By evening, Samye’s body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together wrong.

  Every muscle screamed.

  His lungs burned.

  His legs trembled even when he stood still.

  As he sat down near the edge of the training grounds, watching the sun sink behind the forest canopy, a single thought echoed in his mind:

  How am I supposed to survive this training… let alone complete it?

  Kayal, as a trainer, was nothing like the friendly warrior he had met during the festival.

  During training, there was no warmth in him.

  No mercy.

  No hesitation.

  He pushed Samye relentlessly — run after run, set after set — never allowing his body enough time to recover. Just when Samye thought he could finally breathe, another command followed.

  “Again.”

  “Faster.”

  “Don’t stop.”

  It wasn’t cruelty.

  It was intention.

  Still, Samye wondered if his body could endure it.

  As the sky turned orange and gold, Samye leaned back against a rock, exhausted, staring at the fading light.

  His thoughts drifted back to the temple.

  To that moment in meditation.

  To the other him.

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  The version of himself that smiled — calmly, confidently — like it already knew the end of his struggle.

  Why were you smiling at me? Samye thought.

  What do you know that I don’t?

  The question gnawed at him.

  “Still alive?”

  Samye looked up.

  Kayal stood nearby, arms crossed, armor removed, sweat drying on his skin.

  “Barely,” Samye replied honestly.

  Kayal studied him for a moment, then asked quietly:

  “So… do you want to continue your training?”

  Samye didn’t answer immediately.

  He looked down at his trembling hands.

  At the dirt beneath his feet.

  At the path ahead that promised pain, discipline, and no easy escape.

  Then he looked Kayal straight in the eyes.

  “Yes.”

  Kayal’s stern expression cracked into a small, approving smile.

  “Good,” he said. “Then make sure you eat properly and rest well tonight. Tomorrow will be worse.”

  Samye almost laughed.

  Kayal didn’t leave him there.

  Instead, he gestured toward the village path.

  “Come. You’re having dinner with us.”

  Before Samye could refuse, Kayal started walking.

  Kayal’s home was modest but warm.

  As soon as they entered, Kayal’s wife greeted them with a gentle smile. She placed fresh food on the table without question, as if Samye had always been meant to sit there.

  Their son burst into the room moments later, excited and loud.

  “Father! You won’t believe what happened today—”

  He launched into a story about school, his friends, and how he had almost gotten into trouble before escaping punishment at the last second.

  Laughter filled the room.

  Kayal teased him.

  His wife shook her head, amused.

  The boy argued back confidently.

  Samye sat quietly, watching.

  The scene felt painfully familiar.

  A family eating together.

  Laughing.

  Arguing over small things that didn’t matter.

  This is how we used to be, he thought.

  Before everything burned.

  A tight ache settled in his chest.

  He said nothing.

  He smiled when appropriate.

  But inside, grief stirred — not loud, not violent — just heavy.

  After dinner, Kayal showed him to the guest room.

  “You did well today,” Kayal said before leaving. “Rest.”

  Samye nodded.

  When the door closed, he lay down on the bed, exhaustion finally overpowering his thoughts.

  No nightmares came.

  No visions.

  Just deep, silent sleep — the kind that only follows honest effort.

  And as the forest settled into night, Samye rested.

  Tomorrow, the real struggle would begin.