The results were satisfying. Only one warrior chose to leave. Kayvaan felt no anger. In fact, he was pleased. It was better this way. Weak-willed men had no place in his training. If that fool had stayed, he would have broken before long. Perhaps even died. Better to discard such dead weight now.
For those who remained, training began immediately. Kayvaan designed each regimen based on individual needs. Those who had suffered grievous injuries were assigned restorative exercises. Those with speed and agility were pushed beyond their limits, forced to develop strength and endurance. Those who relied on brute force were subjected to grueling flexibility drills, forced into yoga and calisthenics to enhance their coordination. None of it was easy. None of it was meant to be. But training the body was not enough.
A soldier who has never glimpsed the vastness of the galaxy will freeze when he steps aboard a voidship. Fear of the unknown is the greatest weakness of all. Thus, Kayvaan introduced education. It was a simple curriculum—basic astronomy, carefully selected to prevent outright rebellion. Knowledge, stripped to its essentials. Just enough to broaden their minds before their first steps beyond the atmosphere. Of course, the warriors did not believe a word of it. "The earth is round?" One scoffed. "Teacher, you must be joking. If the earth spins, why do we not fall off?"
Another sneered. "And the seas? If the earth were round, wouldn't all the water spill out?"
Then came the religious objections. "The moon is just a planet?" One warrior muttered, voice tinged with uncertainty. "But the scriptures say the gods dwell upon it… that they watch over us."
Doubt crept into their voices. Kayvaan only smiled. He had seen this many times before. They would learn—in time. The same flawed thinking plagued every world trapped in the darkness of ignorance. He had encountered it countless times before—superstition, misplaced faith, and an unwavering belief in a flat, unmoving world. But he wasn't here to enlighten them. He simply needed them to grasp enough of reality to avoid losing their minds the moment they set foot aboard a voidship.
Cultural classes were the only time they were allowed to speak freely, which made them lively affairs, often filled with absurd questions.
"Are there really gods in the world?"
"Is the Emperor truly watching over us?"
"If He is protecting us, why do so many suffer?"
Kayvaan had little patience for their philosophical meanderings, and their relentless questioning soon became an exercise in attrition. Eventually, he decided he had wasted enough time indulging their curiosity. The cultural lessons were canceled. Instead, he increased their physical training—grueling weighted cross-country runs that left them collapsing in the dirt. The lesson was simple: if they had the energy to talk, they had the energy to train. Not all training was pure suffering. Some aspects were enjoyable—or at least engaging.
The most popular, without question, was combat training. Kayvaan understood how to draw in a group of arrogant young warriors. He knew how to command their attention. He stood before them, arms crossed. "First," he said, his voice sharp and unwavering, "forget everything you think you know about combat. It's worthless. Rubbish. What I will teach you now are real fighting techniques." He let the words settle. "Before we begin, I want you to understand something fundamental." He stepped forward, his gaze scanning the group. "All combat skills—every technique, every strike—come down to a single concept." He paused. "Control."
Without warning, he moved—a single step forward, a blur of motion as his fist lashed out. It stopped just before Lancelot's face. The White Knight flinched, his eyes widening in shock. Kayvaan ignored him. "A sudden strike like this," he said, holding his fist steady, "is control of time." He withdrew his hand and clasped them behind his back, pacing. "Lancelot never expected the attack—that is control over the enemy's thoughts." He turned sharply. "And that punch? It stopped exactly where I wanted it to." His gaze locked onto the group. "That is control over space." He let the silence linger, watching them absorb the information. "In battle, these three forms of control dictate everything—time, thought, space. If you control these, you control life and death." He resumed his pacing. "This is the foundation of all external combat. But beyond that…" He glanced over his shoulder. "There is control over oneself."
Virgil, still nursing the nose Kayvaan had obliterated days ago, rubbed it absently—a habit he hadn't even realized he'd developed. The damage had been repaired with steel supports, courtesy of Pastor Marius, but the memory remained. He frowned. "Control over oneself? What does that even mean?" He crossed his arms. "Can't people already control their own bodies? What's there to learn?"
Kayvaan stopped. "A good question," he acknowledged. "Control over oneself is both the most fundamental and the most difficult mastery to achieve. The phrase 'your greatest enemy is yourself' is not just an empty platitude." His eyes narrowed. "In truth, most people barely understand themselves, let alone control themselves." He looked over the group. "A newborn cannot walk. A child cannot control its own bladder. Even as we grow, our control is limited—but most do not even realize it."
Then, without warning, he produced a dagger. The blade gleamed in the light. Before anyone could react, Kayvaan slashed his own arm. A fresh wound opened instantly, crimson blood flowing freely. Gasps erupted from the group. Kayvaan remained still. Then, slowly, he clenched his fist. Before their eyes, the wound sealed.
Within seconds, all that remained was a faint scar. Another breath. He ran a finger over the scar—and it vanished completely, as if the injury had never existed. Only a single streak of blood on his skin remained as proof. Silence. The only sound was heavy breathing. The warriors stared. "This is not sorcery," Kayvaan said evenly. "It is not a trick. It is not some heretical ritual." His gaze swept across them. "This," he continued, "is willpower. Through sheer discipline and mental fortitude, you can control your own body. If you train properly—if you have the talent—one day, you may be able to do this." The group remained frozen. "This is not unlike the control you already possess," he added. "It is no different than controlling your own bowels." The words shattered the silence. The reaction was instant—loud, involuntary swallowing. They wanted this. They needed it.
Virgil's voice was barely above a whisper. "By the Emperor…" he murmured. "He's not afraid of blade wounds."
Kayvaan merely smiled, a knowing expression that only deepened the admiration in his apprentices' eyes. He had no intention of telling them the limitations of the technique he had just demonstrated. They didn't need to know that its greatest benefit was saving on bandages, that it could close only small wounds and was utterly ineffective against serious injuries. Worse still, the process was exhausting, demanding far more energy than simply using a med-patch or a dose of medical spray. But for a Space Marine, such an ability was invaluable.