A week had passed since the training montage, and I'd officially become a familiar face around the Ninth Citadel. People knew me now. Some admired me, some thought I was overhyped, and some were convinced the whole fire arena incident was just a fluke brought on by stress and too much hot chocolate. Life went on, the kind of normal that felt almost surreal after everything that had happened.
The three of us were walking to class, the morning air crisp and carrying the smell of pine from the surrounding forests. Arjun and I were in the middle of what had become a daily debate about whether swords or staffs were more versatile weapons. "Staff gives you range," I argued, gesturing with my hands. "You can control distance, redirect force, sweep legs—" "Swords give you precision," Arjun shot back. "You can't parry with a staff the way you can with a blade." Taara kept interrupting us with a look of profound exhaustion. "You're both wrong." "We're not wrong," I said. "You're both wrong," she repeated, not even looking at us. "The most versatile weapon is the one you actually know how to use." The debate continued through breakfast, with Arjun and I taking turns trying to convince her that she was objectively incorrect, which she was, but she refused to admit it.
Classes were normal in the best way. I answered questions when called on, helped classmates who were struggling with Sanskrit translations, accidentally started another mythology debate that Professor Menon had to gently steer back on track, and nearly forgot lunch entirely because I was so absorbed in a book about ancient resonance patterns. I'd become part of Meruzhen. Not special. Not famous. Just there, woven into the rhythm of the place like I'd always belonged.
The afternoon training grounds were packed with students everywhere—weapon practice, sigil training, archery, sparring matches. The noise was constant, the air thick with the sound of wood clashing and instructors calling out corrections. Life moved around me in this beautiful, chaotic flow that I was finally starting to understand. A group of older first-years and one second-year kept watching me from across the training area. Not jealous. Annoyed. I could hear one of them muttering to another, "That's him?" The other shrugged. "Looks ordinary." I pretended not to notice, focusing on my footwork drills, but I could feel their eyes on me the entire time.
After training, I was wiping down a wooden sword, running a cloth along the grain to remove the sweat and dirt from the day's practice. The group approached—five of them, the leader in front, the other four flanking him slightly behind. They weren't cartoon bullies. They were confident, athletic, the kind of people who were used to being respected without having to ask for it. The leader was tall, broad-shouldered, with the easy posture of someone who'd never lost a spar. He stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms.
"So you're the guy who set the arena on fire."
I kept wiping the sword, not looking up. "That's what they say."
"Everyone treats you like you're special because of one lucky day," he continued, his voice calm but carrying an edge. "But we all know what really happened. You got lucky. That's it."
I finally looked up, meeting his eyes. I didn't interrupt. I just let him finish, watching his expression, reading the tension in his shoulders. When he was done, I smiled. Small. Almost tired.
"If you've already decided who I am... why ask me?"
The leader stepped closer, the tension rising like a wave. "We want to settle it. Here. Now."
I set the sword down, straightening up. "Settle what?"
"Five against one," he said. "Wooden weapons only. No sigils. Official arena. Instructors supervising."
Taara immediately objected, stepping forward. "Five against one? That's not a spar, that's a setup." She looked at me, her expression serious. "You don't have to prove anything, Krish."
I thought for a second. Looked at the five of them. Looked back at her. Shrugged. "Sure."
The arena filled up fast. Word spread through the Citadel like wildfire—pun intended—and within minutes, students were gathering around the training ring. Professors watched from the balconies above, their expressions neutral but attentive. Even seniors showed up, leaning against the stone walls with their arms crossed. Nobody expected an easy fight. Weapons were chosen. I deliberately didn't pick my favorite. I started with a wooden sword, testing its weight, finding the balance point. The other five spread out around me, picking their own weapons—two swords, a staff, a mace, and another sword. No countdown. Begin.
Phase one was fast. Technical. No aura farming, no dramatic power moves. Pure footwork and timing. The first attacker came in hard, sword swinging in a wide arc. I deflected, stepped inside his guard, and countered with a strike to his wrist. He dropped the sword. One down. The second came from the left, catching me across the ribs before I could fully turn. I slid back, breathing hard, but I was smiling. The crowd realized—I was enjoying this. My sword finally splintered under repeated impacts, the wood cracking along the grain. I tossed the broken half aside and grabbed a wooden mace from the weapon rack.
Everyone expected slower movement. A mace was heavy, awkward, difficult to wield with precision. Instead, I used momentum. Rotations. Heavy strikes that created space rather than closing it. I never swung wildly—every movement was calculated, every strike deliberate. Another opponent was eliminated when I caught him with a spinning strike that sent him sprawling. The mace cracked. Dropped.
I picked up a long wooden staff. Silence fell over the arena. I spun it once. Not flashy. Just comfortable. Finding the rhythm. Then everything changed. This became the most beautiful part of the fight. The staff flowed. Blocks. Redirects. Sweeps. Transitions. Every movement linked into the next, seamless, like dancing, like water, like I'd held one all my life. I controlled distance perfectly. The five could never surround me—they were constantly forced into each other's space, colliding, stumbling, unable to coordinate. The spectators slowly stopped cheering. They were just watching.
One by one, the remaining opponents fell. Not brutally. Cleanly. Precisely. A sweep here, a redirect there, a perfectly timed strike that sent them to the ground without injury but with no room for argument. I was breathing hard. Bruised. Sweaty. One eyebrow was cut, blood trickling down my cheek. I'd won. But I'd earned it. Silence. Then applause. Not explosive. Respectful.
I walked over to where the weapons lay scattered across the arena floor. Picked up every fallen wooden sword, every staff, every mace. Handed them back one by one to the students I'd just defeated. Offered each of them a hand. No lectures. No smug smile. Just—"Good game." The leader hesitated. Looked at my outstretched hand. Then accepted it, pulling himself up. Everything ended there. No enemies. Just respect.
Later, one instructor remarked to Devavratha that I'd fought well beyond my experience level, that my adaptability with different weapons was unusual for someone my age. Devavratha simply watched the empty arena, his expression unreadable. Not smiling. Thinking. Almost remembering.
Late evening, I returned to my dorm, my body aching in places I didn't know could ache. Arjun tossed me an ice pack without a word, and Taara teased me for finally looking as exhausted as I probably deserved to. We laughed. Lights out. As I fell asleep, the last thing I thought about wasn't the fight, or the respect, or even the staff work that had felt so natural. It was the leader's face when I offered him my hand. The hesitation. The acceptance. Respect wasn't demanded. It was earned. And for the first time since arriving in Meruzhen, I felt like I'd earned my place here.
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and then Add to home screen.