Aaryan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into his cave, letting the heavy stone door slide shut behind him. The outside world—its noise, its schemes, its ridiculous expectations—faded into silence.

Finally.

The cave was colder than he remembered. The faint glow of Urrja-infused lanterns cast long, wavering shadows against the uneven walls. The air was still, untouched, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and aged parchment. The kind of silence that didn't feel peaceful—it felt absolute.

He stood there for a moment, letting the weight of it settle over him. No footsteps. No distant chatter. No murmurs of "Wise One." Just him and the steady thrum of Urrja within his veins.

It was almost unsettling. Had he really gotten so used to people constantly being around?

He shook the thought away. This was exactly what he needed.

The tomb announcement had shifted the sect's focus, and Aaryan intended to use that to his advantage. For the first time in weeks, he had no distractions, no nonsense to juggle, and no need to waste time pretending to be something he wasn't.

And he needed every second of it.

This wasn't some small gamble he could cheat his way through. He wasn't conning gullible disciples for Essence Stones or manoeuvring his way out of trouble with a well-timed smirk. The tomb was different.

Ancient formations that still functioned.

A cultivator powerful enough to leave behind an inheritance.

The sheer number of disciples clamouring for a chance to enter.

This wasn't something he could afford to treat lightly. If he walked in unprepared, he wouldn't be walking out at all.

It wasn't just an empty thought. He had heard the stories—tombs like these weren't generous. Some disciples entered ancient ruins full of confidence and never returned. Even those who did often came back half-broken, speaking of deadly formations that killed without warning, lingering spirits that corrupted the mind, or traps so well-crafted they outlasted empires.

This wasn't some sect-organized training exercise. No elders watching over them. No safety nets. If something went wrong, no one would be there to save him.

He focused on one thing. Getting stronger.

But how? Strength wasn't just about raw power. He had seen plenty of cultivators who had it—who relied on it—and they fell all the same. No, he needed control. Precision. His techniques had to be more than just reactions; they had to be instincts maybe even beyond that.

Coiling Serpent Bind was effective, but could he refine it further? Could he make his redirections smoother, faster, invisible until it was too late? His endurance had improved, but was it enough? If he had to fight for hours inside the tomb, would his body hold up?

His fingers curled into fists.

Not yet.

With that thought, he sat down, back straight, mind focused, and let the world outside disappear.

Training began. And this time, he wasn't stopping until he was ready.

Aaryan moved like a shadow, weaving through the narrow confines of his cave, his breath steady despite the strain on his body. Every fibre of his being screamed, his limbs weighed down like stone. Each breath clawed its way out, heat pooling in his chest like smouldering embers, and yet—he pushed forward.

There was no one watching. No one to impress. No external expectations forcing him forward.

This was for him.

He wasn't chasing strength for glory, wasn't desperate to prove himself to anyone. He simply knew one truth:

if he wasn't strong enough, he would die.

And so, he trained.

The cave was unforgiving. Uneven ground, jagged walls, barely enough space to manoeuvre—but that only made it better.

Aaryan ran through movement drills, dashing forward and stopping on a dime, forcing his body to adjust instantly. He leapt, twisted mid-air, and landed on a single foot, forcing his balance to adapt. Each step needed to be precise, each movement calculated.

Then came endurance.

He pushed himself through relentless sets of push-ups, squats, and core-strengthening techniques, only stopping when his muscles screamed at him. He didn't care. If his body wasn't ready to keep going after exhaustion set in, it wasn't ready at all.

His lungs burned, his vision blurred at the edges, but he refused to stop.

Training alone meant no sparring partners, but that didn't mean he couldn't practice.

Aaryan stood still, exhaling slowly before suddenly twisting—his body a blur of motion. His hands flickered through the air, mimicking the grip of an incoming opponent. He redirected imaginary strikes, shifting his weight effortlessly, turning force against itself.

Muscle memory took over. He no longer thought—his body simply responded, a seamless rhythm of motion and redirection.

Each repetition was sharper than the last. His mind replayed past fights, analysing mistakes, refining his movements. Could he guide an opponent's momentum faster? Could he control the exact angle of their fall?

By the hundredth repetition, he could feel it—his body beginning to move on instinct. The technique was no longer something he executed; it was something he embodied.

But it still wasn't enough.

Aaryan turned his focus inward. The chaos of movement gave way to stillness, His body wasn't just a weapon—it was a tool, and every part of it needed to be under his control.

He sat cross-legged, taking slow, measured breaths.

Then—he willed his heart rate to slow.

Not just through meditation, but through deliberate, focused control. He tightened and released individual muscles, testing his ability to manipulate his own body at will.

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He extended a single finger and began drawing patterns in the air—not with ink, not with energy, but with precision. Could he control his movements to the finest detail? Could he ensure that even in the heat of battle, his body obeyed perfectly?

This was the level of refinement he sought. No wasted effort. No excess movement.

Only efficiency.

Time blurred. He didn't know how many hours had passed, how many times he had repeated the same motions.

Fatigue weighed on his limbs, his thoughts growing sluggish, but he gritted his teeth and continued.

His mind wavered. A whisper of doubt crept in—was this enough? Could he even compare to those inner disciples who had trained under elders, who had access to resources he could only dream of? Was he just deluding himself, thinking sheer effort could close that gap?

His movements slowed for half a breath, hesitation trying to take root.

No.

His jaw clenched, fingers curling into fists. He crushed the thought before it could fester. Strength wasn't handed down—it was forged. And if the tomb held dangers only the strong could survive, then he would become strong.

There was no room for doubt. Only progress.

He imagined the tomb. The unknown dangers. The formations that could kill without warning. Would he hesitate then? Would he falter when it truly mattered?

No.

He forced himself to push through the haze, to keep going even as his body screamed for rest. Strength wasn't just about raw power—it was about endurance, about making the right decisions even when every fiber of his being wanted to collapse.

And somewhere, in the middle of that haze—something shifted.

His breath stirred, flowing differently than before, more alive, more potent.

A moment of frustration flickered—was this enough? He exhaled sharply, bracing against the doubt. And then—heat. Sudden, pulsing, alive. Like something deep within had been waiting for the moment his resolve solidified.

His body felt different.

Stronger.

As if something beneath the surface was shifting, evolving—waiting.

Almost.

He was close.

So very close.

Aaryan clenched his fists, his breath coming fast and uneven. Breakthrough was near.

But not yet.

Not yet.

And so, he continued.

Aaryan sat in the centre of his cave, his breath measured, his mind focused. The world outside was silent, distant, irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, the controlled flow of breath winding through his veins.

He had been on the verge of a breakthrough for hours, feeling it coil beneath the surface like a beast waiting to be unshackled. He sharpened his focus, guiding his internal energy through his meridians with precision, tempering it, refining it—until something snapped.

A jolt ran through him, sudden and violent, as if his entire body had been struck by lightning. His breath hitched. For a fleeting moment, he thought he had done something wrong—then the heat began.

Not the warmth of controlled energy. Not the gradual spread of power through his limbs. No—this was fire. Pure, consuming, and merciless. It ignited inside him without warning, searing through his meridians, flooding his veins with a heat so intense he almost gasped aloud.

It felt like his very blood had turned to molten iron, scorching everything in its path. His lungs seized, his muscles spasmed, and a deep, primal instinct screamed at him to stop—to do anything to make it end. But he grit his teeth and endured.

This was no ordinary breakthrough.

The last time, when he had ascended to the 2nd level of Anima, impurities had been forced out of his body—a process unpleasant but tolerable. This was different. There was no filth being expelled, no physical remnants of weakness leaving him. Instead, the impurities burned. Incinerated from the inside out.

Pain lanced through his bones, carving through him like molten glass. There was no respite, no place within him untouched—only a relentless, all-consuming heat that left nothing to grasp onto but the suffering itself.

His vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing in his sight. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps. For a terrifying moment, he wondered if he had overestimated himself. If this was what dying felt like.

Then—

Clarity.

Like a blade severing a chain, the agony vanished. No gradual easing, no warning—one moment, he was burning alive, the next, his mind was razor-sharp, unclouded. He felt everything—his breath, the faintest tremor in the air, the rhythm of his own heartbeat like a war drum in the silence.

His awareness expanded, precise, hyper-focused. He could feel every inch of his body, every pulse of his heart, every flicker of energy coursing through his meridians. The pain was still there, raw and merciless, but it no longer clouded him—it defined him.

His senses stretched beyond what they had ever been. He could hear the faintest shift in air currents, feel the smallest vibrations in the stone beneath him. His body, though tormented by the burning transformation, had never felt more alive.

Seconds stretched into eternity. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ended.

The fire receded, leaving behind something new—something honed, purified. Aaryan exhaled slowly, his entire body trembling from the strain. He felt… different. Not just lighter. Not just stronger.

Refined.

Every movement felt smoother, every breath deeper, as if his body had shed something imperceptible yet weighty. His fists clenched—strength raw, movement effortless. No excess, no wasted motion. Every fibre of his being, honed to purpose. His endurance had always been forged through struggle, through relentless effort—but now, it felt as if every motion, every exertion, carried no excess. No wasted energy.

He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Strong. Controlled. Purposeful.

The Third Level of Anima.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but he didn't indulge in it for long.

This was only the beginning.

He rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders, feeling the difference in the way his muscles responded. His control was sharper. His endurance stretched further. His power—though still not enough—had taken another step toward something greater.

Aaryan clenched his fists.

The tomb awaited.

Dawn stretched thin over the horizon, casting a muted glow over the sect's stone-paved courtyard. The morning air carried a crisp chill, laced with the hum of anticipation. Disciples gathered, some tightening the straps on their travel packs, others adjusting their weapons. Conversations flickered between them like embers before a fire took hold—hushed but tinged with barely concealed excitement.

Another group stood apart, exuding an air of practiced indifference. To them, this expedition was not an opportunity but a calculated step in their cultivation. Their gazes swept over the crowd with detached scrutiny—assessing, dismissing.

Dharun stood at the front, silent but commanding. He did not speak or gesture—he merely watched. That alone was enough to press down on the assembled disciples, keeping restless murmurs in check. His presence was a weight, a reminder of the discipline expected, the unspoken order beneath all their ambitions.

Yet his sharp gaze, keen and searching, paused momentarily before moving on.

Aaryan was not there.

A frown threatened Dharun's impassive mask, but he smoothed it away before it could fully form. He hadn't explicitly ordered Aaryan to come—but he had expected him to. The boy carried himself in a way that suggested he wouldn't let an opportunity like this slip through his fingers. And yet, the courtyard was empty of his presence.

For the briefest second, something like disappointment flickered through Dharun.

Perhaps he had misjudged him.

With a quiet exhale, he pushed the thought aside. It did not matter.

"Form ranks," he ordered, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "We leave now."

The disciples moved into position. The air shifted, the atmosphere tightening as departure neared. Then—

A subtle ripple. A presence slipping into place, unnoticed at first.

Aaryan.

He moved as if he had always been there, his arrival seamless. His robes, unruffled. His breathing, steady. He did not seek attention, did not rush to explain. Only those who had been watching closely—who had expected something—noticed him.

Dharun's gaze flicked toward him, impassive. But something unspoken passed between them.

Nearby, a few outer disciples exchanged glances. Some smirked, amused by his nonchalant timing. Others—especially those vying for a stronger position—looked less pleased.

The inner disciples barely reacted. To them, he was just another outer disciple. Another nameless face.

Aaryan stepped into place, his presence acknowledged but uncommented on. Then, and only then, did he murmur just loud enough for Dharun to hear:

"You weren't planning on leaving me behind, were you?"

There was no smirk this time, no exaggerated flair—just a quiet, knowing remark.

"I'd be heartbroken." His voice was light, almost mocking. "Truly."

Dharun remained unreadable, his expression a mask of indifference. But beneath it, something flickered—acknowledgment, perhaps even amusement.

Aaryan had come.

He had been changed by something, that much was clear. His presence felt sharper, more grounded, as if something within him had settled. And yet, as always, he acted as if nothing had happened.

Dharun said nothing, merely turning back to the assembled group.

"Fall in," he commanded, his tone clipped and final. "We leave now."

Aaryan rolled his shoulders, a smirk tugging at his lips as he stepped into place. The moment passed, fleeting yet undeniable.

And with it, the expedition truly began.

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