Host status refreshing.
Level: Sadhak Human-0
Samskara: F
Condition: Hidden Injuries Detected
Level Progression: 40%
Exp Points: 20
Faction Points: 1]
Forty percent—halfway to Sadhak Human-1! His mind raced: low-grades took two years of such hell to reach it; SAT-1 had doubled his pace, rivaling mid-grades. The system's might awed him anew.
The day's earlier matches blurred past—Surya's low-grade victories swift, his calm ferocity winning roars. Now, the gong tolled, and he faced Epok, the high-grade atop the ranks.
Epok sneered, his once-pudgy frame taut, eyes glinting with malice. "Arrogant cur! A low-grade slum rat dares me? I'll never forget your jibe that first day. I'll thrash you till you wail for your ma, Jal Bhanu's bubble be damned!"
Surya met the taunts with silence, a flick of his hand daring Epok on. Twelve-year-old bluster didn't merit reply.
Epok charged, twice Surya's speed—Human-1's cusp lending him force. A blow from him could bruise deep, but Surya stood serene, the white figure's nightly lessons his shield. It had been faster, its strikes sharper.
Epok aimed a fist at Surya's stomach, sure of a quick drop. At the last breath, Surya leapt, legs parting as Epok passed beneath. Momentum faltered; Epok felt a sandal press his back, tipping him forward.
He hit the dirt, scrambling up, but Surya's feet pinned his shoulders, digging in. "Three hits! Surya wins!" Jal Bhanu's voice rang out, the crowd erupting—half in cheers, half in laughter at Epok's fall.
Surya sprang off, dusting his dhoti. Epok's glare turned to tears, humiliation stinging more than defeat. "You! Again!" he shrieked, lunging.
A water sphere swallowed him mid-stride, floating him out to plop beyond the ring. "No rematches. Loss is loss," Guru Arjun's gruff tones cut through as he strode up, cracking a grin.
He raised Surya's hand high, the crowd's applause a monsoon roar. Leaning close, he murmured, "Well fought, lad. But we must speak of this yaksha you spar with in the woods each night."