Rudra's advance through Zone 5 wasn't progress; it was a war of attrition fought inch by screaming inch. Thirty-two times, gravity wasn't just weight; it was a sentient vice crushing his reinforced bones, grinding his denser muscles into pulp, and threatening to implode his lungs with every gasping, insufficient breath. He moved like a creature dredged from the abyss:
Each "step" was a cataclysm. He didn't lift limbs; he wrenched them free from the earth-crushing grip. His right arm would scrape forward, palm grinding raw against diamond-hard earth, leaving a smear of blood and sweat. His body would slump after it, ribs groaning under impact. Dragging a knee forward felt like tearing muscle from bone, accompanied by phantom snaps of overstressed tendons only he could hear. The dense ground scraped skin from his knees and elbows, mixing blood with the dark, compacted soil.
The pressure was horrific, but transformative. His bones, under constant threat of breaking, were healing into a lattice harder than tempered steel, humming with dense energy. His muscles, shredded and screaming, reformed thicker, leaner cables capable of explosive contractions even under cosmic load. Tendons and ligaments stretched into near-breaking point became braided steel, absorbing and translating crushing force into agonising forward momentum. He was being dismantled and reforged with every torturous movement.
Through the haze of pain and tunnel vision, Rudra saw them: Master Earth's massive boots, planted firmly on the dense ground, mere steps away. The sight wasn't inspiring; it was a final, brutal landmark in his hell. He didn't roar. He didn't lunge. With one final, convulsive heave that felt like tearing his soul from his body, he dragged himself the last few feet. He didn't stand before the master; he collapsed within arm's reach, his trembling, bloodied hand coming to rest against the worn leather of Earth's boot. He lay sprawled, chest heaving with wet, ragged gasps, body a ruin of shredded cloth, sweat, blood, and dust. He had reached the centre.
Refine.
The thought cut through the agony. He hadn't come just to endure; he'd come to grow. The ultimate pressure wasn't just for breaking; it was the perfect whetstone for his deepest resource – his prana.
With monumental effort, Rudra shifted slightly, finding a slightly less agonising position on the brutal ground. He closed his eyes, blocking out the stinging sweat, the metallic taste of blood, the terrifying awareness of the watching eyes. He turned his focus entirely inward, to the chaotic, diamond-bright river of blue prana raging within him.
His prana stream, amplified and stressed beyond belief by the domain, was a torrential, bucking force. It thrashed against his channels like a caged star, frayed at the edges, radiating intense but unfocused power. The gravity pressed not just on his body, but on the energy itself, trying to disperse it, crush its coherence.
Rudra didn't fight the storm. He didn't try to force calm. Instead, he became the eye of the hurricane. He visualised the crushing weight of Zone 5 not as an enemy, but as the ultimate tool. He guided the raging prana stream, not against the pressure, but through it. He imagined the chaotic energy being forced through ever-narrowing, diamond-hard channels forged by the gravity itself.
The effect was immediate and profound. Under the extreme pressure:
Microscopic inefficiencies, residues of his rapid growth and untamed power, were crushed and burned into nothingness by the intense pressure. His deep blue prana shed faint, dark motes that vanished like smoke. These were the impurities of his prana.
The stream didn't just flow; it was compacted. The energy became denser, heavier, each unit of prana carrying vastly more potential force. It felt less like water and more like liquid lead flowing through his prana path.
Forcing the volatile stream through this invisible, gravity-forged funnel demanded impossible precision. Rudra's mental grip on his energy, already good, became laser-focused. He learned to direct minute tendrils of power to reinforce specific, screaming muscles or vibrating bones with surgical accuracy, maximising efficiency under the load. The chaotic bucking lessened, replaced by a thrumming, powerful pulse – slow, deliberate, and immensely strong.
Slowly, agonizingly, the frantic blue maelstrom within him settled. It didn't diminish; it condensed. It gained a hard, crystalline clarity, radiating a sense of immense, controlled power. The deep blue glow emanating faintly from his battered form became steadier, more focused, like a gemstone lit from within under immense pressure. The crushing weight was still there, still hellish, but his prana was no longer fighting it blindly; it was learning to flow within it, to be tempered by it.
Master Earth, lying propped on his elbow, watched the broken youth at his feet with deep, unwavering focus. He saw the tremors lessen slightly, not from weakness, but from a shift in effort. He saw the chaotic aura of Rudra's prana stabilise, condense, and gain that hard, crystalline quality. A low, resonant grunt, deeper and more satisfied than before, rumbled in Earth's chest. The boy hadn't just reached the centre; he'd understood the true purpose of the deepest crucible. He wasn't just enduring; he was mastering the pressure from within. The forge wasn't just shaping the body; it was honing the spirit and the energy that fueled it into something terrifyingly potent.
Ronald Clain. His composure cracked. What had once been contempt curdled into something colder—unease. Watching Rudra inch forward, slow and bleeding, Ronald felt something shift. This wasn't just defiance. It was wrong, unnatural. The man should have given up long ago. But he hadn't. He was pushing through, not out of hope, but something harder, uglier—like he was changing under the pressure instead of breaking. Ronald's fists tightened, his knuckles pale. The confidence he'd worn like armour felt brittle now. He still hated Rudra, maybe even more than before—but now there was something else tangled in it. A chill. A question he didn't want to answer about what kind of man could keep crawling like that.
Vaishnav. His initial awe had hardened into something closer to grim, almost reluctant respect. He could see the price of every inch Rudra gained—the blood smeared beneath him, the tremors running through his limbs, the raw, involuntary sounds of effort. It all echoed struggles Vaishnav knew intimately, only twisted into something far more brutal. Rudra wasn't just a rival anymore; he was a measure of what it truly meant to be relentless. The sting of their earlier fight, the shame of defeat—it all faded under the weight of that realization. Rudra wasn't just strong. He refused to stop. Vaishnav caught himself holding his breath with every painful lurch forward, unable to look away. What he saw wasn't just determination—it was something more dangerous.