The training ground did not return to normal.
Not immediately.
Because something had shifted.
Not with noise, not with fireworks, not with dramatic gestures.
But subtly—deeply.
At the center of that shift stood Karna.
Calm.
Unmoved.
Yet impossible to ignore.
Around him, the students slowly returned to their routines.
The clash of wooden weapons resumed.
Voices echoed instructions.
Feet moved in familiar rhythm.
But the attention of many was divided.
Eyes kept drifting back—
Again and again—
Toward him.
Toward the boy who didn't belong.
Yet carried himself as if he did.
Beside him, Duryodhana spun his mace casually once, a practiced motion, but this time he did not strike.
He simply watched.
"You don't train like us," he said, a quiet statement.
Not a question.
Karna held the wooden staff loosely in his hand.
"No," he replied simply.
Duryodhana tilted his head slightly.
"Then how do you train?"
Karna's gaze shifted across the field.
At the students.
