After my first month of learning under Master Arken, my mind had begun to see things differently. I started noticing patterns in everything — the rhythm of waves, the pulse in the ground, even the way stars blinked together at night.
But understanding wasn't enough. The masters said knowledge alone could not protect life; it only guided it. To live and protect others, one must have strength — not only of mind but also of body and spirit.
That was when I met my second master, the man called Master Kaien Ruo.
He appeared before sunrise. I still remember the first time I saw him — standing barefoot on a cliff overlooking the endless sea. The wind blew through his greyish-black hair tied in a rough knot, his robe fluttering loosely around his lean, muscular frame. His eyes were sharp but peaceful, like a hawk flying through still air.
When he turned and saw me, I felt small — not because of his power, but because of his calm. His presence wasn't heavy or loud. It was silent power, the kind that didn't need to prove itself.
Elder Aarion introduced him with quiet respect. "Mukul, meet Kaien Ruo, the Guardian of Balance. He has fought in more wars than you can count, and yet his true victory lies not in battle, but in restraint."
Kaien smiled faintly. "I'm not a hero," he said in a low, steady voice. "I simply survived long enough to learn what fight is worth fighting."
Back in the mortal world, people called him the Master of Ten Thousand Styles. His name was legendary across dimensions, for he had learnt and perfected every known form of combat — ancient, modern, and mystical. From the sword dances of old kingdoms to the modern forms of martial arts, from weaponless battle forms to spiritual self-defence battleforms where energy itself became the weapon, he had mastered them all.
It was said that in his youth, Kaien had defeated an entire army using nothing but movement and intelligence. But when fame followed, he refused it, vanishing into silence. No one ever knew that he walked into Aarvak Island, choosing isolation over glory.
Now, I learnt why.
He once told me, "A true warrior is not forged by anger but by clarity. Violence is easy. Control is the test."
That first day of training, he gave me a wooden staff and pointed to the sea. "Strike the wave before it reaches you."
I blinked, confused. "That's impossible, Master."
He smiled faintly. "Then learn to make the impossible your discipline."
Every day began before dawn. He would take me to the cliffs or the beaches where wind, salt, and water met. There was no easy drill — no repetitive swinging like in martial academies. He taught through the island itself.
He made me walk across stones shaped like lotus petals floating on water. "Balance is your first teacher," he said. "Lose it, and even skill becomes useless."
He asked me to meditate under cold waterfalls, standing still until I could control my shivers. "Calm your heart before your hands. Movement without peace is wasted energy."
The ancient techniques he showed me were beautiful — a mixture of elegance and power. He called them the Way of Flowing Strike, movements inspired by rivers and storms. But each movement hid a deeper lesson — patience, rhythm, and energy.
Then came the modern side of his teaching. He taught me hand-to-hand combat like Krav Maga, Jiu-jitsu, and Ninjutsu, and even weapon-handling techniques that belonged to soldiers and security forces of current times. He said, "A warrior who adapts survives. The world changes — fight changes with it. What matters doesn't."
In one lesson, he showed me how to defend myself using even the smallest thing — a stick, a belt, even a stone. "Weapons are tools," he said. "But the real weapon lies behind your ribs — the mind that decides when to use it."
He also taught me a strange art called Shinra Veil, a power technique that lets one sense movement through air vibrations. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel where he stood, even before he moved. He said this was the merging of ancient instinct and modern awareness—"Technology lives outside machines too, Mukul. Your body can learn like one."
Sometimes, we trained until night, and under the seven bright stars above, he'd tell me about his greatest regret. "When I was young, I fought for pride," he said softly, staring at the waves. "It took me centuries to learn that pride is the weakest armour. I came to this island to unlearn my strength and rediscover peace."
One evening, as we practised sparring, he asked, "Mukul, what do you think strength is?"
I thought for a while. "It's knocking down the enemy?"
He shook his head gently. "No. Strength is standing even when no one is watching."
He dropped his weapon and looked me in the eye. "A soldier can win wars. But a protector saves peace. That is the difference."
Over time, I began to sense what he meant. When I trained with him, I didn't just learn how to fight—I learnt how to feel and how to sense rhythm in motion. He said every warrior must learn to listen to silence as much as to sound.
He also trained me in ancient breathing arts that healed the body. "A warrior who breaks his own spirit can never protect another," he told me. I slowly learnt to focus energy through breaths until I could move longer, stronger, and faster without exhaustion.
At first, I failed every day. I stumbled, fell, and even cried once, thinking I'd never be strong enough. But Master Kaien never raised his voice. He only watched and said, "Falling is part of training. Even mountains must bend when the wind teaches them balance."
Weeks later, when I finally managed to stand on one foot atop a high rock for an hour, wind cutting against my face, he smiled properly for the first time. "Now," he said softly, "you are not fighting the wind anymore. You are becoming part of it."
That night, under the glowing silver leaves, he handed me a small blade carved from crystal. "Keep it not to hurt others, but to reflect upon yourself. The strongest blade is the one that never needs to draw blood."
I bowed low, holding it close to my chest. In that moment, I understood a truth deeper than strength — control, patience, and will were not separate from power. They were powerful.
And that was how I met my second master, Kaien Ruo — The Warrior of Two Worlds.
He was not just a fighter but a philosopher; not just a mentor but a mirror. From him, I learnt that a sword could be both protector and destroyer — depending on the hand that held it.