Shattering the Celestial Loom

The King departed as silently as he had arrived, leaving Amrit alone in the sun-drenched courtyard. The air, which had been tense with royal scrutiny, relaxed once more. Amrit knew the conversation had been a pivotal moment. He had offered a piece of a new, terrifying puzzle to his father, a glimpse into a philosophy of power that would keep the King both wary and intrigued. It was a dangerous game, feeding the ambition of a man who saw him as a tool, but it was necessary. It bought him time and resources.

He sheathed the Obsidian Kiss, his practice for the morning complete. He had established the foundation of his unique fighting style. Now came the long, iterative process of refinement.

As he walked back towards the main palace, he took a different route, one that led him past the primary training grounds. It was a deliberate choice. He had spent his life hiding in the shadows; it was time to grow accustomed to the light.

The grand training field was a vast, open expanse, bustling with activity. Knights practiced formations, their armor glinting. Disciples of the Royal Guard sparred with heavy wooden staves, their shouts echoing in the air. And in the central arena, a space reserved for the royal family, a lone figure was practicing with a ferocious intensity.

It was Arjun.

He had not yet gone into seclusion. It seemed his pride demanded one last public display, a desperate attempt to reassert his dominance and wash away the stain of his humiliation. He was shirtless, his powerful, well-muscled torso gleaming with sweat. He moved like a caged tiger, his Silver Serpent sword a blur of furious, aggressive energy.

He was not practicing the elegant forms of the Silver Serpent's Dance. He was simply attacking, unleashing a torrent of raw, powerful strikes against a series of newly erected ironwood dummies. Splinters flew with every impact. Grunts of effort punctuated the sharp clang of steel on wood. It was a display of immense power, and it drew the admiring gazes of the nearby guards and disciples. They saw their Crown Prince, a prodigy of immense strength, pushing himself to his limits.

Amrit saw something else entirely.

With his Spirit Sea perception, he saw the chaos beneath the power. Arjun's Prana was a raging, uncontrolled inferno. His movements, while fast and strong, were inefficient, filled with wasted energy. His footwork was heavy, his breathing ragged. He was fighting with his rage, not his skill. Each swing was a desperate shout into the void, a denial of his own inadequacy. It was a dance not of a master, but of a desperate man on the edge.

As Amrit watched from the edge of the field, one of the sparring disciples noticed him. "Look! It's the Third Prince!"

The whisper spread like fire through dry grass. The sparring stopped. The formation drills faltered. All eyes turned from the spectacle of Arjun's power to the silent, watching figure of Amrit. Their gazes were a complex mixture of curiosity, fear, and a dawning, hesitant respect. This was the ghost who had humbled the Crown Prince, the legend who had appeared from nowhere.

The shift in attention was a physical thing, and Arjun felt it instantly. He stopped his frenzied assault, his chest heaving, and turned. His eyes, bloodshot and filled with a cold fire, locked onto Amrit. The contempt was still there, but it was now underscored by a raw, burning hatred.

To Arjun, Amrit's mere presence was a mockery. He was standing there, calm and composed, in simple, clean clothes, while Arjun was drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming from exertion. It was a visual representation of the new, galling reality: Arjun had to struggle and rage to display his power, while Amrit simply was powerful.

"What do you want, cripple?" Arjun snarled, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. He was deliberately using the old insult, clinging to it like a shield. "Have you come to gloat? To see the results of your demonic tricks?"

Amrit remained silent, his expression placid. He simply watched, his gaze analytical. This detached calm was more infuriating to Arjun than any taunt could have been.

"Or perhaps," Arjun continued, a cruel sneer twisting his lips as he gestured with his sword towards Amrit, "you've come for another 'spar'? Don't think I don't see you, hiding in forgotten courtyards, practicing your little illusions. Do you dare to face me now, in the open? A real fight. A dance of mortal steel, with no tricks and no artifacts."

He was issuing a public challenge, trying to frame the previous encounter as an anomaly. He believed Amrit's power lay in some mysterious ability, not in true martial prowess. He was goading him into a conventional fight, a battle of sword against sword, where he believed his years of training would give him the edge.

Amrit considered the challenge. A day ago, he might have ignored it. But now, after his breakthrough and the synthesis of his techniques, he saw an opportunity. Not to humiliate his brother further, but to test himself. How would his conceptual, perfect style fare against a conventional, power-based assault from a skilled opponent? It was one thing to cut stationary objects; it was another to face a living, breathing, hate-fueled master of the Body Tempering Realm.

"I have no interest in fighting you, brother," Amrit said, his voice carrying easily across the field.

Arjun let out a bark of triumphant laughter. "I knew it! You're a coward! Your power is a hollow shell! You dare not face me in a true contest of skill!"

"I said I have no interest in fighting you," Amrit clarified, his voice still perfectly calm. "But I will indulge you in a demonstration."

He walked forward, stepping into the central arena. He did not draw the Obsidian Kiss. He walked to a weapon rack and picked up a simple, unadorned wooden practice sword—a bokken. It was the same type of weapon Arjun had been destroying.

The crowd of onlookers murmured in confusion. He was going to face the Crown Prince's Spirit-Grade steel sword with a piece of wood? Was this supreme confidence or utter madness?

Arjun's eyes narrowed, then widened in fury as he understood the insult. Amrit was not just accepting his challenge; he was trivializing it. He was deeming him an opponent worthy only of a practice tool.

"You will regret that arrogance," Arjun hissed, his rage condensing into a sharp, cold focus. He abandoned all pretense of a friendly spar. This would be a beatdown.

He charged.

This time, there was no fancy technique. He poured all his raging Prana into a single, devastating overhead cleave, aiming to shatter Amrit's wooden sword and break his arms in a single blow. The air whistled as his silver blade descended.

Amrit stood his ground, holding the wooden sword in a simple two-handed grip. He did not use a Ghost-Flash Step. He did not channel a single wisp of his vast Spirit Sea power. He relied only on his physical strength—now at the peak of the Body Tempering Realm—and his transcendent understanding of One Sword.

As Arjun's blade fell, Amrit moved. His action was a simple, elegant parry. He angled his wooden sword perfectly, not to meet the force head-on, but to intercept it at the precise point of its kinetic chain where the energy was most unstable. He didn't block the strike; he redirected it.

Clack!

The sound was shockingly light. The tip of Amrit's wooden sword met the flat of Arjun's steel blade. The raging torrent of Arjun's power was neatly and effortlessly diverted. His sword, instead of crashing down on Amrit, slid harmlessly past him, the force of the blow throwing Arjun himself slightly off-balance.

The crowd gasped.

Arjun stared in disbelief. It felt as if he had swung at a ghost. He recovered instantly, his training taking over, and flowed into a horizontal slash aimed at Amrit's waist.

Amrit responded with another simple, maddeningly precise movement. He twisted his wrist, the wooden sword moving in a small, tight circle, catching Arjun's blade and guiding it away once more.

Clack.

Arjun attacked again. A thrust. A diagonal slash. An upward swing. He unleashed a furious combination, a storm of mortal steel.

And Amrit met every single blow. He did not retreat. He did not exert himself. He stood in a space no larger than a dinner plate, his wooden sword a calm, unbreachable defense. Each of his movements was minimal, efficient, perfect. He was a master swordsman using the least possible amount of energy to nullify the greatest possible amount of force. It was a sublime display of pure, unadulterated skill.

The two brothers were locked in a bizarre, one-sided dance. Arjun was the storm, raging with all his might. Amrit was the eye of the storm, a point of absolute tranquility around which the chaos fruitlessly churned. The sharp, violent clang of steel Arjun had been making against the dummies was replaced by the soft, rhythmic clack… clack… clack of wood meeting metal.

Arjun's initial rage began to give way to a growing sense of panic. He was pouring all his strength, all his Prana, into his assault, and he wasn't just failing to land a blow; he felt like he wasn't even connecting with a real opponent. It was like fighting a perfect, tireless machine. His lungs burned. His muscles screamed. His Prana reserves began to dwindle.

Amrit, on the other hand, hadn't even broken a sweat. His breathing was even, his expression serene.

Finally, after a dozen more fruitless attacks, Arjun overextended himself in a final, desperate lunge. Seeing the opening—an opening created by his own perfect defense—Amrit acted.

He spun on his heel, flowing around Arjun's attack. In the same motion, the tip of his wooden sword tapped Arjun lightly on the wrist.

It was a gentle tap, carrying no force. But Arjun's wrist, already strained from his frenzied assault, went numb. His fingers lost their grip.

For the second time in two days, the Silver Serpent sword clattered to the ground.

Amrit stepped back, lowering his wooden sword. The dance was over.

Silence descended upon the training field. The disciples and guards stared, their minds unable to reconcile what they had just witnessed. They had not seen a battle of flashy techniques or overwhelming power. They had seen a master toying with a novice.

Arjun stood, panting, disarmed, and utterly defeated. This was worse than the first time. The first time could be blamed on a trick. This time, Amrit had used no discernible power, no artifacts, no mystical abilities. He had faced him in a "dance of mortal steel," as requested, and had completely, effortlessly dismantled him with pure, undeniable skill.

The last pillar of Arjun's pride crumbled into dust. The contempt in his eyes was replaced by something new and terrible: the hollow, empty look of a broken man.

Amrit looked at his brother, then at the wooden sword in his hand. He had learned what he needed to. His foundation of skill was sound. He tossed the wooden sword aside; it clattered to the ground near Arjun's own fallen blade.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the Crown Prince of Kshirapura standing alone and defeated in the center of a silent, watching crowd.