The cheers still echoed in the arena as Suraj Bajaj lay on the cool stone floor.
His ears rang.
Not from pain — that had numbed already.
But from the hollowness of loss.
Tarun Jha's mocking laughter faded as he exited the ring. The crowd's cheers weren't cruel, but they weren't for him either. He could hear Dhruv's distant voice calling out his name, but it felt like it was coming from underwater.
"Still alive?"
Guru ji's voice came softly, unusually quiet.
Suraj opened his eyes. The sky above him — blindingly blue — had never felt so far away.
"Yes," he whispered. "I think I'm alive."
"Then congratulations. First step to becoming unbeatable is… losing badly enough that your ego dies first."
Suraj chuckled dryly and sat up, his ribs protesting.
The elders had already turned away. The next fight was beginning. The arena had moved on.
But he hadn't.
Not yet.
He limped alone back to the far training huts — the shabby, forgotten row of buildings where Class Zero was lodged. Dhruv and Vedika tried to follow him, but he shook his head.
"I need to… sit with this."
They understood. Perhaps too well.
Inside the hut, silence greeted him.
He looked around the cracked wooden walls, the uneven floor mats, the faint incense of someone's failed cultivation attempt still lingering.
He sat down. Not cross-legged like a disciplined martial disciple.
Just… sat.
Leaning against the wall. Knees up. Palms open.
And for a while… he said nothing.
"You did well, Suraj," Guru ji said eventually, "Given the odds. He was born with spiritual arteries five times the norm. And a father who injected flame essence into his food since childhood."
"I know."
"You could've stayed down after the third hit. But you didn't. You kept standing. Kept watching."
"Because I had to."
"Why?"
Suraj closed his eyes.
"Because if I don't… I'll never catch up."
He remembered.
The first moment he had opened his eyes in this world.
Waking up in the Agnivardhan Academy infirmary.
The sting of another reality.
The sudden pressure of expectations, of martial qi, of strange terms, exploding scrolls, and people calling him "junior brother."
He hadn't screamed. Not because he wasn't scared.
But because somewhere — deep inside — it all felt familiar.
Like he'd always been waiting for this.
And now, having tasted a true cultivator's strength firsthand…
He realized how far the road truly was.
That night, he didn't return to the common mess with Class Zero.
He sat alone on the roof of the training hut, wrapped in a spare cloak, knees to chest, watching the moonlight stretch across the valley.
Below, the glowing lanterns of other classes flickered.
The elite students.
The talented ones.
They dined, laughed, cultivated under moonlight.
He felt none of that.
He felt… like a spectator.
"Loneliness," Guru ji said suddenly, "is the first spiritual bottleneck."
Suraj didn't reply.
"You think because you lost, you're weak."
"No. I think because I hesitated, I lost."
"Ah."
Silence again.
Then Guru ji whispered something different.
"I can show you something. Something you're not supposed to see yet. A preview. A piece of your path."
Suraj blinked.
"What do you mean?"
"A simulated vision. A future… if you survive."
The world shimmered.
And in an instant — Suraj's breath caught.
A battlefield.
The sky cracked open with fire and shadow. Armies clashed, each warrior glowing with power that made Tarun Jha look like a village kid with a stick.
At the center, a young man stood.
Robe torn.
Hair scorched.
Eyes burning with clarity.
Him.
Older. Scarred. Radiant with an aura unlike anything he had ever imagined.
But not alone.
Beside him — Vedika, taller and glowing with silver qi. Dhruv, hair tied back, wielding dual spears like a storm. Even Maanu, wild-eyed and floating upside down, laughing maniacally while throwing talismans.
They were different.
Stronger.
Changed.
And in the sky above… a seal. Crimson and spinning, cracking open.
And Avi Manchanda.
Standing beneath it.
Her eyes locked with Suraj's.
Soft.
Tragic.
Goodbye in her gaze.
The vision snapped shut.
Suraj gasped.
Back on the rooftop, he gripped the stone tiles.
"What… was that?"
"A sliver. A simulated endpoint of your current trajectory. Uncertain. Mutable. But… real."
"That was me?"
"One version of you. If you persist."
He stared at the stars.
And finally… smiled.
It wasn't a grin.
It wasn't comedic.
It was quiet.
Resolute.
"I'm not done."
"That's the spirit."
Next morning, Suraj rose before the others.
He walked to the weapon fields while mist still blanketed the academy grounds.
He didn't pick up a sword.
Instead, he watched.
Analyzed.
Let Guru ji show him every flaw of every student training.
Mapped.
Memorized.
And when they left, he picked up a stick.
And began repeating every move.
Every flaw — corrected.
Every weak stance — replaced.
Not with flashy speed.
But with surgical precision.
By the time Dhruv arrived and asked, "Bro, what are you doing?"
Suraj just turned and smiled.
"Losing… very, very efficiently."
By evening, he sat once again with his team.
This time… not as a clown.
Not as a comic.
But as a leader.
"Maanu, your mad style works. But if we add unstable flame talismans with your backflips? You become fireworks."
"Cool!" Maanu grinned.
"Vedika, your silence unnerves people. If we add faint mirror illusions during battles, even spirit beasts will get confused."
"Accepted."
"Dhruv, you're fast but predictable. Start running in zig-zags. I'll teach you how to weaponize unpredictability."
"What about you?" Dhruv asked.
"I'm going to learn every technique… by failing better than anyone else."
Suraj had lost.
And in doing so… he had begun to win.
Not in the arena.
Not yet.
But in the one place that mattered most