Pain became routine. Training became religion.
Over the course of four grueling weeks, Arjun transformed from the shaky newcomer to one of the top three trainees in the compound.
He earned it the hard way.
While others collapsed into their cots after lights-out, Arjun stayed back—drilling stances under the moonlight, meditating through muscle cramps, repeating every movement until it burned into his bones. If the body resisted, he pushed harder. If his breath faltered, he slowed it, counted it, conquered it.
He didn't have the luxury of talent or training. What he had was fire. Relentless, stupid, beautiful fire.
He lost more bouts in the first two weeks than anyone else. Broken lip, twisted ankle, dislocated shoulder—all logged in silence. He took hits with a grin, even when it hurt to breathe. Meera helped him wrap bandages without a word. Dev made jokes he could barely laugh at.
But slowly, something shifted.
The hits began to miss.
The bruises took longer to show up.
And by the third week, he was striking back.
Arjun learned his opponents—how they moved, how they breathed, where they left openings. His footwork grew sharper, his timing more precise. Meditation stopped being a chore and started becoming clarity. Shakti responded to him—not perfectly, but enough to hum beneath his skin like a warning signal.
He scored his first official win in a spar against Saira—a quick sweep followed by a clean takedown.
Then came another. And another.
By the fourth week, only two names stood above his: Aarini and Meera.
Instructor Ranya, though never one to praise, began assigning him as a pace-setter during drills. Maya and Dharan observed more closely now, their quiet conversations growing more frequent after each session.
Even Aarini, who had once spat his name like poison, started watching him with a different kind of fire. No less fierce. But not contempt.
Respect, maybe. Or a challenge.
One evening, during a rare break, Arjun leaned back against the training hall wall, drenched in sweat, hands taped and shaking.
Dev plopped down beside him. "You know you're insane, right?"
"Probably," Arjun muttered. "Remind me why we're not running away to become monks or something."
"Because monks don't get girls."
Meera, sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow. "Or sleep."
Arjun smirked. "Neither do we."
They all chuckled—tired, bruised, but for the first time, bonded by shared fire.
He looked out at the training yard, now etched into his memory—every crack in the stone, every patch of faded paint, every spot where he'd fallen and risen again.
One month ago, he'd been the outsider.
Now, he stood among the best.
And the real tests hadn't even begun.