The days after his sparring match with Samrudh were quiet, but Armaan couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Despite his small victories, doubts still clouded his mind. He had learned new moves, honed his senses, but he still felt incomplete. His hybrid power remained dormant—he could release smoke at will, but that was it. No control, no real offense, no defense.
It felt like the academy was testing him at every turn, pushing him to limits he didn't know existed. But it was different now. He had started to believe that he could do this—he could make it.
The Morning Training
The sun rose early the next morning, casting long shadows across the training grounds. The academy's courtyard was already alive with the sounds of combat—students sparring, instructors shouting orders. Armaan stood at the far side, stretching his aching limbs. His body had become more toned since starting his training under Dhruv, but the mental exhaustion was what drained him most.
Dhruv arrived late, as usual, his gourd in hand and a smirk on his face. "Alright, kid, ready for today's lesson?"
Armaan nodded, ready to dive into whatever Dhruv had planned. He had long learned that every session with Dhruv brought some new challenge, whether it was a lesson in strategy or the harshest physical test. Today, though, there was something different in the air.
"First things first," Dhruv said, setting down his gourd and glancing around the courtyard. "I'm going to show you something. Watch carefully."
Without further explanation, Dhruv stepped into a fighting stance. Armaan squinted, sensing something was about to happen. And then, Dhruv moved.
It was as if the air around him shifted. With an almost imperceptible blur, Dhruv vanished from his spot, reappearing behind one of the sparring dummies. His hand struck the dummy's neck in a precise, brutal motion, sending the dummy flying several feet away. The strike was fast, calculated, and devastating.
Armaan's eyes widened. "What the—?"
Dhruv didn't give him time to ask. "You see that? It's not about speed alone. It's about control, focus, and precision. And right now, you've got none of it."
Armaan felt the sting of those words but knew they were true. He wasn't a natural fighter like some of his classmates. He wasn't gifted with powerful hybrid abilities. His only option was to learn the art of fighting from the ground up.
The Training Begins
For the next few hours, Armaan underwent the most grueling training session yet. Dhruv's methods were cruel—forcing him to train under harsh conditions. Armaan had to fight blindfolded, wrestle with weighted chains, and practice swift, controlled strikes against fast-moving targets. The entire time, Dhruv didn't offer a single word of encouragement. Every time Armaan faltered, he was met with a sharp insult.
"You think this world will care about your excuses?" Dhruv barked after Armaan missed another punch. "No one's going to go easy on you. You're either strong enough to survive or you're weak enough to be crushed. Choose."
Armaan, drenched in sweat, felt the burning desire to give up. But something inside him snapped. He wasn't just going to let Dhruv's words define him. He wasn't going to let the world beat him down without giving everything he had.
"I'll prove them wrong," he muttered, sweat stinging his eyes.
Dhruv glanced at him with an unreadable expression. "That's the spirit. But words won't do it for you. Show me."
The next few days blurred together in an exhausting haze. Training. Sparring. Eating. Sleeping. Then repeating it all over again. Armaan's body began to adjust, but his mind was always a step behind. He felt like he was chasing something just out of reach—his power, his hybrid abilities, the key to making himself truly formidable.
Friends and Support
One evening, after another particularly tough session, Armaan sat by the edge of the courtyard, nursing bruises that had begun to feel like a permanent part of his body. Neha approached him, her steps light and hesitant. She sat next to him, offering him a small water bottle.
"You've been pushing yourself too hard," she said softly. "I've seen you practice for hours without stopping. You need rest."
Armaan took the bottle, giving her a weak smile. "I can't rest. Not until I'm strong enough to defend myself, to defend everyone."
Neha looked at him with sympathy. "You're stronger than you think, Armaan. You've already come so far. Don't let this defeat you."
Armaan sighed, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "I wish I could believe that. But the truth is, I don't feel strong. Not at all. I'm still not ready."
She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to be ready right now. You just need to take one step forward at a time. We'll help you."
Tanmay walked over, his usual smug grin replaced by a more serious expression. "Neha's right, you know. You can't push yourself to the point of breaking. We'll train together. We'll help you get there. Just don't lose sight of why you started."
Armaan looked up at them both, feeling a small warmth inside. "Thanks, guys. I won't let you down."
A Moment of Clarity
The next morning, as Armaan stood before his instructor Dhruv, something inside him clicked. His mind, once clouded with doubt, now felt sharper. Every movement felt more purposeful. Each strike he made was more controlled, more precise.
Dhruv watched him closely, his face unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he spoke.
"You're finally starting to get it," Dhruv said, a rare hint of approval in his tone. "You've been trained like a beast, but you've still got a lot to learn about focus."
Armaan nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I'll keep pushing. I won't stop."
Dhruv smirked. "Good. But remember this: You've got one thing no one else has—the ability to learn."
Armaan felt the fire inside him reignite. Maybe he wasn't as hopeless as he thought.