The square held its breath.

  Aaryan’s grip tightened around the broom handle. He had told himself he was ready. That if this moment ever came, he would be prepared. But as Nayan stepped forward—too close, too familiar—his breath hitched for just a second.

  He had survived him once. He would again.

  Nayan stood at the centre of the square, draped in deep blue. The robe shimmered under the sun, gold embroidery catching the light. Too fine for Kamalpuri. Too clean. A glaring contrast to the dust-streaked tunics of the villagers around him.

  His hair was neatly tied back, not a strand out of place. His face, once full of boyish arrogance, had sharpened into something far worse.

  Power had carved into him. The arrogance remained, but now it had weight. No longer the spoiled son of the chief. Now, a man who had learned what it meant to command. To take. To crush.

  But his eyes—those had changed the most.

  They had always held cruelty. Now, they were colder. Unreadable. A man who had seen something beyond this village and returned hungrier.

  Flanking him were two guards. Their silence spoke louder than any threat.

  The first—bald, scarred, moving with the ease of someone who had broken more bones than he could count. A man who never needed to raise his voice to be heard.

  The second was bigger. Broad. Unshaken. He didn’t scowl, didn’t sneer—just watched.

  That was the more dangerous one.

  The village shifted. A mother pulled her child close, whispering a hurried prayer before vanishing into a side street. A merchant, mid-motion while arranging sacks of rice, faltered—then quickly stepped back.

  Nayan let them fear him. He moved like he owned this place. Like the land, the streets, the people, all belonged to him by right.

  Then, his gaze landed on Aaryan.

  The weight of it settled, heavy and unspoken.

  Aaryan didn’t flinch. The memories were there—shadows clawing at the edges of his mind. The sharp sting of gravel beneath his palms. The taste of blood in his mouth. The boot pressing against his shoulder, forcing him lower.

  But that had been before.

  He wasn’t that boy anymore.

  Silence stretched.

  Then—

  "You."

  The sneer in Nayan’s voice carried the same cutting edge it always did. "Still skulking around like a rat, I see."

  The words slid under Aaryan’s skin, deliberate, practiced. A reminder. A chain, rattling just to see if it would still hold. The village stood by, watching in the way they always had—some with quiet pity, others pretending they saw nothing at all. No one would step in. They never did.

  For a moment, the past crept in, uninvited. The feel of damp mud under his knees. The weight of a boot pressing down. The taste of blood on his tongue, sharp and metallic. But he forced it back, breathing slow, steady.

  This time, he wouldn’t kneel.

  Aaryan smoothed the edges of his expression into something unreadable, slipping his voice into an easy drawl. "Morning, Junior Chief." He tipped his head just slightly. "Didn’t think I’d be fortunate enough to see you first thing."

  A flicker of something—irritation, maybe—crossed Nayan’s face before vanishing beneath his usual smugness. He took a step closer, the thick scent of perfumed oil clinging to him. "Of course, you didn’t. Too busy lingering where you don’t belong."

  Aaryan said nothing, letting the moment stretch just long enough for Nayan to notice. The other boy’s lips curled.

  "Tell me, stray—do you still grovel, or have you finally learned your place?"

  Aaryan’s fingers twitched around the broom handle. Just a fraction. Not enough to be called a reaction, but enough that he noticed. He exhaled evenly, forcing his grip to stay relaxed. He knew better. Knew exactly what Nayan wanted.

  "I manage."

  A short, sharp laugh. Nayan turned slightly, as if expecting his companions to share in the amusement. The scarred one smirked. The other remained stone-faced, unreadable.

  "Well then, let’s see if you can manage this." Amusement gave way to something colder. "My father’s gathering men for an expedition. All able-bodied men are expected at the temple tonight." A deliberate pause. "Even strays."

  Aaryan’s stomach coiled tight.

  He had spent years perfecting the art of being overlooked. Moving carefully enough to be ignored, insignificant enough to slip through the cracks. But this—this was a command wrapped in a trap. A chain thrown at his feet, daring him to step into it.

  Nayan watched, waiting. He wanted hesitation. Wanted to see doubt flicker across Aaryan’s face, to pry beneath the mask.

  Aaryan gave him nothing.

  He held Nayan’s gaze, steady. "Of course."

  No challenge. No resistance. Just an answer, smooth as river stone.

  Something flickered in Nayan’s expression. A brief, unsatisfied pause before he scoffed and turned on his heel. His guards followed without a word. The scent of oil and arrogance lingered behind him.

  Only when they had disappeared down the street did Aaryan let out a slow breath. His grip on the broom relaxed, the tension in his shoulders ebbing just enough to be noticed. He had avoided the first cut, but the blade still hovered.

  Tonight, it would fall.

  Nayan’s fingers tapped lightly against his wrist, irritation flashing across his face when he didn’t get the reaction he wanted. But patience was one of his sharper weapons. He exhaled through his nose, turned away.

  "Be there," he said over his shoulder. "Or I’ll have you dragged."

  Then he strode off, his bodyguards trailing behind, their boots grinding against the packed dirt road. Aaryan didn’t watch them go. He didn’t need to. The tension in the square loosened the second they vanished past the temple. The murmurs started up again, low and cautious. Someone spat into the dust. Another muttered a curse. But no one looked at him.

  Aaryan ran his thumb over the broom handle.

  This wasn’t good.

  The chief’s son had returned. And for the first time in a long while, the past wasn’t content to stay buried. It pressed against him, insistent, clawing its way through cracks he had carefully sealed shut. A cold weight settled against his ribs, familiar in the worst way.

  No, this wasn’t good at all.

  The square exhaled, releasing the breath it hadn’t realized it was holding. The villagers’ voices swelled, a tide of whispers that lapped at the edges of his hearing. But Aaryan paid them no mind. His focus remained shackled to Nayan’s words, the weight of them pressing into his spine like a knife yet to be pulled free.

  He should have expected this.

  He should have been ready.

  He wasn’t.

  A memory stirred, unbidden.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Some time ago, the village chief had invited a cultivator, a man of legend, hoping to have his sons chosen as disciples. The price had been steep, but the prestige was worth it. When the day arrived, the entire village gathered, eager to witness the moment that would bring honor to their home. Aaryan had been there too, standing at the edge of the crowd, unnoticed as always.

  But the cultivator chose no one.

  Disappointment thickened the air, faces fell, hopes crumbled. But Aaryan had seen something—an opportunity. When others hesitated, he stepped forward, speaking with a confidence he hadn’t known he possessed. He asked questions, sharp and clever, proving knowledge where others had offered only desperate pleas. Something in his words amused the cultivator, intrigued him just enough to reach into his robes and pull out a book—an old text on rare herbs and beasts. A gift, he said, for wit over strength.

  The joy had been short-lived. As soon as the cultivator departed, Nayan struck. Aaryan barely had time to react before fists found their mark. The book was ripped from his hands, stolen with laughter and cruelty. But not all of it. In the struggle, he had managed to tear away a handful of pages, stuffing them into his clothes before they could be taken.

  Now, standing in the village square, the memory burned as fresh as the bruises had back then.

  For a long moment, he just stood there. The broom handle was rough beneath his fingers, grounding him when his mind threatened to splinter. Then, with a sharp breath, he forced himself to move. The past was dead weight. The pressure in his chest didn’t matter. What mattered was the temple.

  ?? — ? — ??

  The temple courtyard was already full when Aaryan arrived. Men gathered in loose clusters, their hushed voices drifting through the air like restless ghosts. The firelight from the oil-fed braziers flickered against the stone walls, sending twisting shadows through the lingering incense smoke of the evening prayers. The scent clung to the crowd, mixing with sweat and dust.

  Expectation sat heavy in the air.

  Aaryan stepped forward, aware of glances brushing over him before sliding away. The temple had always carried a hush, but tonight, it was something else. Not reverence. Not patience.

  Apprehension.

  At the centre of it all stood Nayan, firelight catching the golden embroidery of his robe. He held himself with an ease that came naturally to those who had never known real struggle. The air bent around him in the way it always did for men who had never been denied anything.

  Aaryan took his place in the crowd, forcing his breath to stay even.

  Nayan didn’t acknowledge him. Not immediately. Instead, he let his gaze drag over the gathered men, inspecting them like a merchant judging a shipment. Finally, his lips curled—not a smile, not anything warm.

  “Enough murmuring.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the restless quiet. “This mission is not for the weak. No mistakes will be tolerated. If we succeed, your lives will change. If we fail—” he let the words hang there, letting the weight of the unspoken settle, “well, we won’t fail.”

  Silence thickened. Aaryan felt the tension in the men around him, the way ambition and unease tangled beneath their skin.

  “We march toward something greater than any of you understand,” Nayan continued. “The mountain holds its riches, but only for those who prove themselves.”

  It wasn’t encouragement. It was a dare.

  A few men straightened. Others shifted uneasily.

  Then, a voice slid in from the side, smooth where Nayan’s had been sharp.

  “Junior Chief Nayan.” Jivak. Broad-shouldered, all practiced smiles and measured words. “An honour to have you leading this evening.”

  Aaryan kept his face neutral, but he didn’t need to turn to know Jivak’s gaze had found him.

  Nayan waved a dismissive hand, though amusement played at the edges of his mouth. “I have other matters. But I will be overseeing everything.”

  A pause. A deliberate one.

  “My brother, Sharan, will lead a separate team.”

  A different silence took hold. Not the tense one Nayan commanded. Something quieter. Heavier.

  If Nayan was a blade, Sharan was a net.

  And by the time one realized they were caught, it was already too late.

  “The teams will stay together during the ascent,” Nayan continued. “Once we reach our destination, we’ll split. Some will secure the perimeter. Others will go deeper.”

  Jivak’s fingers drummed idly against his belt. His smile slid into place, sharp as a blade.

  “And since this mission is so important,” he drawled, “we can’t afford to carry anyone who might be a liability.”

  His eyes landed exactly where Aaryan knew they would.

  “Aaryan.” Casual, almost amused. “A mission like this… well, not everyone is suited for it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The air shifted. The crowd felt it.

  Blood in the water.

  Aaryan didn’t move. Didn’t react. He knew this game. Jivak wanted hesitation. Wanted doubt to slip through the cracks, wanted the others to see it too.

  He wouldn’t give them that. Not again.

  His fingers flexed once before stilling. His breath stayed steady. His expression, unreadable.

  “You’ve made mistakes before,” Jivak continued, voice still light. “Surely, we can’t risk another—”

  He stopped. A fraction of a second. But Aaryan saw it—the hesitation, the flicker of something behind Jivak’s eyes.

  A memory passed between them, silent and sharp. A different mountain. A different mission. Jivak’s men, buried beneath stone, gasping for breath, clawing at the dirt. And Aaryan—the stray, the unwanted one—pulling them free.

  Jivak recovered fast. His lips curled into a smirk, carefully crafted. “Then again, luck favours fools, doesn’t it?”

  Aaryan said nothing.

  Jivak’s smirk deepened. “But why not put it to the test?” He turned slightly, glancing at Nayan. “If he can take a single blow from one of your bodyguards without falling, he joins. Seems fair, doesn’t it?”

  Nayan considered it, then gave a slow nod. One of his guards stepped forward, a towering figure, muscles coiled beneath his tunic. The crowd stirred. A whisper ran through them. A grown man striking a ten-year-old.

  The bodyguard didn’t hesitate. His fist drove into Aaryan’s stomach, solid as a hammer.

  Pain flared, but Aaryan had always been stronger than the others. He felt it, but not as much as they expected. Still, he doubled over slightly, biting into his lip just enough to spit blood onto the dirt. Let them believe it hurt more than it did.

  The murmurs spread. He heard them. The stray had taken the hit. Still standing.

  Jivak’s smirk wavered. Just for a second.

  Nayan’s voice cut through the air, smooth as silk. “Enough.”

  Jivak straightened, just slightly. A shift barely noticeable, but enough to make Aaryan’s skin crawl. The mask of indifference Jivak wore, always so firm, threatened to crack under the weight of his own game. A glint in his eyes told Aaryan everything he needed to know—this wasn’t over.

  “Aaryan,” Nayan said, voice cold and cutting. “You’re only here because of your adoptive father. Don’t embarrass me.” A pause, deliberate, his gaze sharp enough to flay. “If not for that, you wouldn’t even be here.”

  Aaryan felt the words dig in, but his face remained still. Unreadable. If Jivak wanted a reaction, he wouldn’t get it.

  “I won’t make any mistakes, Junior Chief.”

  Nayan held his gaze for a beat longer before scoffing. His lips curled, a hint of disdain in his expression. “Good. See that you don’t.”

  The tension in the air was thick, like a rope pulled too tight. Every eye in the temple courtyard flickered between them, waiting, watching. Aaryan exhaled slowly, the knot in his gut coiling tighter. This test was over, but something told him the real game hadn’t even begun.

  Then the air shifted.

  Murmurs rippled through the gathered men, whispers threading through the tense silence. A disturbance. Something coming.

  Boots hit the ground in unison, heavy and deliberate. Not the uneven scuffle of villagers, not the idle stride of travellers. Purposeful. Controlled.

  Aaryan turned.

  Five men stepped into view, their formation precise. Too precise. His eyes moved over them, cataloguing details before his mind fully caught up. Two figures at the front, dressed in robes deep blue and stitched with gold—Sharan and Ayan. Nayan’s elder brothers.

  Aaryan’s stomach twisted. If they were here, this wasn’t just another routine expedition. This was something bigger. Something dangerous.

  Then he saw the others.

  Three men clad in polished silver Armor, the gleam of their plated shoulders catching in the firelight. They walked with an ease that came from power—the kind of men who held authority not just in name, but in presence. Aaryan didn’t need a second look to know who they were.

  Generals. From Vasruk.

  His fingers twitched around his sleeve before he forced them still. City generals. Here. A military presence this far from the capital meant only one thing: whatever they were after wasn’t just treasure or land. It was something worth blood.

  The murmurs in the crowd swelled, unease spreading like ink through water.

  “Gods above,” an older man muttered, barely audible. “Ain’t those the city generals from Vasruk?”

  “Looks like them,” another voice agreed, cautious and low. “What in the hells are Vasruk’s men doing here?”

  “Nothing good,” came the rasp of a third, his voice thick with the weight of unspoken knowledge. “You don’t bring generals for a simple mountain trip.”

  The air seemed to thicken as Nayan moved forward to meet them. His usual arrogance had faded, replaced by something colder, more calculated. He spoke in hushed tones, words clipped and efficient, his posture controlled, almost stiff.

  Aaryan caught fragments of the conversation as the generals exchanged brief words with Nayan and his brothers. The mission was important, they said. Something about the splitting of teams, the absolute need for discipline. It all came across as too calculated, too precise.

  And then, the assignments came.

  Aaryan’s name rang out with quiet finality, followed by the mention of his group. He could feel the weight of the assignment fall over him, like a shadow stretching across his path. It was an afterthought, he realized—nothing more than a way to fill the gaps. But that wasn’t what grabbed his attention. It was the last name spoken. Jivak.

  The leader of his unit, Jivak. And now, Aaryan was under him.

  Jivak turned slightly, his eyes locking with Aaryan’s for a moment. His lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk—half amusement, half warning. There was a subtle challenge in his gaze, a hint of something far more dangerous beneath his outward calm.

  Aaryan rolled his shoulders, a small movement, but enough to dispel the tension coiling in them. He would not show weakness here. Not in front of Jivak. Not in front of any of them.

  “Everyone, get ready. We march now,” came Sharan’s voice, firm and decisive.

  The command sent a ripple through the group, and Aaryan immediately fell into step with the others, the weight of their eyes heavy upon him. They watched—every single one of them. Their expectations, their judgments, invisible but pressing down on him like a storm cloud. The thought gnawed at him, but he refused to let it show. He could feel their stares on his back, the silent assessment in every glance, but he wouldn’t stop. Not now. Not when this was his way out.

  The jagged peaks of the mountains loomed in the distance, their dark silhouettes cutting into the sky like silent sentinels standing watch over the land. Aaryan could almost feel their cold eyes on him as they began their march, the wind biting at his skin, the chill of the mountain seeping into his bones.

  His legs burned as they climbed, the path steep and unforgiving, the mountain seeming to swallow them whole with every step they took. Aaryan pushed through the pain. He wasn’t afraid. Not yet. Not as long as he could still stand, still move forward.

  This was it. The beginning of something. The beginning of his way out.

  He had to survive. He had to.

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