Rohan laid on the cold stone floor, staring up at the old man, whose expression was far too amused.

  "You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that.”

  The old man said, standing straight again.

  "But strength without control is just wasted power."

  Rohan forced himself up, spitting blood onto the ground. His thumb still hung loosely, but he ignored it, snapping it back into place with a wince.

  He met the old man’s eyes, rage and defiance burning behind them.

  "You talk a lot for someone who just tied me up.”

  The old man chuckled.

  "You were easier to deal with that way."

  Rohan clenched his fists.

  "And now?"

  The old man grinned.

  "Now I break you down and build you back up."

  Rohan scoffed, rolling his shoulders.

  "And what if I say no?"

  The old man’s grin didn’t fade.

  "Then you die a pointless death in a week’s time."

  Silence filled the room. Rohan hated how casually the man said it, as if it was already decided. He narrowed his eyes.

  "And if I let you train me?”

  The old man’s gaze hardened.

  "Then you might actually survive long enough to make a difference."

  Rohan took a slow breath. He hated this. Hated the feeling of being controlled, of being manipulated. But deep down, he knew the truth. He needed this.

  The old man had taken him down like he was nothing. If the leader of the Iron Talons was truly as dangerous as people claimed, then he would stand no chance.

  His fingers curled, his jaw tightening.

  "Fine, but don’t think for a second I’ll ever call you master."

  The old man chuckled, turning toward the door.

  "Don’t worry, boy. By the time I’m done with you, names won’t matter anymore."

  He gestured for Rohan to follow.

  "Now get up. Your real training starts now.”

  The moment Rohan stood up, the old man moved. With no warning or time to prepare. A fist slammed into Rohan’s gut with bone-crushing force.

  His breath was ripped from his lungs as his body doubled over. Pain flooded his ribs, hot and suffocating. He barely had time to react before a boot smashed into his chest, sending him crashing into the stone wall.

  Rohan tried to push himself up, but the old man was already there. A knee drove into his chest, pinning him in place.

  "Lesson one, pain is your teacher. And you, boy, are about to learn a lot."

  He grabbed Rohan by the collar and threw him across the room. Rohan hit the floor hard, rolling before coming to a stop. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself onto his hands and knees.

  The old man smiled.

  "Good. Get back up."

  Rohan wiped blood from his mouth and growled,

  "You call this training?”

  The old man cracked his knuckles.

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  "No. This is breaking you.”

  There was no sleep, no rest, the old man didn’t let him. Every moment was filled with pain. Fists, knees, elbows. He beat Rohan into the ground, over and over, forcing him to stand only to knock him down again.

  "You fight like a street rat."

  He taunted after breaking Rohan’s nose for the second time.

  "Sloppy and predictable."

  Rohan lunged at him, rage boiling over. The old man sidestepped effortlessly and slammed his forearm into Rohan’s throat. Rohan choked, his vision blurring. He collapsed again, his entire body shaking from exhaustion.

  "Lesson two.”

  The old man said, circling him.

  "Control your anger. A beast that fights with rage alone is already dead."

  Rohan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. But he stood, again. The beatings continued, day after day.

  Then came the endurance training, drowning. The old man would hold Rohan underwater, waiting until he was on the brink of passing out before pulling him back, again and again.

  Starvation, he was given just enough food to stay alive, but never enough to be strong.

  Sleep deprivation, every time he started to drift off, a bucket of freezing water was thrown on him. The old man watched him suffer. Studied him, waiting to see if he would break.

  His body screamed, his muscles tore, his bones ached. But every time he was knocked down, he stood again. Something inside him was changing. The rage was still there, but it wasn’t wild anymore. It was sharpening.

  The pain wasn’t weakening him, it was forging him. One night, as he lay on the cold floor, ribs bruised, lips split, the old man crouched beside him. For the first time, he looked pleased.

  "Now, you're starting to understand."

  Rohan didn’t respond. He just stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly. He wasn’t the same anymore.

  And soon, the Iron Talons would see what he was becoming.

  Lesson One: Pain Is A Teacher

  The beatings never stopped. Every morning, the old man beat Rohan until he couldn't stand. Not as punishment, but as training.

  Fists, elbows, knees, Rohan took them all. He learned how to roll with the hits, how to absorb pain without letting it slow him down. One day, the old man dislocated Rohan’s shoulder during a sparring session. Rohan screamed, but the old man just stood over him.

  "Fix it."

  Rohan blinked through the pain.

  "What?"

  The old man’s face was stone.

  "Fix it. In a real fight, no one’s going to stop so you can recover."

  Rohan’s breathing was ragged, his vision blurring. But he clenched his teeth, gripped his useless arm and slammed it back into place. Pain exploded through his body, but he refused to collapse and the old man finally smirked.

  "Good. Now, again."

  And Rohan kept fighting.

  Lesson Two: The Body Is Just A Tool

  The old man would shove Rohan’s head underwater, holding him down until he thrashed on the edge of unconsciousness. Then, he’d let him up.

  “Control your panic.”

  He said, watching as Rohan gasped for air.

  “Fear is weakness, breathe.”

  By the third month, he no longer panicked. He let his body go still, conserving oxygen, waiting until the last second before forcing himself up. By the sixth month, he could hold his breath longer than the old man expected.

  Lesson Three: Every Weapon Is An Extension Of The Self

  The first time the old man gave Rohan a greatsword, he nearly dropped it.

  “Too heavy.”

  Rohan grunted, trying to adjust his stance. The old man’s fist slammed into Rohan’s ribs, sending him stumbling.

  “The weight isn’t the problem. You are.”

  For hours, Rohan swung the sword over and over again, until his arms felt like they would fall off. Then came the spear, axe and bow. Then finally a dagger.

  Rohan learned to fight with anything in his hands. By the tenth month, the old man blindfolded him.

  “Use your ears.”

  He ordered.

  “Feel the attack before it lands.”

  Rohan had never dodged an unseen strike before. By the eleventh month, he could.

  Lesson Four: The Will To Kill

  Killing wasn't new to Rohan. But the way he killed had to change.

  “You kill with emotion.”

  The old man said after a sparring match, watching Rohan catch his breath.

  "It makes you predictable."

  Rohan gritted his teeth.

  “And what? You want me to kill like some emotionless machine?”

  The old man tilted his head.

  "No. I want you to kill with certainty."

  That night, he took Rohan to a cage. Inside was a man, bound and gagged. A Talon scout.

  “Kill him.”

  The old man said simply.

  Rohan hesitated. Not because he pitied the man, but because this wasn’t a fight. This was an execution. The old man sighed.

  "See? You're still thinking about it. A real killer doesn’t hesitate. A real killer doesn’t need a reason."

  He grabbed Rohan’s wrist, forcing the dagger into his palm.

  "You kill because you decide to. Because your enemy doesn’t deserve another breath. Because it’s already over."

  Rohan stared down at the bound man and this time, he didn’t hesitate. The dagger sliced cleanly across the man's throat. The scout’s body twitched, then went still. Rohan exhaled through his nose, stepping back.

  And the old man smiled.

  For all the brutality, the old man wasn’t just a teacher. He was something more. He was shaping him into something unstoppable, and in return, Rohan listened.

  Some nights, when training was done, they sat by the fire, drinking in silence. The old man never spoke about his past. Never told Rohan his name. Yet the respect grew between them.

  One night, after hours of grueling combat drills, Rohan looked at him and asked.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  The old man smirked, tossing a knife between his fingers.

  “Because I was once like you, and no one was there to make me into what I needed to be.”

  Rohan took that in, watching the fire flicker. After a moment, he nodded, and they never spoke of it again.

  A full year had passed. Rohan was seventeen now. The old man watched as he disarmed three opponents in seconds. He watched as Rohan drove a knife through a man’s skull without blinking. Then, one morning, he simply said.

  "You’re ready."

  Rohan, bruised and bloodied from their latest fight, looked up. His body no longer ached the way it used to. His breathing was steady. His mind was calm.

  He had felt this moment coming for a while now.

  Still, he asked.

  "For what?"

  The old man grinned.

  "For war.”