The two months leading up to the Azure Dragon Academy's examination became a period of intense, monastic discipline for Aryan. The Rathore compound, once a place of quiet shame for him, transformed into his personal forge. He cut himself off from the world, his existence shrinking to a simple, repetitive cycle: cultivate, train, analyze, repeat.
His evenings weren't spent in relaxation, but in absorbing the knowledge he'd purchased from the store. For a mere 50 SP, the 'Encyclopedia of Common Spiritual Beasts' became his nightly study, its contents burned into his memory. The beasts of the forest were no longer unknown threats, but systems to be analyzed, their strengths and weaknesses logged like lines of code.
His gold coins were spent with equal practicality. He visited a different blacksmith, one known for his skill rather than his cheap prices, and commissioned a simple, perfectly balanced steel sword. It held no spiritual properties, but its weight was true and its edge was sharp. It was a tool for practice, for understanding the fundamentals of a blade. He also purchased detailed maps of the province, several empty journals, and high-quality ink.
His daily routine was a study in quiet intensity, a stark contrast to his brother's explosive, sweat-drenched efforts.
The courtyard became a silent battleground of their philosophies. Rohan would begin at dawn, his powerful shouts echoing as he slammed his fists into wooden dummies, sending splinters flying. He heaved massive training stones, his muscles bulging, his face a mask of grim determination, every repetition a loud testament to his hard work. His power was a visible, audible thing a roaring bonfire.
Aryan's training was the antithesis.
He would often stand in one spot for hours, completely still, his eyes closed. To an observer, he was doing nothing. But internally, he was engaged in the meticulous, painstaking work of mastering the Iron-Core Finger.
He would channel a sliver of Qi, guide it through the new, elegant pathways in his hand, compress it, cycle it, learning its every nuance. Then he would extend a finger and gently touch a leaf on a nearby bush. The leaf wasn't pierced or blown away. It simply disintegrated into a fine, gray dust, its structure unraveled by a perfectly controlled vibration of Qi.
He practiced with his new sword, but not with mighty slashes. He performed slow, deliberate forms, each movement flowing into the next with the grace of a calligrapher's brushstroke. He wasn't training to fight; he was training to understand the blade as an extension of his body. His power was a hidden thing a deep, cold river flowing silently beneath a calm surface.
This quiet, unnerving diligence was a greater torment to Rohan than any open taunt. He couldn't understand it. He saw no effort, no sweat, no struggle only a terrifying, inexplicable result. The gap between them was no longer just about cultivation level; it was something deeper, something fundamental he couldn't grasp.
The confrontation came on a sweltering afternoon, a month after the distillery incident. Aryan was practicing his finger technique, eyes closed, his focus absolute. Rohan, having just finished a grueling session that left him gasping and drenched in sweat, finally broke.
He strode over and stood before Aryan, blocking the sun. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice thick with frustration.
Aryan opened his eyes. "Training."
"Stop it!" Rohan's voice cracked. "Just... stop. Do you enjoy this? Making a mockery of my entire life? I bleed on these stones every day! I break my bones! And you... you just stand there.
Tell me how! Tell me what shortcut you found so I can stop feeling like an idiot!" The questions poured out of him, a torrent of jealousy, confusion, and a desperate, pathetic need for an explanation that could make sense of his crumbling world.
Aryan looked at his brother's bleeding knuckles, then at his own unblemished hand. He was silent for a long moment, his gaze calm and analytical.