21-09-2025, 01:57 PM
(This post was last modified: 21-09-2025, 04:20 PM by halluvi. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The night outside Taxila pressed heavy against the Mehta compound. Torches burned along the stone walls, their flames throwing long shadows across courtyards paved in granite. Beyond the gates, the city streets lay restless. Merchants packed their stalls early these days, fearful of the plague that crept like smoke from village to village. Even the laughter of gamblers in the wine houses carried a sharp edge of unease.
But within the Mehta hospital pavilion, time seemed to crawl differently. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood beams and alchemical herbs, a strange mixture of the sacred and the medicinal.
Avinash slept fitfully, his sheets stiff with dried blood. Each shallow breath tugged at his ribs. His body knew this pain too well — the ache of meridians torn open and forced to knit themselves back together. But in his dreams, he wasn’t in a bed. He was still on the track, legs pounding, lungs tearing, chasing a finish line that vanished the moment he touched it.
Outside his ward, life went on.
Shobana stood by the doorway, arms folded, her face carved with stern patience. She had served the boy since birth, seen him both hailed as prodigy and cursed as demon. To her, he was neither. He was simply Avinash — stubborn to the point of foolishness, but never lacking heart.
Beside her, Sanghavi sat on a stool, chin resting on her knees. Her long black hair spilled forward like a curtain. She hadn’t left since the arena. Every servant who passed shot her sidelong glances. A young lady of her talent had no business wasting hours outside the room of a “failed” disciple. Yet she ignored every whisper.
“Child,” Shobana said at last, “you’ll waste your own strength sitting here.”
“I don’t care.” Sanghavi’s voice was quiet but firm. “If he’s inside, then I’ll be here.”
Shobana’s mouth twitched. Stubbornness ran deep in both of them. She sighed, letting the matter drop.
Further down the corridor, two servants whispered while carrying a tray of fresh bandages.
“They say the young master coughed blood again,” one murmured.
“Foolish. Doesn’t he know his meridians are already shattered?”
“He’s the clan head’s son. Who’ll dare stop him?”
“Son or not, the elders won’t keep wasting resources. Not after today’s failure. Mark my words — they’ll send him to some border auction house before the month ends.”
Their voices faded into the distance, but Sanghavi’s fists clenched against her knees.
Inside the clan’s council chamber, events unfolded much as the servants predicted.
Ashok Mehta sat at the long sandalwood table, his broad shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his clan’s future. The elders sat opposite, their faces pale in lamplight. Neeraj Mehta wore his usual smile, a smile that cut deeper than any blade.
“Clan Head,” Neeraj said smoothly, “the boy’s condition worsens. You’ve seen it yourself. He collapsed before the finish line. He collapsed again in the hospital. How many collapses before we accept reality?”
Ashok’s jaw tightened. He wanted to speak of Avinash’s fire, the way he had defied his broken body in front of hundreds. But the words curdled on his tongue. What weight did spirit carry when strength was everything?
Neeraj pressed on. “The coffers are thin, the plague presses trade, and the Sun family’s alchemy grows stronger every day. Yet we pour herbs and pills into a boy who cannot even finish an agility test. It is… wasteful.”
The word struck like a hammer. Wasteful. As though his son’s life were nothing more than a leaking purse.
Ashok said nothing. Duty warred with blood, as it always did.
Morning came with pale sunlight seeping through the ward’s narrow windows.
Avinash stirred awake, throat dry, body aching as though he had fought a battle all night. He blinked groggily, and the panel returned to him like a phantom.
[Progress: Day 1 — Attempt Registered]
His lips cracked into a humorless smile. “So it wasn’t a dream.”
But he didn’t believe it either. Not fully. Hallucination, he told himself again. Yet if it was… then why did the words feel so sharp, so real?
He dragged himself upright. His body screamed at the motion. His fingers trembled as he steadied himself against the bedframe.
The sheets beneath him were stiff with dried blood. His own.
“Day two,” he muttered. “If I die, at least let me die trying.”
He closed his eyes, guiding his breath, summoning that stubborn wisp of energy once more.
The pain was immediate, merciless. His meridians howled like broken glass channels forced to carry fire. His vision swam red.
But he pushed further, refusing to stop. Each heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a hammer. His jaw clenched so tight blood seeped between his teeth.
“This is… nothing new,” he rasped between breaths. “I’ve failed here dozens of times. A hundred times. If the System’s real, then show me. If it’s fake… then at least I’ll die proving it wrong.”
He shoved the energy forward, past the first fracture, past the second — further than yesterday. His back arched, veins bulging at his temples. His body shook like a bowstring pulled too tight.
And then — rupture.
The backlash came like a thunderclap. His vision exploded white. Pain carved through his chest, tearing open old wounds. He coughed violently, crimson spraying the sheets anew. His body convulsed before collapsing sideways, trembling.
The panel flickered faintly.
[Quest 1: Day 2 — Attempt Registered]
Avinash’s breath came ragged, shallow. His vision dimmed. He whispered hoarsely, almost laughing through the blood.
“Even failure counts…? Ha… what a cruel joke.”
The world tilted into darkness.
Outside, Sanghavi jerked upright as a muffled cough echoed through the ward. Shobana rose immediately, hand on the doorframe.
But the old nanny did not enter. She only listened.
Inside, the boy she had raised was collapsing again. Yet she knew — if she stepped in now, if she pulled him away from the edge — he would never forgive her.
Sanghavi’s knuckles were white where they gripped her knees. Her lips trembled. “How much longer can his body take this?”
Shobana’s eyes, old and tired, softened. “As long as his will can. And when his will breaks… that will be the end of him.”
The girl said nothing more.
The night settled again over the Mehta compound.
And in the quiet ward, Avinash Mehta lay broken, his breaths shallow but steady — a boy who still did not know if the System was real, yet fought as though the heavens themselves were watching.
But within the Mehta hospital pavilion, time seemed to crawl differently. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood beams and alchemical herbs, a strange mixture of the sacred and the medicinal.
Avinash slept fitfully, his sheets stiff with dried blood. Each shallow breath tugged at his ribs. His body knew this pain too well — the ache of meridians torn open and forced to knit themselves back together. But in his dreams, he wasn’t in a bed. He was still on the track, legs pounding, lungs tearing, chasing a finish line that vanished the moment he touched it.
Outside his ward, life went on.
Shobana stood by the doorway, arms folded, her face carved with stern patience. She had served the boy since birth, seen him both hailed as prodigy and cursed as demon. To her, he was neither. He was simply Avinash — stubborn to the point of foolishness, but never lacking heart.
Beside her, Sanghavi sat on a stool, chin resting on her knees. Her long black hair spilled forward like a curtain. She hadn’t left since the arena. Every servant who passed shot her sidelong glances. A young lady of her talent had no business wasting hours outside the room of a “failed” disciple. Yet she ignored every whisper.
“Child,” Shobana said at last, “you’ll waste your own strength sitting here.”
“I don’t care.” Sanghavi’s voice was quiet but firm. “If he’s inside, then I’ll be here.”
Shobana’s mouth twitched. Stubbornness ran deep in both of them. She sighed, letting the matter drop.
Further down the corridor, two servants whispered while carrying a tray of fresh bandages.
“They say the young master coughed blood again,” one murmured.
“Foolish. Doesn’t he know his meridians are already shattered?”
“He’s the clan head’s son. Who’ll dare stop him?”
“Son or not, the elders won’t keep wasting resources. Not after today’s failure. Mark my words — they’ll send him to some border auction house before the month ends.”
Their voices faded into the distance, but Sanghavi’s fists clenched against her knees.
Inside the clan’s council chamber, events unfolded much as the servants predicted.
Ashok Mehta sat at the long sandalwood table, his broad shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his clan’s future. The elders sat opposite, their faces pale in lamplight. Neeraj Mehta wore his usual smile, a smile that cut deeper than any blade.
“Clan Head,” Neeraj said smoothly, “the boy’s condition worsens. You’ve seen it yourself. He collapsed before the finish line. He collapsed again in the hospital. How many collapses before we accept reality?”
Ashok’s jaw tightened. He wanted to speak of Avinash’s fire, the way he had defied his broken body in front of hundreds. But the words curdled on his tongue. What weight did spirit carry when strength was everything?
Neeraj pressed on. “The coffers are thin, the plague presses trade, and the Sun family’s alchemy grows stronger every day. Yet we pour herbs and pills into a boy who cannot even finish an agility test. It is… wasteful.”
The word struck like a hammer. Wasteful. As though his son’s life were nothing more than a leaking purse.
Ashok said nothing. Duty warred with blood, as it always did.
Morning came with pale sunlight seeping through the ward’s narrow windows.
Avinash stirred awake, throat dry, body aching as though he had fought a battle all night. He blinked groggily, and the panel returned to him like a phantom.
[Progress: Day 1 — Attempt Registered]
His lips cracked into a humorless smile. “So it wasn’t a dream.”
But he didn’t believe it either. Not fully. Hallucination, he told himself again. Yet if it was… then why did the words feel so sharp, so real?
He dragged himself upright. His body screamed at the motion. His fingers trembled as he steadied himself against the bedframe.
The sheets beneath him were stiff with dried blood. His own.
“Day two,” he muttered. “If I die, at least let me die trying.”
He closed his eyes, guiding his breath, summoning that stubborn wisp of energy once more.
The pain was immediate, merciless. His meridians howled like broken glass channels forced to carry fire. His vision swam red.
But he pushed further, refusing to stop. Each heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a hammer. His jaw clenched so tight blood seeped between his teeth.
“This is… nothing new,” he rasped between breaths. “I’ve failed here dozens of times. A hundred times. If the System’s real, then show me. If it’s fake… then at least I’ll die proving it wrong.”
He shoved the energy forward, past the first fracture, past the second — further than yesterday. His back arched, veins bulging at his temples. His body shook like a bowstring pulled too tight.
And then — rupture.
The backlash came like a thunderclap. His vision exploded white. Pain carved through his chest, tearing open old wounds. He coughed violently, crimson spraying the sheets anew. His body convulsed before collapsing sideways, trembling.
The panel flickered faintly.
[Quest 1: Day 2 — Attempt Registered]
Avinash’s breath came ragged, shallow. His vision dimmed. He whispered hoarsely, almost laughing through the blood.
“Even failure counts…? Ha… what a cruel joke.”
The world tilted into darkness.
Outside, Sanghavi jerked upright as a muffled cough echoed through the ward. Shobana rose immediately, hand on the doorframe.
But the old nanny did not enter. She only listened.
Inside, the boy she had raised was collapsing again. Yet she knew — if she stepped in now, if she pulled him away from the edge — he would never forgive her.
Sanghavi’s knuckles were white where they gripped her knees. Her lips trembled. “How much longer can his body take this?”
Shobana’s eyes, old and tired, softened. “As long as his will can. And when his will breaks… that will be the end of him.”
The girl said nothing more.
The night settled again over the Mehta compound.
And in the quiet ward, Avinash Mehta lay broken, his breaths shallow but steady — a boy who still did not know if the System was real, yet fought as though the heavens themselves were watching.
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