Eklavya stepped out through the back window of his room with a movement so controlled that not even the faintest creak of wood followed him. The night air brushed against his face, cool and quiet, carrying with it the lingering scent of extinguished firecrackers and oil lamps from the festival that had only recently faded into memory.

  He closed the window behind him from the outside, sealing away the room he had grown up in. The room that had sheltered his childhood, without allowing himself even a second glance back inside. Hesitation had no place left in him.

  He landed soundlessly upon the roof, his feet barely disturbing the settled dust. From there, he moved like a shadow across the tiled surface, his black robe blending seamlessly with the darkness that blanketed the clan estate. His steps were light, deliberate, and utterly devoid of urgency, as though this departure had been rehearsed countless times in his mind long before it became reality.

  When he reached the section of the roof directly above the clan leader’s quarters, he paused. The room below housed Ishant, his father, still recovering from the injuries sustained on the battlefield.

  From within his storage ring, Eklavya retrieved a folded letter, its edges crisp, its surface untouched by hesitation. He did not open it again to read its contents. Those words had already been carved into his resolve.

  Extending his hand slightly, he guided the letter downward using a precise manipulation of ki, slipping it through the narrow opening of the ventilation panel and into the room below. It floated gently, settling beside Ishant’s bed upon the small wooden table. He placed it carefully enough that it would not fall, not even if the night wind stirred. This way, Eklavya would not need to enter the room.

  Would not need to face the weight of seeing his father lying there, unconscious but alive—a sight that might fracture the fragile control he maintained.

  With a single steady breath, he turned away.

  He leapt beyond the clan’s boundary walls in one fluid motion, landing on the stone road outside with controlled force. The city lay before him, quiet but not entirely asleep.

  Some houses remained lit, their doors closed, while spiritual ki lanterns flickered softly outside shops and homes, their glow painting long, wavering shadows across the streets.

  In the distance, a few late celebrants still set off firecrackers, the muted explosions echoing faintly, reminders of joy that no longer belonged to him.

  Eklavya stretched his shoulders subtly as he began walking toward the city’s exit, his pace unhurried, his senses alert. Every step carried him farther from the life he had known, yet he felt no regret. Only clarity.

  When the city gate came into view, two guards stood at their posts, spears resting against their shoulders, their expressions dulled by exhaustion and lingering festival indulgence. As Eklavya approached, one of them straightened slightly, opening his mouth to speak.

  “Where are you going? It’s—” He never finished that sentence.

  With a discreet flick of his fingers, Eklavya released a thin mist into the air, invisible to ordinary sight. The sleep powder dispersed instantly, carried by the faint breeze. Within moments, both guards swayed, their eyes glazing over before they collapsed silently against the gate, breathing steady, utterly unconscious.

  Eklavya did not slow his pace.

  He passed through the gate and sprinted into the darkness beyond the city walls, his figure quickly swallowed by the night. After running for nearly half a kilometer, he stopped, standing still beneath the open sky. He did not look back. There was nothing left behind that could change his decision.

  His thoughts turned inward, structured and cold.

  The first reason for leaving was simple—he needed strength. Not incremental growth, not slow refinement, but power sharpened through danger and isolation. The second reason, however, weighed far heavier. The Falling Leaf Sect.

  They would not ignore what had happened.

  The moment their young master returned crippled, his arm severed, his pride destroyed, they started searching for him, by placing a huge bounty on his head. The Rudra Clan had already revealed two Spirit Warrior-level powerhouses, making the clan an obvious target of suspicion. Eklavya knew how sects thought. They would connect the threads, fabricate conclusions, and act without hesitation.

  If that attention fell upon the Rudra Clan, it would drag his family into a conflict born from his actions. That was unacceptable to him.

  It had not even been a week since the incident in the forest—the severed arm, the blood, the silent threat left behind. Time was not his ally, only distance was.

  As he crossed into the mountain forest beyond the city, Eklavya activated his eyes.

  A subtle shift rippled through his vision as the Divine Supreme Eyes awakened, the darkness of midnight dissolving into layers of clarity. His irises turned yellow with a mark across his eyes. Every tree, every root, every uneven contour of the terrain revealed itself in sharp detail. These were no longer merely Supreme Eyes. After reinforcing them with primordial ki-infused blood the previous day, they had evolved, transcended their former limits.

  Even the faint movements of insects beneath leaves, the breathing patterns of distant beasts, and the lingering traces of ki in the soil became visible to him.

  He broke into a run, weaving through the forest with ease.

  Magha’s voice surfaced calmly within his consciousness.

  “There is a small city beyond these mountain ranges,” he said, “but before that, we must train here—in the forest and mountains. This land is dangerous enough to temper you.”

  Eklavya nodded as he ran, his expression firm. “I know. I already planned it that way.”

  The forest grew denser the deeper he moved, the trees thicker, the air heavier with moisture and the scent of earth. The mountain range loomed ahead, jagged silhouettes cutting into the night sky. This region was a known habitat for beasts—territorial, violent, and relentless.

  After nearly half an hour of silent movement, subtle disturbances appeared behind him.

  Two two-tier beasts emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing faintly, claws digging into the soil as they charged. Eklavya turned calmly, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

  With a precise movement of two fingers, a Demonic Spirit Needle materialized from the space between his brows. It shot forward in a dark red flash, slicing through the air with a shrill, almost inaudible shriek.

  The beasts collapsed instantly, their bodies hitting the ground with dull thuds, lifeless before their roars could fully escape.

  The sound, however brief, was enough.

  From all directions, presences stirred.

  Eklavya sensed them—multiple signatures converging, drawn by blood and noise. He sprinted deeper into the forest, his movements were fluid and ruthless. The demonic needle struck again and again, eliminating weaker beasts in single flashes of crimson light. For those that survived the initial strike, he drew his sword, cutting them down with efficient, merciless precision.

  The Demonic Spirit Needle was not merely a weapon—it was a technique forged for killing. Against opponents weaker than its user, it ended battles instantly. Against equals, it demanded repeated strikes, persistence, and absolute control.

  And Eklavya welcomed that challenge.

  As the forest echoed with distant roars and dying cries, his silhouette vanished deeper into the mountain range, leaving behind only blood-soaked earth and silence.

  …

  Meanwhile, within the very heart of the Rudra Clan, a suffocating stillness settled over the clan leader’s residence, the kind of silence that felt heavy enough to press down upon the lungs, so complete and absolute that even the slow, measured rhythm of breathing coming from the inner chamber seemed intrusive, as though the quiet itself resisted being disturbed.

  Shadows clung to the walls, unmoving, while the night outside lingered in uneasy anticipation, and it was within this oppressive calm that Ishant awoke suddenly, his eyes snapping open as a sharp, burning dryness clawed mercilessly at his throat.

  For several moments, he did not move.

  He lay there staring at the ceiling, his thoughts returning in fragmented waves—memories of the battlefield, the roar of clashing forces, the sensation of blood and broken earth, followed by the dull ache of injuries that had yet to fully fade.

  Even after rest, his spiritual ki channels throbbed faintly beneath his skin, their exhaustion lingering like a warning, and his chest felt heavier than it should have, burdened by an unexplainable pressure that settled deep within him, as though something unseen pressed steadily against his heart.

  With a slow, controlled exhale, Ishant pushed himself upright, one hand bracing against the bed while the other steadied his balance, and as his awareness sharpened, his gaze drifted instinctively toward the small wooden table beside him, where a water jug and glass had always been placed without fail.

  Yet tonight, something was different. Resting beside them was a white envelope—clean, unmarked, and positioned with deliberate precision, as though whoever had placed it there wanted it to be found immediately, while also ensuring it drew no unnecessary attention.

  Ishant frowned by seeing it. That envelope had not been there before.

  Suppressing the faint unease that stirred within his chest, he reached for the jug instead, pouring water into the glass, the sound of liquid breaking the silence echoing louder than it should have within the still room.

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  He drank slowly, allowing the coolness to soothe the dryness in his throat, but even as he did, his eyes never once left the envelope, an invisible pull anchoring his attention to it with growing insistence.

  When the glass was empty, he set it down carefully and reached for the letter, and the moment his fingers brushed against the paper, something tightened deep within his chest—an unfamiliar sensation sharp enough to cause his breathing to pause for half a heartbeat.

  He opened the envelope with deliberate care, revealing a folded sheet of yellowish paper, its edges slightly worn, as though it had been handled more than once, and the instant his eyes fell upon the neat, firm handwriting, recognition struck him without mercy.

  ‘Eklavya’s handwriting.’ Slowly, almost reluctantly, Ishant unfolded the letter and began to read.

  ‘Dear Dad.’

  That single word struck him far harder than he expected, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the paper as his brows furrowed slightly, his gaze moving line by line with growing intensity.

  ‘Thank you for giving me everything I ever needed without hesitation. Thank you for protecting me, teaching me, and standing in front of danger for my sake all these years.’

  The sincerity embedded within those words was unmistakable—too deliberate to be casual, too weighted to be written without purpose—and as Ishant continued reading, confusion slowly gave way to a quiet, creeping realization that settled uncomfortably in his chest.

  ‘Thank you for trusting me even when I made reckless decisions. Thank you for never forcing your expectations onto me, and for allowing me to walk my own path.’

  At first, Ishant assumed the letter had been written in the emotional aftermath of the festival. Death had brushed past them all, after all, and such moments often stirred gratitude long left unspoken. Yet that fragile assumption shattered completely the moment his eyes reached the next lines.

  ‘I know that if I asked you for resources to grow stronger faster, you would give them to me without question. I know that you would move heaven and earth for me.’

  His fingers tightened around the paper.

  ‘But I don’t want to live a carefree life. I don’t want to stand behind the clan’s walls while others bleed for my sake.’ Ishant felt his chest constrict, the pressure intensifying until it became almost painful.

  ‘I want to grow stronger—stronger than anyone expects—by facing the world directly. I want strength that belongs to me alone, strength I earned with my own blood and choices.’ The room felt colder for him as he read further.

  ‘I want to protect the people I love, I care. I want to protect you, Mother, Ashish, and everyone in the clan—not as the clan leader’s son, but as someone who can stand at the front when the time comes.’

  For a brief, terrifying moment, Ishant stopped breathing altogether. Then his eyes reached the line that shattered all remaining doubt.

  ‘So when you read this letter, I will already be gone.’

  The words blurred before his eyes for a moment.

  ‘I am leaving because of personal reasons—reasons that I cannot explain yet. But I do not want those matters to bring danger to the Rudra Clan. I will resolve them on my own.

  Please do not send clan disciples to search for me. They will not find me unless I allow it. And please tell everyone that I am fine.’

  The letter ended simply.

  ‘Thank you, Dad.’

  For a long time, Ishant remained seated without moving, the letter resting loosely in his hands as silence reclaimed the room once more for him, heavier now than before. Then, slowly, a smirk formed upon his face—subtle at first—before deepening into a smile filled with pride so sharp it ached and sadness so heavy it threatened to crush him.

  A rough laugh escaped his throat, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the chamber as tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks even as the laughter grew louder, bordering on wild desperation.

  The sound carried beyond the room.

  Doors opened hurriedly. Footsteps echoed down the corridors. Elders rushed in, alarmed by the strange laughter, with Aashi arriving first, her face paling at the sight of her husband sitting upright, laughing through tears, and Ashish following close behind, his expression tight with concern.

  “What happened?” an elder asked urgently.

  Ishant raised his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, his smile lingering even as his gaze hardened with unmistakable resolve.

  “Elders,” he said, his voice steady despite everything, “send people to search the city for Eklavya. Look around the outskirts of the forest—but do not go deep. If you find nothing, return immediately.”

  Shock spread across their faces. “Clan Leader… are you saying—”

  “Eklavya left,” Ishant said calmly. The words struck the room like a silent explosion.

  Without further questions, the elders turned and rushed out, gathering uninjured clan members as orders rang through the estate, gates opening and lanterns flaring to life as the search began.

  Ashish, however, did not move with them. Instead, he turned sharply and ran toward Anshvi’s quarters.

  He stopped outside her door, his raised hand hovering uncertainly as hesitation flickered across his face, the weight of what he was about to say pressing heavily upon him, before finally knocking.

  After a brief pause, the door opened.

  Anshvi stood there, still dressed in her festival clothes, her hair loose over her shoulders, untouched—not because she had forgotten to change, but because she remembered, because Eklavya’s earlier words still lingered quietly in her heart.

  “What is it, Brother Ashish?” she asked, her voice soft with sleep.

  Ashish drew in a breath. “Eklavya… left the clan.”

  The change was immediate.

  Sleep vanished from her eyes as though it had never existed, and without another word, she turned and ran, reaching Eklavya’s room moments before pushing against the door, only for it not to budge. It was locked from inside.

  Gathering ki, she struck forward, the door cracking and bursting open beneath her palm, revealing an empty room, and as her gaze swept across the bed, the table, and the open window, her chest tightened painfully.

  ‘He wouldn’t be too far.’

  Without hesitation, she launched herself into the courtyard and into the sky, her figure streaking forward like a violet flash toward the forest beyond the city.

  …

  Eklavya ran deeper into the mountain ranges without allowing himself even a single moment of hesitation, his figure moving like a shadow chased relentlessly by moonlight, cutting through uneven terrain, jagged rocks, and dense clusters of ancient trees as though the mountains themselves were attempting to bar his passage.

  Every beast that emerged from the darkness in response to the scent of blood and killing intent met the same fate—swift, merciless death—whether it came charging with fangs bared or crept forward with predatory caution, because Eklavya did not slow down, did not retreat, and did not allow any threat to linger long enough to become an obstacle.

  His sword flashed repeatedly under the silver glow of the moon, the Demonic Spirit Needle striking unseen targets with terrifying precision, and by the time he had reached nearly twenty kilometers into the depths of the mountains, the forest behind him had been reduced to a silent graveyard of broken bodies and severed lives.

  He finally came to a halt only after delivering a final, shining slash that split the last beast cleanly in two, its corpse collapsing heavily against the uneven mountain floor as blood splattered across stone and roots alike, the metallic scent lingering thickly in the air.

  The moon hung directly above him now, cold and distant, as though it alone had followed his journey this far, and Eklavya stood amidst the carnage with his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, his entire body drenched in beast blood that had long since lost its warmth.

  Though not a single wound marked his flesh, exhaustion weighed heavily upon him, seeping deep into his bones after the relentless sprint, repeated combat, and excessive use of the Demonic Spirit Needle, draining both his physical stamina and spiritual reserves far faster than he cared to admit.

  As he lifted his gaze toward the sky, forcing himself to steady his breathing, something unnatural sliced through the stillness—a sudden purple flash tearing across the sky, bright enough to momentarily eclipse the moon itself. His instincts screamed, and his muscles tensed as the streak of light halted midair before rapidly descending toward him, its speed so overwhelming that recognition came only at the very last moment.

  Anshvi landed before him, her presence crashing into his senses with a weight far heavier than any beast he had slain, and while surprise flickered briefly across his eyes, it vanished almost instantly, replaced by a resigned calm.

  Somewhere deep within him, he had always known that a Spirit Warrior could reach him this far into the forest with ease, even if a Grandmaster would struggle to do so, and so her appearance felt less like shock and more like inevitability finally catching up.

  Anshvi looked toward him, her gaze lingering on the blood covering his body, the dead beasts surrounding them, and the sharp, restless tension coiled tightly within him. “Where are you going?”

  Eklavya did not reply. Instead, he raised his sword in front of her, the blade reflecting moonlight as clearly as his resolve, and his voice carried neither anger nor hesitation when he finally spoke. “I don’t need to tell you. Get out of my way, otherwise don’t blame me.”

  He knew, with absolute clarity, that he couldn’t win if he truly fought her, yet he also knew that she would never strike him with lethal intent, and he himself would never be able to bring harm upon her—not when that unfamiliar, unwanted feeling still lingered stubbornly within his chest, refusing to fade no matter how deeply he tried to bury it.

  That same feeling restrained his movements even now, dulling the edge of his killing intent and anchoring him between conflict and restraint.

  Anshvi reached into her storage ring and withdrew not her spear—the weapon she had mastered through countless battles, but a sword—an unfamiliar choice that placed her at a disadvantage she accepted without hesitation.

  Their blades met with a sharp, silken clang, steel sliding against steel in a slow, deliberate exchange that lacked explosive force yet carried overwhelming weight. “I won’t let you go, Eklavya, no matter what.”

  He did not respond. Their swords clashed again and again, not with the fury of enemies but with the restrained intensity of two hearts refusing to yield, each strike measured, each movement deliberate, as though words had become unnecessary and everything they needed to say was being spoken through steel instead.

  Inside his mind, Magha’s voice echoed calmly amid the clash. ‘Eklavya let those feelings flow today. You will understand what it is and clear yourself otherwise you won’t be able to become strong faster.’

  Eklavya answered without hesitation, irritation barely concealed beneath control. ‘I know that you just wanted to enjoy the show.’

  Magha’s response came instantly, stripped of amusement, carrying an unfamiliar seriousness. ‘Yeah, I am but this is important for you to clear yourself then leave.’

  Their blades met once more, and this time Eklavya poured more strength into his strike than before, forcing Anshvi to respond in kind, her stance shifting as she absorbed the force.

  In that single exchange, he conveyed what words could not—that no matter how fiercely she resisted, no matter how deeply she tried to anchor him, he would not turn back. She understood immediately. The truth settled heavily between them, undeniable and final.

  Anshvi stepped back, the tension draining from her posture as she returned her sword to her storage ring, closing her eyes briefly to steady herself before beginning to form hand signs meant to bind him.

  Yet before the technique could take shape, something entirely unexpected happened—something she could never have anticipated even in her wildest imaginings.

  She opened her eyes slowly.

  Under the bright moonlight, Eklavya stood before her, his arms wrapped tightly around her as though he feared that releasing her would cause her to vanish forever, his grip firm yet trembling with emotion he had denied for far too long.

  Warmth flooded her senses, genuine and overwhelming, and without conscious thought, she wrapped her arms around him in return, holding him just as tightly, just as desperately, as though this single moment might be all they were ever allowed.

  That night, Eklavya finally allowed the emotions he had buried deep within himself to break free, the fire that had burned silently now surging to the surface, revealing its true nature and its true importance.

  In her embrace, he understood what that feeling was, how deeply it had rooted itself within him, and how impossible it was to sever without losing a part of himself.

  Neither of them spoke, because words were unnecessary; everything that needed to be understood had already been exchanged.

  “Let’s go back, Eklavya.” Anshvi said softly, still in his embrace.

  “Don’t worry Anshvi, I will be back but I don't know, there are many things I have to do. I promise I will be back. I am sorry, but I will be back.”

  Hesitation flickered through him only once before resolve hardened his expression, and with a precise strike to the side of her neck, he rendered her unconscious, catching her gently before she could fall. He carried her to a nearby cave hidden within the mountain’s folds, ensuring it was safe before laying her down carefully, one last lingering glance resting upon her peaceful face.

  Arc Finale & Release Schedule Update – Against the Eternity

  Think of it as a clean pause point before the next big phase begins — a moment to breathe before chaos resumes ????

  ?? Royal Road Schedule (from Arc Two onward):

  ? 5 chapters per week

  ? Monday to Friday (yes, weekends get a small break too ??)

  ?? Minkly.io Schedule:

  ? 6 chapters per week (almost daily, I do like to suffer a little ??)

  After each volume ends, there will be a two-week hiatus ??

  Consistency > speed. Always. ???

  So, yeah the series will return on 4 JANUARY but second arc first chapter will be releasing on 1 JANUARY

  The journey is far from over — this is just a checkpoint.