The land of Yugantar breathed with unseen power. In the wind’s hush, in the shuddering earth, in the still waters of the lake—Urrja lingered, waiting. It curled through ancient roots, slipped between drifting leaves, whispered beneath stone and soil. Those who could grasp it knew it was more than just power. It was proof. Proof that fate was not absolute. Proof that the heavens did not decide all things.

  Cultivators walked a path beyond mortal reach. Some bent fire to their will. Some sought wisdom in the pulse of the world. Others chased glory, carving their names into the bones of history. And then, there were those who had no say in the matter. They did not seek destiny. Destiny sought them.

  But far from those chosen few, the weight of such legends barely touched the struggles of ordinary people. There were places where the land stretched wider than ambition, where hunger carved deeper than any blade. Villages where names of great sects and immortal masters meant nothing.

  One such village sat in the shadow of a mountain, caught between sky and stone. Kamalpuri.

  A lake stretched at its edge, thick with lotus blossoms, its surface gilded by the rising sun. Hills rolled out beyond, green in the summer, dust and ice in the winter. War had never scarred this place, but neither had fortune smiled upon it. Few travellers passed through. Fewer still returned.

  Here, life bowed only to the seasons. Rains could be kind or cruel. Winters stole lives with quiet indifference. Hunger was a certainty, a thing more real than the heavens themselves. And for a boy like Aaryan, fate had already carved its path.

  He should have followed it.

  He never did.

  Morning light spooled over Kamalpuri’s rooftops, turning the dirt paths gold. The scent of damp earth and fresh smoke curled through the air as fires flared to life in kitchen hearths. Villagers stirred, murmuring greetings, trading weary smiles. And then, inevitably, their eyes turned—toward the boy striding through the square.

  Aaryan moved lightly, a small sack slung over his shoulder. His clothes were patched but neat. His hair, dark and unruly, had been tied back in a loose knot. He looked no different from the other village children.

  Except for his eyes.

  There was no weight of surrender in them.

  “Hah.” A stocky man shifted the grain sack on his shoulder, voice scraping like stone on stone. “Look at him. Still grinning, like he owns the place.”

  The old woman beside him shook her head, stuffing herbs into a woven basket. “That boy doesn’t know his place.”

  Aaryan kept walking. If he heard them, he gave no sign.

  He had never cared much for his place.

  Beside him, a lanky man snorted. “Tch. Heard he was sneaking around the temple again.” Amusement, not accusation.

  Aaryan stretched, arms loose, posture easy. He turned toward them with a smile that barely needed effort. “Come on, Uncle. If I got caught, wouldn’t I be scrubbing temple floors right now?”

  The stocky man scoffed. “Hmph. You’re too carefree for a boy with no family.” He spat to the side—a small gesture, a quiet ward against misfortune. “Fate watches those who mock it. Laugh at the wrong moment, and the heavens will teach you a lesson you won’t forget.”

  A few villagers murmured, shifting on their feet. Superstition ran deep in places like this. Even words could summon things best left undisturbed.

  Aaryan tapped his chin, thoughtful. “You’re right. I should be weeping in a corner somewhere, shouldn’t I? But then, who would listen?” A sigh, slow and theatrical. “Perhaps if I cry loud enough, the heavens will send a great cultivator to make me immortal.”

  The lanky man chuckled. The stocky man didn’t.

  Glances passed between villagers. Uneasy. Measuring. Was he mocking them?

  Before anyone could decide, Aaryan gave a light bow and turned away. “But alas, no time for theatrics—breakfast awaits.”

  Breakfast, if he could find it.

  The temple cook might need extra hands. A few well-placed words, a bit of charm, and there’d be food. If not, the riverbank held sluggish fish hiding in the reeds. And if all else failed—the jungle. His traps had been set the night before.

  If something else hadn’t stolen his catch first.

  Behind him, whispers followed.

  “The Clown never stops smiling,” a boy sneered, kicking a loose rock down the path. “Bet he thinks he’s better than us.”

  Another scoffed, voice sharp with something bitter. “What’s there to be proud of? No parents, no name worth speaking of, yet he walks like he owns the place.”

  Not far off, an old woman clutched her prayer beads tighter, lips moving soundlessly. A prayer? A ward? A curse?

  Aaryan barely turned his head. Amusement flickered in his gaze, faint, unreadable.

  With a flick of his sleeve, he dusted off an invisible speck. Light. Effortless. As if their words carried no weight at all.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Not everyone who watched him did so with contempt.

  Most didn’t know how he survived. One day, he was sweeping temple steps for a half-filled bowl of rice. The next, gutting fish at the river’s edge. When luck held, he snared hares in the brush, hands quick, stomach emptier still.

  Some called him fortunate. Others murmured that he was simply too clever to starve.

  “That boy...” An old man adjusted his turban, voice roughened by years spent under the open sky. He squinted at the retreating figure, shaking his head. “Always grinning. Like he’s never known hunger.”

  Beside him, a younger man leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed. No scorn. No admiration. Just curiosity. “Strange, isn’t it? No one knows where he came from, yet he walks like he belongs. Some say he saved lives during the last hunting trip.”

  The old man snorted. “Hah. Tricks don’t fill an empty stomach. And full stomachs are harder to come by these days. Grain’s gone dear, and the rains are late—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head at the sheer unfairness of it.

  The younger man shrugged. “Maybe. But when the hunting party got trapped last winter, wasn’t it his plan that got them out?”

  The old man grumbled but didn’t argue. Didn’t agree, either. “Hmph. Doesn’t change the way he struts about. Like fear is something for other people.”

  Aaryan’s fingers brushed the frayed hem of his sash. A small thing. Absentminded. His breathing stayed even, his steps light, but the motion lingered long enough to betray something underneath. Then, right on cue, he turned his head, flashing an easy grin.

  “Careful, Uncle,” he called. “Scowling like that’ll bring you wrinkles.”

  The younger man let out a sharp laugh, smothering it behind his hand. The old man sputtered, indignant.

  Aaryan’s expression held steady. Relaxed, unconcerned. But for half a breath—so fleeting it might have been imagined—his gaze drifted elsewhere. A place too far to reach. Then, like shaking dust from his sleeves, he chuckled and kept walking.

  Near the village well, an old woman sat weaving baskets. Hands worn, movements steady. Aaryan stopped beside her, tilting his head in greeting.

  “Morning, Aunty.”

  She didn’t pause, didn’t miss a single twist of the reeds. But her sharp eyes flicked up, measuring. “Have you eaten?”

  He took in a deep breath, let it out slow. “Morning air is quite filling.”

  She scoffed. “Lies.”

  Aaryan chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. “Caught again, huh?”

  She muttered something under her breath, shaking her head as she unwrapped a cloth bundle. A moment later, a warm piece of roti landed in his hands.

  “Too thin,” she said. “Eat. Or the wind will carry you off.”

  He took it with both hands, dipping his head slightly. “Aunty, your kindness shames the gods. May your baskets sell faster than a crow swipes rice.”

  She snorted. “And may you finally learn to frown.”

  He tore off a piece, chewing slowly. Simple. Warm. The taste clung longer than it should have. Just wheat and fire, nothing more. But for half a breath, something strange settled in his chest. A passing thought, ridiculous in its weight—what it might feel like to have someone waiting for him, pressing a fresh meal into his hands.

  The idea was foreign. Laughable. He swallowed the food and the feeling in one go.

  Nearby, voices wove through the afternoon air, hushed but sharp.

  “Tch. That Vata brat’s back in town.”

  Aaryan’s fingers stilled.

  “The one who left to train under a cultivator?”

  “Yes. They say he’s powerful now. Brought a whole group of outsiders with him.”

  The chief’s son.

  Bad news.

  The Vata family didn’t need swords to rule Kamalpuri. They had land. Grain. Stores. A word from the chief, and people went hungry. A single command, and doors stayed shut.

  And now, his heir had returned.

  Aaryan had spent years making sure he never gave them a reason to notice him. Never took too much. Never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to care. But the son was back. And that changed things.

  When things changed, it was never the powerful who suffered first.

  A memory clawed its way up, unbidden.

  The sharp scent of wet earth. Cold mud clinging to his knees. Gravel biting into his palms. A shadow stretching over him. A boot pressed against his shoulder, forcing him lower.

  Not a single moment, but one of many.

  A boy scraping by on wits and scraps. Tolerated, but never truly accepted.

  The villagers had watched. Some with pity. Some with indifference.

  None had interfered.

  "Pick it up, stray."

  The words still echoed, thick with the lazy cruelty of someone who had never missed a meal. Someone who had never felt hunger claw at their ribs, never known what it was to count scraps and call it dinner. Aaryan could still see the basket hit the ground, fruit rolling in every direction. Hours of work, gone in an instant.

  The chief’s son had smiled. The kind of smile that came easy to those who had never been told no.

  "Maybe if you grovel, I’ll let you have it back."

  Aaryan had picked up each piece, fingers tight around bruised skin. But he had never begged.

  That had been last year.

  The world, however, hadn’t changed. The strong still took what they wanted. The clever learned when to bow, when to vanish.

  Aaryan tore off the last piece of his roti, chewing slow. His gaze moved over the village square, taking in the rhythm of daily life. Hawkers called out prices. Children darted between stalls. Old men huddled together, grumbling about the late rains. But beneath it all, something had shifted.

  A ripple in the air.

  The weight of hushed voices wound through the marketplace like rising smoke.

  “He’s back.”

  “The chief’s son…”

  “They say he trained under a cultivator. That he brought warriors with him.”

  Aaryan exhaled through his nose. His fingers brushed the frayed hem of his sash. If the rumours were true, this wasn’t just a return. It was a declaration.

  Power never crept in quietly.

  And when power moved, the ones at the bottom felt it first.

  If he wanted to survive, he needed more than food.

  Knowledge made the difference between a fox slipping away unseen and becoming the night’s meal.

  His feet carried him toward the general store. Not just for work. For information. The shopkeeper had a sharp tongue and sharper ears. If he listened well—if he asked the right questions and held the right silences—he might find out what this return meant for him.

  ?? — ? — ??

  The scent of old wood and grain filled the air as Aaryan stepped inside. Familiar. Steady. He greeted the shopkeeper with an easy grin, slipping into his usual role. Another day. Another job.

  Then—the murmurs outside shifted.

  A presence settled over the square. Heavy. Unshakable.

  The quiet came next, rolling through the streets like a wave pulling back before a storm.

  “Failure is not an option on this mission.”

  The voice cut through the air. Steady. Unyielding. Aaryan felt it settle in his chest, deep and foreboding, like the first tremor of an earthquake. His grip tightened around the broom handle.

  That voice.

  A shadow stretched across the store’s wooden floor. The doorway darkened. Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried.

  Then, a figure stepped forward.

  Tall. Broad-shouldered. Robes finer than before, embroidered with sigils that caught the light. Power clung to him, thick in the air, like the charged silence before thunder.

  Aaryan knew that face. He had known it since childhood.

  The chief’s son had returned.

  And from the way the villagers shrank back—from the gleam of polished boots, the careful stillness in their eyes—he had not returned as the boy who had left.

  Aaryan’s fingers pressed into the worn wood of the broom handle, turning knuckles white. A dozen instincts flickered through him—run, bow, disappear.

  But he did none of them.

  He took a slow breath, let it settle in his chest.

  Then, as always, he smiled.

  https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/108046/destiny-reckoninga-xianxia-cultivation-progression