The procession moved with steady precision, boots grinding against the uneven gravel path that wound higher into the mountains. Each step sent loose stones tumbling into the mist-veiled abyss below, vanishing without a sound. Aaryan kept pace, breath even, eyes fixed ahead, though his mind tracked every shift in power, every silent rivalry, the weight of what loomed beyond.

  The air thinned as they climbed, laced with the crisp bite of damp stone, pine, and lingering torch smoke. No one spoke much. Words felt intrusive in the vastness of this indifferent wilderness. They waited—for orders, for danger, for the true purpose of their journey to make itself known.

  Kamalpuri had long since disappeared behind the thickening mist. In the hush of the ascent, Aaryan took stock of those around him.

  Men liked to claim they loathed sycophants. Lies. They relied on them. Recognition, validation—it was currency, and Jivak knew exactly how to spend it. He never seized control outright. He didn’t need to. A nod here, a well-timed pause, the barest shift in stance—subtle cues that made others lean in, eager to fill the space he left open. Aaryan had seen it before, and he saw it now. Jivak’s influence stretched through the ranks, quiet but absolute.

  The path narrowed, forcing the group into single file. Ancient trees loomed overhead, their roots twisting through the earth, demanding careful footing. Mist slithered through the undergrowth, curling between gnarled trunks and creeping vines. The jungle canopy fractured the light, scattering restless patterns of gold and green across their path.

  To the left, the mountain reared skyward, jagged cliffs lined with claw-like rocks. To the right, the valley plunged into an endless white abyss. A single misstep, and a man could disappear with only a scream.

  The hours dragged, the relentless climb gnawing at muscles and breath. Aaryan ignored the ache in his calves, watching instead for the tells—fingers flexing on weapon hilts, shoulders tightening when shadows shifted too close. The jungle cared nothing for their presence, but the men wore their tension like a second skin. Even here, among the wilds, the game of dominance never ceased.

  A break in the incline. A clearing, just wide enough to hold them all. The silver-armoured figures at the front spoke in low tones, unable to be heard. A decision. Orders spread down the line. Some teams split away, swallowed by the jungle. Aaryan’s group remained on the main path, pressing toward the highest peak.

  By mid-afternoon, the climb relented—briefly. The lead officer, a man draped in Vasruk’s insignia, raised a gloved hand. A silent command. The column halted.

  Boots ground against loose gravel. Shoulders rolled, stretching out knots of tension. A few men flexed stiff fingers, shaking out the lingering ache of constant ascent. No fire, no real rest. Just long enough to breathe, not long enough to ease. Some crouched at the clearing’s edge, eyes darting toward the jungle, wary of things unseen. The silver-armoured figures conferred in hushed tones, their conversation careful, deliberate. The junior chiefs lingered nearby, waiting for orders.

  Jivak moved as he always did—easy, unobtrusive, weaving through the group like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. A remark here, a nod there. Never forceful, never overstepping. Just enough to be acknowledged. Just enough to be remembered.

  Aaryan rolled his shoulders, shaking out the stiffness creeping up his spine. This was only a pause before they climbed higher, before the jungle surrendered to jagged cliffs and merciless winds.

  Jivak approached, his gaze carrying something just beneath the surface. He gestured toward the gathered men.

  “We’re splitting up,” he said smoothly. “Make use of the time. Gather herbs, supplies—whatever might prove useful.”

  Pairs formed in moments. No one wanted to be alone in the jungle. That was how men disappeared.

  Then Jivak turned to Aaryan. And smiled.

  “Aaryan,” he said, voice as calm as still water. “You’ll go alone.”

  The space between them stretched thin. A test. A message. Or both.

  Jivak motioned toward the valley, some distance from the main path. “That way. See what you can find.”

  Aaryan didn’t stiffen. Didn’t protest. A refusal would be weakness. Defiance would be worse. Either would give Jivak exactly what he wanted.

  Instead, he met Jivak’s gaze, let a polite, empty smile settle on his lips. “Of course, elder brother.”

  Something flickered in Jivak’s expression. Not quite annoyance—he was too practiced for that. But he had expected hesitation. Resistance. A crack in composure he could use.

  Aaryan gave him nothing.

  Jivak’s fingers twitched at his side before he exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. Then the smirk returned, practiced, easy. “Good. I’d hate to think you needed someone to hold your hand.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  The barb was meant to cut. Aaryan let it hang in the air, untouched, meaningless. He turned, stepping toward the valley, unhurried.

  Jivak lingered, watching. Then, with a click of his tongue, he turned away, leading the others back toward safer, more predictable ground.

  Aaryan walked alone. The path dipped beneath his feet, damp soil shifting, marking each step before swallowing the imprint whole. The scent of wet earth thickened.

  Then he saw it.

  Not a valley. A mouth in the mountain, wedged between jagged stone, half-choked by vines and twisted roots. A cave.

  The entrance loomed, narrow and uneven, its depths swallowing the weak light filtering through the trees. A breath of cold air curled from within, damp and ancient, carrying the scent of stone long untouched.

  He hesitated. Only for a moment.

  Then he stepped inside.

  Shadows stretched, twisting against the rough walls. The world outside faded, muffled by stone. Silence settled, thick and expectant, as if the cave itself was holding its breath.

  Aaryan’s boots moved soundlessly over uneven ground. He scanned his surroundings—loose stones, tangled roots, patches of damp moss. Nothing useful.

  But something caught the light.

  A faint shimmer, barely there.

  At the far end of the cave, where the damp earth met the stone, a single flower swayed in the cold draft.

  Small. Delicate. Alive.

  He had seen it in the torn pages. Aaryan crouched. The petals layered in perfect symmetry, their pale glow casting a soft halo against the darkness. A pattern too precise to be mistaken. A shape too rare to be ignored.

  His pulse remained steady, but his fingers curled slightly.

  A Twelve-Petal Earthly Lily. A treasure whispered about in hushed voices, sought by alchemists, coveted by the powerful. A single petal could refine the body, temper the soul. The entire bloom?

  Priceless.

  His fingers hovered near the stem. He didn’t pluck it. Not yet. His gaze traced the delicate contours, following the way the dim light skimmed over each petal, the way the colour shifted in its soft glow. A breath escaped his lips.

  “If this is real…” The words barely left him, a whisper swallowed by the cave’s silence.

  His mind worked quickly. Selling it? Impossible. He had no backing, no protection—no way to claim ownership without drawing the wrong kind of attention. But presenting it to a junior chief? That could change everything.

  Then he saw it.

  A flaw. Small. Nearly invisible.

  The petal’s edge curved just a fraction too sharply. The iridescence faltered, dull where it should have gleamed.

  A mimic.

  The realization cut through him, sharp and immediate. A near-perfect forgery, crafted to fool the reckless. If he had plucked it without noticing… poison? Something worse? Or perhaps just public humiliation, which in some ways was deadlier.

  The tension in his jaw eased, shifting into something colder. He exhaled, straightened, and turned to leave.

  Movement.

  A shadow shifted at the cave’s edge.

  Jivak’s man. He had been waiting. Watching. Silent enough to remain unnoticed—until now.

  A calculated step. A subtle collision. Aaryan felt the shift in balance, just slight enough to disrupt his momentum. Before he could react, fingers snatched the bloom from the soil.

  The man stepped back, tucking the flower into his robes.

  Aaryan’s gaze flicked to the gathered men outside. Some had seen. Their eyes followed the exchange, but none spoke. The silence was thick, heavy in a way that spoke of unspoken rules, of something waiting to unfold.

  Then, the man’s voice rang out, sharp and deliberate. “Look what I’ve found!”

  The camp stilled. Heads turned. Silver-armoured figures shifted, drawn by the words.

  At the centre, Nayan moved.

  Slow. Purposeful.

  His gaze settled on the flower. And for the first time—his expression changed.

  Recognition.

  Aaryan’s breath caught. He saw it, the briefest flicker of surprise in Nayan’s eyes. Then, the moment was gone, buried beneath a mask of calm.

  But it wasn’t just Nayan who noticed. Jivak’s reaction was sharp, fleeting—a quick inhale, a slight shift in posture—but Aaryan knew. He could feel it in the air. Jivak hadn’t expected this. That flower wasn’t just rare. It was important. Important enough to make Jivak hesitate.

  And hesitation, for a man like Jivak, was dangerous.

  Jivak wouldn’t claim it outright—not here, not in front of Nayan. But he could twist the moment, mold it to his advantage.

  His voice came smooth, deliberate, a blade slipping between words.

  “Aaryan found this.” A measured pause. A slow shake of the head. “Yet he was leaving empty-handed. He recognized its worth but said nothing. If another had not intervened, would we have ever known?”

  The words settled over the camp like a slow-moving tide.

  Aaryan felt it shift. The weight of perception turning against him.

  Nayan watched. Unreadable. Still. But his fingers curled, subtle tension gathering in his grip. Considering. Measuring.

  Jivak pressed forward, voice steeped in quiet disappointment. “We were fortunate someone was watching.” A sigh, just soft enough to carry. A look meant to wound. “Otherwise, this treasure might have simply… disappeared.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered men. Not outrage. Not yet. But doubt. Flickers of uncertainty exchanged in glances. The seed was planted. Accusation into assumption. Assumption into belief.

  Then, Nayan spoke. “Take him away.”

  And just like that decision was made.

  Hands clamped onto Aaryan’s arms, a forceful yank dragging him toward the clearing’s edge. Bark bit into his back as he was pressed against a tree, the weight of deception closing in. The snare tightening.

  If he let this play out, it was over.

  His pulse steadied. His mind cleared. The path forward was thin, but it existed.

  He had to break the rhythm. Shift the weight. Make Nayan think.

  A breath. A single, measured pause.

  His voice cut through the murmurs, steady and sharp. “Junior Chief.”

  Nayan’s gaze snapped to him.

  Aaryan met Nayan’s gaze without flinching. “If I am wrong, you may punish me however you see fit.” A deliberate pause. A breath of silence. Then, his next words struck like flint against stone. “But if this flower is not what you believe it to be… using it could harm you.”

  The murmurs stilled.

  A shift. Small, nearly imperceptible. But there. Jivak’s expression flickered—gone in an instant, but Aaryan caught it. A crack in the certainty he had woven.

  Nayan’s fingers flexed. Tension gathering. Weighing.

  Then, another voice entered the fray.

  Sharan. The eldest of the three brothers. Measured. Cautious. The one who thought first, acted second. “Explain.”

  A single word. A single chance.

  Aaryan exhaled. The opening he needed.

  Aman, the second brother, cold and sharp-edged as a drawn blade, crossed his arms. “You have twenty breaths.”

  Now was not the time to hesitate.

  Aaryan’s mind aligned.

  Everything depended on the next words he spoke.

  He stepped forward.

  And began.

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