“Focus child, the energy you feel is the natural energies of the world around us. Our bodies and all living things naturally absorb this energy, prana is what the ancient temple masters call this power. You must focus on your cores, one located at the center of your chest, and the other at the base of the neck.” Vishnamitra made certain to press his fingers on these points, helping his disciple to better visualize the cores present within his body. These two cores, the central and mind cores, were present naturally in all living things, with more being created as one stepped further onto the path of enlightenment.

The child had spent the last six years building his foundation, unaware that the older fighter was slowly tempering his body. At merely fourteen years of age his body resembled that of a young man, with well-defined muscles packed within a slim and agile frame. His skin was bronzed by years practicing under the harsh glare of the sun, fighting in the morning, and meditating in the evening. All unbeknownst to the child, his cores were already stable, formed through the teachings of Vishnamitra, now he had only to raise his efficacy for containment and purification of the naturally collected prana.

With both legs crossed, one over the other, the child remained in this lotus position, his eyes open but mind focused inwards. This had been the mental and spiritual training the two participated in every day, with Vishnamitra always remaining at his back, hands outstretched and pressed against the boy’s skin. Upon further inspection one would notice the faint traces of silver light running up and down his veins, congregating within open palms pressed firmly against the small of the boy’s back.

“I want you to focus on the energy you feel within you, imagine that it is raw dough. You enjoy eating bread, but to attain your desire you must first mold it, then bake it, allowing it to harden. Do the same with the prana you sense within each core, take the raw energy, cycle out the impurities, similar to how a farmer might thresh his wheat. Once that is done, take the fraction that is left and condense the power, storing it within your cores, same as a baker might place the dough within an oven. Do you understand?” The child nodded ever so slightly in response to his teacher’s question. Remaining focused on his training with the concentration of an ascetic twice his age.

This kind of concentration, focus on purpose could be attributed to the experiences children in the fighting pits faced. Subjected to the abuses of the older fighters, both physical and mental had long hardened their resolve. They did not wince at the sight of dead bodies, at the blood of those they may have known, here all would carry their weight, those that could not didn’t last long. Vishnamitra’s disciple was no exception, he was a slave like the rest, starting out as one of the many child slaves made to do whatever menial tasks were required by the pitmasters.

At that time Vishnamitra was a wreck, a washed up, depressive version of his current self, barely able to squeak out wins necessary to save his own skin. In a sense suicidal and welcoming death, yet always containing that speck, that poison called hope, that one day he might discover a way home. That was almost twenty-five years ago, and the man that had once been in the prime of his life had degraded to an old shell of his former self.

The boy had brought him back, reinvigorated his drive, provided him purpose, but the decade and a half of neglect had left him degraded. Impurities had been left to fester within him, sealing off much of the powers he once held, able to best the untrained but providing no challenge to a true master. His chances and time had long since passed, and thus he had chosen his disciple, the one who would carry on his legacy, his techniques.

This nameless child had shown exceptional courage, focus, and dedication. Going so far as to spend months training a single stance, one where the knees are kept slightly bent and legs spread apart, as if one was riding upon the back of a horse. The boy was told to remain in that position outside the old man’s cell until he felt satisfied. There was no purpose, merely a method to drive off the little gnats, every other child left, finding some other gladiator to mentor them. However, this one, he stayed.

Day after day, night after night, he would return after his work and get into the horse stance, waiting. Sometimes he would pass out where he stood, other times he would collapse during his duties. It was that dedication from a mere seven-year-old child that showed just how far the old man had fallen. What had been a hoop to keep others at a distance, had now become a focus, with both teacher and student pressing one another to rise above themselves and reach towards their freedom.

They would both run the gauntlet, a herculean challenge to remain undefeated for fifty fights straight. With a fight every week until the task was complete. At the end was the promise of freedom.

Vishnamitra had succeeded in his thirty third challenge, yet the damage although slight was starting to pile up. Bruises, small cuts, and now a broken wrist adorned his sleek frame. Yet it did not matter how many fights he won; a single loss would result in a return to square one. If nothing else, his disciple would be ready, enough to earn his freedom from this place.

“Master, my head hurts.” The boy collapsed, his head falling backwards and landing in the old man’s lap. Exhaustion was clear in the boy’s eyes, as he had passed out with both wide open, but his teacher was distracted by something else entirely. His eyes, they were glowing, tinted with a muddy copper hue for an instant, but in that moment, he knew… the boy had unlocked his true potential, had channeled the energy from his core, and taken his first steps onto the martial path.