Chapter 10 - Training

The morning sunlight filtered through the cracks in the stone walls, bathing Mingma's room in a warm glow. He sat at his desk, staring at the rough plan he'd sketched out on a scrap of parchment. Seven weeks. That was all the time he had before his admission to the academy. Seven weeks to prepare himself for survival, to understand his curse, and to uncover the truth behind his brother's ominous warnings.

Mingma's plan was straightforward, though daunting. First, he would survive the academy by gaining strength and breaking the curse. Second, he would use the academy's resources to verify his brother's claims and find the truth. But before all of that, he had to ensure he lived long enough to even set foot in the academy.

To do that, he needed to train—harder and faster than ever before. His sister, Amira, had agreed to help him with magic. His brother, Rathore, had been called back to the military, leaving her as his sole guide in this strange, new world. Mingma knew his bloodline would give him an edge, but his Earthly knowledge—his grasp of logic, discipline, and unconventional thinking—could also prove to be an unexpected advantage.

Amira was waiting for him in the courtyard, her usual calm demeanor replaced with a determined look. "You're late," she said, crossing her arms as he approached.

"I was revising my plan," Mingma replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His nights had been spent pushing his body to its limits, training in secret after everyone else had gone to bed. The exhaustion was beginning to show, but he couldn't afford to slow down.

Amira raised an eyebrow but didn't press the issue. Instead, she held out her hand, a faint glow surrounding her fingertips. "Let's begin."

The first few days were grueling. Amira started with the basics—understanding mana flow, visualizing spell patterns, and channeling energy without causing harm to himself. Mingma's bloodline seemed to aid him in grasping the fundamentals, as if the knowledge was buried deep within his very being. Yet his Earthly mindset also played a role. He approached magic like a puzzle, breaking down the principles into logical steps and applying them with precision.

"Good," Amira said one afternoon as he successfully cast a minor flame spell. "You're learning faster than I expected. Your bloodline is helping, but your methodical approach is… different. Most people rely on instinct. where did you learn this?"

Mingma managed a tired smile. "I'm used to problem-solving. Magic's just another system to understand."

But magic was only half of his training. At night, while the household slept, Mingma pushed his body to its limits. His Earth-conditioned physique was no match for the warriors of this world, but he had no choice but to close the gap. He ran laps around the courtyard, practiced strength-building exercises, and drilled his reflexes until his muscles burned and his lungs screamed for air.

By the end of the first week, he was utterly exhausted. His body ached, his mind felt foggy, and sleep became a fleeting luxury. Yet Mingma refused to rest. He knew the clock was ticking, and he couldn't waste a single moment.

One evening, after a particularly intense training session, Amira caught him practicing alone in the courtyard. She approached quietly, her arms crossed as she watched him struggle to maintain his stance.

"You're overworking yourself," she said finally, her tone sharp but concerned.

Mingma straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. "I don't have a choice. I need to be ready."

Amira sighed, stepping closer. "I admire your determination, but if you burn out before you even reach the academy, all of this will be for nothing. You need to pace yourself."

"I can't," he said firmly, meeting her gaze. "Every day counts. I won't let myself fail."

She studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Very well. But if you're going to push yourself this hard, let me help. I'll adjust your training regimen so you can balance magic and physical training without collapsing."

Grateful but stubborn, Mingma reluctantly agreed. Over the next few weeks, Amira fine-tuned his schedule, ensuring he maximized his efforts without completely draining himself. The training was still brutal, but it became more structured, more efficient.

By the time the final week approached, Mingma felt the difference. His body had grown stronger, his mana control had improved, and his understanding of magic had deepened. He was far from ready, but he was no longer the weak, untrained newcomer he had been seven weeks ago.

Standing in the courtyard one last time before his departure, Mingma looked at Amira. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I wouldn't have made it this far without your help."

She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You've done well, Mingma. The academy will be tough, but you're tougher. Just remember to trust yourself. You're stronger than you think."

As he prepared to leave for the academy, Mingma felt a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty. He had worked tirelessly, pushed himself beyond his limits, and forged a path forward. The road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but he was ready to face them—to survive, to uncover the truth, and to carve out a destiny of his own.

Today was the day he would leave for the Royal Academy of Military Arts. The morning air was crisp, and the excitement mingled with nervous anticipation in his chest. Amira stood by his side, her presence steadying him. She had been his greatest support these past weeks, pushing him to his limits and guiding him through every stumble.

The journey to the city of Kathmandu was uneventful but surreal. Mingma couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder as they approached the towering gates of the sprawling metropolis. The city bustled with life, its streets packed with merchants, adventurers, and scholars. For someone who had spent most of his life on Earth and the past weeks in isolation, it was overwhelming.

Amira led him through the winding streets, her demeanor calm and collected. They soon arrived at the grand gates of the Royal Academy. Mingma craned his neck to take in the sight. The academy's towering spires and intricate carvings exuded a sense of majesty and power. It was a place where the best and brightest came to learn, train, and shape their destinies.

"You'll be fine," Amira said, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Remember, you don't have to prove anything to anyone right now. Focus on survival and growth."

Mingma nodded, taking a deep breath. He had been granted entry to the academy without needing to pass the rigorous admission tests, thanks to his father's legacy as a martyr commander. It was a bittersweet privilege—a door opened by sacrifice. He knew he couldn't pass the tests with impressive scores yet, but he was determined to make the most of this opportunity.

After a brief registration process, Mingma was directed to the trial site. The academy required all new entrants to undergo an introductory trial, regardless of how they gained admission. It was meant to assess their baseline capabilities and place them into appropriate training groups.

The trial site was a massive open arena, bustling with activity. Mingma's eyes widened as he took in the sight of countless young adults like himself—some brimming with confidence, others visibly nervous. They came from all walks of life, from noble bloodlines to commoners seeking a chance to prove themselves.

Mingma's heart pounded as he watched groups of candidates performing various tasks. Some wielded weapons with practiced precision, others demonstrated their mastery over magic. He felt a pang of inadequacy but quickly pushed it aside. He had spent the past seven weeks preparing for this moment. He wasn't here to compete with others; he was here to survive, grow, and uncover the truth.

As his name was called, Mingma stepped forward, his steps steady despite the storm of emotions inside him. He could feel the weight of his sister's gaze from the stands. Amira had done everything she could to prepare him for this moment. Now, it was up to him.

The instructor overseeing the trial, a stern-faced man with a scar across his cheek, studied him for a moment. "Mingma Rathore," he said, glancing at his records. "Legacy admission. Let's see what you're made of."

Mingma's fists clenched at the subtle tone of skepticism. He wasn't here to ride on his father's name. He was here to prove himself—to himself, if nothing else. As he stepped into the trial area, he drew a deep breath and focused. His bloodline thrummed faintly in his veins, and the curse's mark on his hand seemed to burn slightly. It was time to show that he was more than just a legacy.

The trial would test him in ways he couldn't yet predict, but one thing was certain: Mingma was ready to fight for his place in this new world.