The engine of the national transport bus hummed with mechanical precision, but inside, the silence was heavier than the road beneath it. Pavan Raj sat near the rear, eyes closed—not asleep, not even resting, just breathing in that stitched rhythm that had become part of him since Ghostline. His bag was next to him, glove case latched shut, sketchpad hidden in the side compartment. He didn't look out the window. He wasn't here for the scenery. The national training camp wasn't a place to admire. It was a place to carve your name so deep into the system that no one could replace you.
Unlike district or zonal trials, this wasn't a tournament. It was exposure warfare. A battlefield of silence, pressure, and unspoken rivalries where every candidate brought not just their skill, but the full weight of the sponsors behind them. Every match mattered. Every drop of sweat either earned you a contract—or pushed you further from the memory of selectors.
System Notification
