The courtyard buzzed with energy, the trainees scattered in small groups, sharing jokes and stretching out sore limbs from the day before. The tension of the last month had faded into the rhythm of training, but something new hung in the air today—something unspoken.
Arjun stood with Maya, Dharan, and a few others, trying to guess what kind of hell Instructor Ranya would throw at them next.
Their speculations stopped the moment Ranya stepped into the courtyard.
All eyes turned toward her.
"Today," she announced, her tone calm but sharp as a blade, "you begin learning the most sacred form of combat practiced by the Vale Guard—the martial art known as Vajra-Nritya. The Dance of the Thunderbolt."
There was a beat of silence. Then Trisha raised her hand hesitantly.
"Instructor," she said, "but… once we awaken our chakras, won't we have powers? Why bother with martial arts at all?"
Murmurs spread across the trainees. Some nodded. Even Arjun tilted his head. The unspoken truth hung in the air—why throw punches when you might shoot lightning?
Ranya looked at them like they were children who'd just asked if the sun really rose every morning.
"Oh, I see," she said, voice dripping with disdain. "You think Shakti is all that matters."
She stepped closer. "Tell me—what will you do when you run out of Shakti in the middle of a fight? Sit down and meditate while your opponent obliges you with a polite tea break?"
No one laughed.
She folded her arms. "Fine. Let me tell you about Rudra."
That name alone shifted the mood. Even Dharan straightened up.
"He was once a trainee like you. Couldn't awaken his chakra no matter how hard he tried. His Shakti flow was a mess. Instructors dismissed him. Trainees mocked him. He was nothing—but he didn't break. He didn't stop."
She took a breath, her eyes distant.
"Instead, Rudra mastered Vajra-Nritya. Day and night, barefoot on stone, bones shattered and reset. Years passed. His strikes became faster than lightning. His body became the weapon. They say he once fought a Shakti-wielder in the mountain pass and won. Not with powers. With pure skill. They say he destroyed part of a mountain—with his fists."
Now every trainee was listening.
"He is now the Chief Commander of the Vale Guard. And even today, not a flicker of chakra lives in him. Yet no one—not one person—dares challenge him."
Ranya paused, then added, "So don't rely on blessings. Earn your strength. That is why you'll learn Vajra-Nritya."
She turned and clapped once.
"Line up. Now."
⸻
Ranya began by explaining the philosophy behind the art.
"Vajra-Nritya is not a martial art—it is a ritual," she said. "It is the rhythm of combat. A sacred dance. Every movement channels your life force. Every breath feeds your strike."
She paced between the rows of trainees as she spoke.
"It's built from the foundations of five warrior traditions. You will feel echoes of ancient staff fighters, sword dancers, and chakra-locking monks. But here, they become one."
She raised a hand and began to demonstrate a simple sequence. Her movements were fluid—like water in motion—but then snapped forward like thunder. She spun, ducked, and struck in the same breath. There was grace. There was violence.
"Now, we begin with the Four Foundational Stances. Each of you has a core nature, a stance that matches your spirit."
She pointed to a diagram etched into the courtyard floor, shaped like a spiral of four symbols.
"Stone."
"The stance of endurance. Unshakable. You take the blow—and remain standing."
"Fire."
"The stance of relentless offense. Every strike builds momentum. You overwhelm."
"Wind."
"The stance of unpredictability. Evasive, elusive. You strike from where no one expects."
"Water."
"The stance of adaptability. You flow, you shift. You answer force with redirection."
"Everyone has one stance that feels natural. That is your core. But in time, you will learn to weave them all—until you become the storm itself."
⸻
The trainees spread out and began their stance drills.
Some, like Arya, moved naturally between Stone and Fire, her strikes heavy and precise. Others experimented, flowing awkwardly from pose to pose, struggling to find their rhythm.
Arjun tried Fire first. He moved through the steps, fists blazing, but something felt off—forced.
He switched to Stone. The stances were solid, defensive, slow. He felt… dulled. Muffled.
Then he shifted into Wind.
And something clicked.
His body moved without thinking—his footwork sharp, reactive. He dodged an invisible attack and spun with a grin. It felt like dancing on instinct.
"This," he muttered to himself, "is me."
Wind wasn't just a stance. It was his nature—fluid, reactive, unpredictable.
He tried Water next. Not as natural as Wind, but it made sense—bend, don't break. Redirect. It spoke to his adaptability.
A plan began to form in his head: Wind as the base, Water for flow, Fire for surprise, Stone for last stands.
It was chaotic.
It was perfect.
All around him, other trainees were discovering their alignments. Ranya and her assistants walked between them, taking notes, correcting form, observing.
By sundown, she had seen enough.
"You now know your base. Use it. Build upon it. Let your stance be the lens through which you grow your Vajra-Nritya."
She dismissed them at the sixth hour.
⸻
But Arjun didn't leave.
He returned after dinner, alone under the stars. The courtyard was quiet, shadows long, the stone cool beneath his feet.
He moved through the Wind stance again. Then Water. He repeated them again. And again. Slower. Then faster. Adjusting his breathing. Syncing footwork to breath.
For a moment, he entered a kind of trance—no thoughts, just movement. His body becoming rhythm.
That's when it happened.
A chill ran up his spine. A prickle at the back of his neck.
He turned—
—and saw the glint of steel, a blade inches from his face.
Too close. Too fast.
His heart surged. Muscles tensed.
There was no time to dodge.
His mind screamed: Move.