Kalpit awoke in the cave. Not on the cold stone of the summit, but on the pallet of thick, warm furs. The scent of a savory stew filled the air. Anasuya sat by the fire, sharpening her combat knife, while Parashurama ladled a thick, steaming broth into a wooden bowl.
The giant placed the bowl beside Kalpit. It was filled with chunks of wasteland beast meat and tough, earthy tubers. It was the first real food Kalpit had eaten in what felt like a lifetime.
"Eat," Parashurama commanded. "Your body is a furnace. It cannot forge a weapon without fuel."
Kalpit sat up. The agony was still there, a deep, resonant ache in every muscle fiber, but it was different. It was the pain of rebuilding, not of breaking. He ate, each spoonful sending a wave of warmth and strength through his depleted system.
After the meal, Parashurama led him not to the cliffs or the canyon floor, but to a wide, flat ledge behind the cave, overlooking the vast desolation of the wastelands. The wind was calmer here.
The immortal warrior stood in the center of the ledge. He held no weapon. His hands were empty.
"Everything you have done so far has been reactive," Parashurama began, his voice the low rumble of a patient teacher. "You survived. You endured. Now, you will learn to impose your will upon the world, not just withstand its pressure."
He adopted a stance. It was deceptively simple. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, one hand held open before his chest, the other resting loosely at his side. But the shift was instantaneous. One moment, he was a giant of a man. The next, he was a mountain, perfectly balanced, immovable, radiating an aura of absolute stability.
"The Chakras are gateways to power," he explained. "But your body is the gatekeeper. Your Muladhara connects you to the earth. Feel it now. Not as a map of weaknesses, but as an anchor. Draw its stability up through the soles of your feet. Become the mountain."
Kalpit tried to mimic the stance. It felt clumsy, unbalanced. He closed his eyes and reached out with his first chakra. He felt the familiar blueprint of the rock beneath him, but he followed Parashurama's instruction, focusing not on its flaws, but on its immense, static strength. He imagined roots growing from his feet, plunging deep into the stone, anchoring him to the planet's very core.
Slowly, his trembling legs grew steady. The pain in his muscles didn't vanish, but it found a foundation to rest upon. He felt… solid.
"Good," Parashurama grunted. "Now, your Svadhisthana. The power of flow. You used it to perceive time. A parlor trick. Its true purpose is to control the flow of energy within the vessel. Your blood. Your breath. Your Prana."
He moved, and it was like watching a river flow. One hand glided forward in a slow, graceful arc, while the other retracted. His whole body moved as a single, fluid unit. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation.
"Adrenaline is a chaotic flood. You will learn to make it a disciplined river," the warrior-sage instructed. "Do as I do. Breathe in, draw the Prana from your Root. Breathe out, let it flow through your limbs. Do not force it. Guide it."
For hours, they practiced. It was not combat. It was a form of brutal, demanding meditation. A dance of agonizing slowness. Every movement was designed to teach Kalpit how to consciously control his own internal energy, to move Prana from one part of his body to another as easily as moving his own hand.
Kalpit's mind, honed by the focus required to chop the ironwood, adapted quickly. The lie was that his body was just a collection of parts. The truth was that it was a system, a circuit for the energy he was learning to wield. The Anahata hum in his chest pulsed in time with his breathing, helping to regulate the flow, connecting his physical and energetic selves.
Finally, Parashurama stopped. "You have learned the first two letters of the alphabet. Stability. Flow. Now, you will learn the first word: Impact."
He walked to the edge of the ledge, where a massive, house-sized boulder perched precariously.
"This rock has been here for ten thousand years. Its Dharma is to sit," Parashurama said. "Today, its Dharma changes."
He turned to face the boulder, resuming his basic stance. "Watch."
He took a slow, deep breath. Kalpit could see it with his awakened sight. A brilliant surge of red energy—the raw, physical power of Muladhara—was drawn up from the mountain itself, through Parashurama's legs. As he began to exhale, that red energy met a flowing, orange current from his Svadhisthana chakra. The two energies swirled, mixing, concentrating in his right fist.
He did not pull back for a wind-up. His movement was incredibly short, almost imperceptible. A single, focused, one-inch punch into the center of the boulder.
Tap.
It was the quietest, most anticlimactic sound Kalpit had ever heard. For a moment, nothing happened. The boulder sat, silent and immense. Anasuya, who had been watching from the cave entrance, looked on with a puzzled expression.
Then, a single, hairline crack appeared where Parashurama's fist had touched the stone. The crack raced outwards, spreading over the surface of the boulder like a spiderweb of lightning. It was followed by a deep, groaning sound from the very heart of the rock.
CRUUUUUUUNCH.
The entire house-sized boulder, a mass of hundreds of tons, disintegrated. It did not explode. It simply crumbled into a pile of fine gravel and dust, collapsing in on itself in a soft, final sigh.
FSSSSSHHHHH...
Kalpit and Anasuya stared, their minds unable to process what they had just seen. He hadn't shattered the rock. He had spoken to it in a language of pure, focused force, and commanded it to cease its own existence.
Parashurama shook his hand out, as if from a slight cramp. He turned to Kalpit, his expression severe.
"That is the difference between power and will," the warrior-sage declared. "You leak power. I focus will. The energy is meaningless until it is given a purpose. A target. A single, perfect point of impact."
He pointed to another boulder, smaller, perhaps only the size of a man. "Your turn."
Kalpit looked at the new target, then at his own raw, blistered hands. It was an impossible leap. He couldn't begin to comprehend the technique he had just witnessed.
"I... I can't," he said. The words tasted of failure.
"Your mind is lying to you again," Parashurama growled. "You are trying to copy the result. The shattered rock. That is not the lesson. The lesson is in the process. The grammar. Anchor your root. Guide your flow. Focus your intent into a single point. Do not try to break the rock. Simply… touch its heart."
Kalpit hesitated, then moved to stand before the boulder. He closed his eyes. He adopted the stance, feeling for the earth's stability. He breathed in, trying to draw up that raw, red energy. He could feel it, a faint warmth in his legs. He breathed out, trying to guide it, to mix it with the orange flow of his Svadhisthana. But it was a clumsy, chaotic mess. The energies felt separate, unwilling to merge.
He opened his eyes. He knew he would fail. But he also knew that refusing to try was a deeper failure.
He focused on a single point in the rock, a small, discolored patch of stone. He remembered Parashurama's movement. Short. Focused. He took a breath.
And punched the rock.
CRACK!
The sound was not a soft tap. It was the sickening crunch of bone breaking. A bolt of pure, white-hot agony shot up Kalpit's arm. The rock was completely unscathed. He staggered back, cradling his hand, a scream of pain caught in his throat.
He had broken his hand.
Parashurama looked at Kalpit's crumpled form, then at the unbroken boulder, then at Kalpit's shattered knuckles, which were already swelling to a grotesque degree.
There was no sympathy on his face. No disappointment. There was only the cold, hard glint of a master craftsman who had identified a critical flaw in the metal he was trying to forge.
"Excellent," the immortal warrior said, his voice a low growl that held not a hint of irony. "The lesson was not to shatter the rock. The lesson was to understand consequence. Now you have learned your first word in the language of violence: pain. Real pain. Inflicted not by an enemy, but by your own untempered power."
He knelt beside the gasping Kalpit. "And now," he said, taking the boy's mangled hand in his own immense, calloused one, "your second word begins. Healing."
A soft, green light, emanating from the Anahata chakra in Parashurama's chest, enveloped his hand, flowing into Kalpit's broken bones. It was a power both gentle and absolute. The healing had begun. The true training was about to start.