The house was quiet by the time the golden sun dipped beneath the rooftops. It's been hours since Rudra had returned early from the academy after his visit to the library, and hours had passed with no sign of his uncle. He'd watered the back garden, skimmed a scroll half-heartedly, and even cleaned the hearth—more out of boredom than any sense of responsibility.
When the front gate creaked and the latch clicked, Rudra sprang up.
"I was starting to think you'd run away with the tea-seller," Rudra called as Ishaan entered, brushing dust off his shoulders.
"I was tempted. She is more pleasing to eye than you."
Rudra rolled his eyes. "Where were you?"
You were out the whole day," Rudra said as Ishaan walked in, cloak dusty.
"I had something to take care of."
"You say that like you were off battling ancient dragons."
"something similar."
"You are so annoying" Rudra replied
Ishaan raised an eyebrow and changed the topic. "You hungry ?"
obviously."
They moved into the kitchen, working side by side as they prepared the evening meal. There was no stiffness between them—only the comfort of routine. Rudra set the rice to steam while Ishaan chopped onions with mechanical precision.
"So," Ishaan said, as he stirred spices into the pot. "What now? You've got your flashy breakthrough. Planning to start dressing in gold robes and giving speeches about destiny?"
Rudra smirked. "Not unless someone's paying.
I want to get into the Inner Academy. I figure I'll grow stronger faster that way."
Ishaan grunted. "Good.
That one word carried weight. But Ishaan wasn't done.
"If you can break through to Level Two of divine path before your seventeenth birthday," he said casually, "I'll give you something."
Rudra blinked. "A gift?"
"A surprise."
"What kind of surprise?"
Ishaan didn't look up. "A very important one."
Rudra narrowed his eyes. "You're being cryptic. That's not like you."
"It's not a joke. If you can't reach Pulse Awakening in nine months, you don't deserve it."
That silenced Rudra. For a few moments, only the sizzle of hot oil filled the space.
"Seriously?"
"But that's... insane," Rudra said. "Even prodigies take a year and a half to two years for that. I have what, nine months?"
Ishaan finally met his gaze. "Absolutely."
That tone—flat, final—left no room for protest.
Rudra didn't argue. But his mind raced.
Nine months. Most cultivators took nearly two years to reach Level Two. Even the Inner Academy's top talents needed over a year. So why would Ishaan, of all people, give him such an impossible challenge?
Rudra stared. His uncle wasn't one for jokes. Which meant whatever this surprise was, it mattered. Deeply.
What could the surprise be that would make his uncle this serious?
But Rudra didn't ask. He wouldn't beg. But now he had one more fire in his chest.
Whatever it is, I want to earn it
Later that night, after the dishes were cleaned and Ishaan had retreated to his room, Rudra stepped outside into the quiet backyard.
This was his place.
The stars blinked high above, and the garden was quiet. Here, where grass grew tall and the stone tiles of their small practice courtyard gleamed faintly, Rudra had trained for years.
Tonight, it felt sacred.
He crossed his legs and sat on the old rug, spine straight, eyes closed.
His breath steadied. Inhale through the nose. Slow. Deep. Exhale gently. His body responded eagerly—Prāṇa flowed like a song already playing.
This, he had read, was the true focus of Level One: not to wield Prāṇa like a sword, but to let it shape the vessel.
He guided it, looping it through his chest, spine, arms, legs. It wasn't just energy anymore—it was part of him. A stream feeding his muscles, skin, nerves.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
His cells vibrated gently as if humming. His bones ached—not in pain, but in pressure. He could feel his body subtly reshaping, like metal being tempered.
Eventually, he stood.
He stretched his arms out, toes flexing, body light yet grounded.
He warmed up—simple things. Shoulder rolls. Knee bends. Forward stretches.
Then he walked to the center of the courtyard.
Now came the real test.
The Dance.
The one from the dream. The one burned into his memory.
He took a deep breath.
And began to dance.
The first step was gentle.
Right foot forward. Pivot on the heel. Left arm trailing in an arc.
Then the second. A sweeping turn.
Then a twist, a bend, and a rise.
The same rhythm from his dream. The same path burned into his bones. His body remembered what his mind still couldn't fully grasp.
He spun.
He dipped.
The first sequence came like second nature.
Then the second. A wide spin, arms cutting space like a blade, each motion timed with breath.
He moved in silence. No music. No audience.
Yet it was perfect.
His heart didn't race. His limbs didn't shake. He danced like he had done it a thousand times.
And the air responded.
It started subtle—grass bending toward him, a soft breeze pulling inward.
Then something shifted.
The world's essence reacted.
He moved with a flow that defied explanation. His arms sliced air with precision. His feet shifted without friction. The earth beneath him didn't resist—it followed.
His Prāṇa began to respond—not from within, but from without. The ambient energy in the air shimmered, invisible yet present.
A pulse.
His breath synced with something greater. The rhythm of the dance triggered a wave of world-essence that rushed toward him.
He didn't fall into a trance. He was conscious. Awake.
And evolving.
His body began to absorb the incoming Prāṇa—not slowly, not passively, but greedily. Like a starving man drinking rivers. The dance seemed to pull energy from the sky, from the wind, from the earth.
Each cell in his body vibrated, expanded, strengthened.
This wasn't normal.
A cultivator's body did absorb Prāṇa during training. That was standard. But this—this was something else entirely. His absorption rate was insane. Every breath drew more than his body should've been able to take.
And yet—it didn't hurt.
No backlash.
Just pressure. Power. Change.
A vortex formed around him—light, invisible, yet real. The air spun. Grass bent inward. Dust hovered and circled.
Still, Rudra danced.
He moved through the steps like a ritual. A spiral. A storm in human form.
Then the final turn.
The final stomp.
The world stilled.
The vortex vanished. His Prāṇa slowed. The earth quieted.
Rudra stood, panting lightly—not from exhaustion, but from mental fatigue. It was like his very spirit had been running.
He touched his chest.
His heartbeat was steady.
His Prāṇa was depleted—but the body it had nurtured?
Stronger.
Clearly stronger. At least twice as durable and strong as before. His muscles were denser. His joints tighter. Even his skin felt tougher.
He clenched a fist.
He could feel the weight behind it.
Not raw energy. Not brute force. But refined, built, integrated power.
And all of it had come from the dance.
He smiled.
Once again, he had done something that shouldn't have been possible. Once again, the world had bent to the rhythm of a movement burned into him by a vision.
He wasn't like other Prāṇa Initiates.
He already had control most took months to gain. His body adapted faster. His energy responded with hunger.
And now, he had a new weapon.
The dance.
He wouldn't overuse it. He knew now—it taxed him, especially mentally. But if he trained, built stamina, and deepened the dance further...
There was no telling how far he could go.
And nine months?
That no longer seemed so impossible.
That dance—it was a key. Not just to training. But to something more.
What are you? he wondered, thinking of the divine dancer from his dream.
He looked up at the sky. The stars seemed closer.
And what am I becoming?
He stood, finally, and turned toward the house.
"Not bad for a night's work," he muttered.
Tomorrow, he would start again.
And again.
And again.
Until the river became a flood.