Arya charged at Shuka.
In a swift move, he swung his sword, aiming for Shuka's side. Shuka barely moved. He pushed Arya's hand aside, using Arya's own momentum against him. Arya tumbled for a few steps before regaining his balance.
Gritting his teeth, Arya charged again. The result was the same. Four attacks, five attacks—each time, Arya found himself either deflected or pushed back effortlessly. Frustration built within him. He stopped for a moment, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his forehead. He observed. He thought.
Arya charged once more, but this time he approached with caution. As soon as Shuka moved to push him again, Arya ducked and rammed forward with his shield. It hit Shuka squarely—only to feel like ramming into a rock. Shuka didn't budge. Arya used every ounce of strength he had, but it was useless. In a single motion, Shuka punched Arya's shield away and picked him up with ease, flinging him across the arena.
Arya rolled across the dirt, bruised but conscious. Shaking his head, he pulled himself to his feet again. He tried again. And again. Each time, Shuka barely moved. Hours passed like this until Arya had no strength left to stand.
Collapsing onto the dirt, Arya lay there, breathing hard. Shuka, expressionless, turned and walked away. He instructed his men to carry Arya away from the training ground. The unseen watchers at the windows, who had observed the match, dispersed one by one as the show ended. Shuka resumed training other soldiers.
This became Arya's daily routine.
Each morning he would enter the training arena, sword and shield in hand, and face Shuka. And every day, he would fail. Shuka grew impatient. His real task hadn't even begun yet. The watchers from the windows continued to observe silently. Arya continued to fall. Yet Arya came back, without fail, every single day.
He wasn't thinking about just surviving anymore. He had realized something vital: survival wasn't enough. If he wanted to escape this place, he had to improve. He had to become something more.
On the ninth day, Shuka still hadn't taken a single serious step against Arya. He simply countered, blocked, and pushed him aside. Arya knew he had to change something.
On the tenth day, Arya walked into the arena—barehanded.
Whispers stirred among the watchers. Even Shuka raised an eyebrow at the unexpected sight. Arya stood tall, without sword or shield, and beckoned.
Shuka remained in place, silently inviting him to attack.
Arya advanced, throwing punches and kicks with every ounce of strength. Shuka blocked each one with effortless precision. Arya ducked, weaved, adapted—searching for an opening.
A sudden opportunity. Arya feinted a punch and grabbed Shuka's arm instead. In one smooth motion, he pulled Shuka's arm behind his back and kicked at his knee.
Shuka's foot shifted—just slightly—but it shifted.
Arya's kick had moved him!
Before Arya could press the advantage, Shuka shook him off and threw him into a stone wall. Arya crashed hard but scrambled to his feet again almost immediately, ignoring the pain surging through his body.
He had made progress.
He had forced Shuka to move.
The watchers might not have cared, but Arya knew. Shuka knew too.
From that day, Arya decided: no weapons until he mastered his own body first. He had learned another important lesson—not every battle could be won by swords or shields. Sometimes, it was strength, technique, and pure will that decided the outcome.
Meanwhile, at Lohitpuri, the twins were hard at work.
Rohak had returned from his journey and met with Raghav and Rudra.
After hearing the full story about Arya's situation, Rohak's face grew grim. "You do understand who you're up against, right?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, we know," Raghav replied firmly. "And that's why we need your help to infiltrate the capital."
"That's not happening," Rohak said, shaking his head. "You want to enter Suryagadh? Where Rankriti rules? Even before you see the city walls, her men would sniff you out. Her spy network is unmatched. Worse yet, it's not just her. There are seven others there—just as powerful, maybe stronger. This is an impossible task."
Rudra spoke calmly. "Then help us here first. Help us build our foundation. Collect the scattered ones, the lost ones, rebuild Chorpatta from the ground up."
"We need eyes in every street," added Raghav. "Every alley, every marketplace. Once Lohitpuri is ours completely, we expand—to Bhuva, to Jangal Mandala, to wherever we must. Slowly, carefully."
Rohak paused, considering. "It can be done," he said finally. "But it'll take time. Extreme caution. We are going up against a State Head. One mistake, and they'll crush us without a second thought."
"Finance won't be a problem," said Raghav. "I'll speak to Ashvapati and Raman. We'll set up proper funding. Salaries, cover identities. If any whisperer is caught, they will be disavowed—mere smugglers or thieves, nothing more."
"That should work," Rohak nodded. "I'll start gathering them. I'll spread them across the city. But remember—trust will take time."
"We have time," Rudra said, his voice low and steady. "What we don't have is the luxury of waiting forever."
Rohak gave a short nod and departed, already planning his next moves.
The twins stood silently for a moment after Rohak left, watching the torches flicker along Lohitpuri's high stone walls.
They both knew—
Arya was fighting his battles alone in the heart of the enemy's den.
It was up to them to build the world he would need when he returned.
They had no choice.
They would not fail.