The Sect Leader gave a slow nod, and Elder Kiyan rose from his seat with practiced grace. He bowed respectfully toward the dais before turning to face the hall of gathered disciples.

"As always," Elder Kiyan began, his voice measured and sonorous, "the Mani Disciple Trial will be held on Mount Veinsunder. Only core disciples are eligible to participate."

The moment he said "Veinsunder," a low murmur rippled through the hall. Some disciples stiffened. Others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The name alone carried weight. Stories of spirit beasts, mind-breaking illusions, and vanishing cultivators had long made it a whispered legend among the younger disciples.

Elder Kiyan continued, his tone growing a shade more solemn. "However, after reviewing incidents from the last few trials, the Sect Leader has decided on a change. This time, participation will not be mandatory. As long as the required number of disciples are willing to take part, the rest may abstain."

The words had barely left his mouth when a hand shot up from the corner of the hall.

"I abstain," Aaryan declared, standing upright like a man submitting to the mercy of Heaven. "With deep sincerity and a heavy heart—good luck, everyone."

He placed a hand on his chest, bowed slightly to the hall, and looked as though he'd just delivered his own eulogy. His tone was mournful, his expression peaceful, as if he'd come to terms with life, death, and the possibility of being struck down mid-sentence by a wrathful elder.

Silence slammed into the chamber like a bell cut short.

Elder Kiyan blinked mid-sentence, his mouth still open, while every eye in the room turned toward the young man who now calmly stood with the contentment of a death row convict receiving a pardon.

Aaryan's gaze drifted upward to the Sect Leader and the Grand Elders seated at the centre. 'Wait... it really worked? Just like that?' Even he looked mildly suspicious of his own success. This had to be a trap. Or divine mercy. Possibly both.

Meanwhile, Kuni, sitting a few spaces right to Aaryan, jolted upright as if struck by lightning. His eyes flicked toward Aaryan in disbelief. What the hell was that? He was supposed to go first. That had been the plan—abstain early, make it look real. His excuse had been refined over three sleepless nights. A faint illness for his mother. Plausible. Emotional. Guilt-tripping, even.

Now?

Now it looked like he was jumping ship because Aaryan, of all people, did it first.

Still, it was too late to back down. He rose stiffly to his feet with the slow dignity of a man cornered by fate and social disaster.

"My apologies, elders," he said gravely, pitching his voice toward sorrowful gravitas. "I must return to my clan. My mother has… fallen gravely ill."

There was a beat of stillness.

And then—

"Oh no, how tragic," Aaryan exclaimed, full of sudden alarm and heartfelt pity. "I happen to be a trained healer! Well... mostly trained. Technically trained. I once read half a scroll on internal diagnostics. She'll be stronger than the Elder Hall's defence formations."

The words hung in the air like smoke after a spark.

Kuni froze mid-bow. His mouth slightly parted, his breath caught in his throat. Slowly, mechanically, he turned to look at Aaryan—like a puppet whose strings had just been pulled by a drunk puppeteer.

This silence had teeth.

One disciple halfway through sipping tea nearly choked. Another dropped his jade slip with a faint clack. Other shifted in her seat, one hand covering her mouth—not in horror, but in what suspiciously resembled an attempt to hide a smile.

Elder Kiyan's face twitched. The lines around his mouth strained as he closed his eyes for a breath longer than necessary. The twitch near his left eye jumped again.

"Disciple Aaryan…"

"Yes, Elder?" Aaryan straightened, his face the picture of innocence. Polished. Polite. Pure.

"This is not a forum for… colourful commentary."

"Understood," Aaryan nodded with complete sincerity. "My apologies. Just trying to offer a helping hand—and a pulse."

Someone choked behind him—judging by the coughs, still alive.

Elder Kiyan's knuckles whitened around the ceremonial staff he wasn't even holding. He forced a breath out through his nose and moved on with the smooth patience of a man determined not to let one disciple ruin centuries of tradition.

Some elders looked towards the Sect Leader, unmoved as ever, who adjusted his sleeve with regal detachment. But a faint glimmer in his eye—was that amusement? Or annoyance? It was hard to tell.

Kuni sat back down. Slowly. Carefully. Like a man retreating from a landmine he had accidentally stepped on and now suspected was still ticking. His face had paled, his hands were stiff at his sides, and his carefully prepared speech had just been stabbed, skinned, and set on fire in front of the entire sect.

No one else dared move.

Not yet.

All eyes flicked between Aaryan and the elders, waiting to see whether lightning would strike... or if the storm had just begun.

Another figure slowly rose from the third row—Shoya. Dark-robed, hair slicked back, eyes like still water before a storm. He hadn't spoken yet, but even his silence made disciples avoid eye contact.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Clearly, this had gone off-script.

"…I'm on the verge of a breakthrough," Shoya said, voice low and precise. "So I need to seclude myself. I will not be able to join."

A reasonable excuse. Perfectly delivered. The kind that discouraged questions.

Aaryan blinked at him. "Breakthrough?" He looked genuinely surprised, then turned to the nearest disciple and whispered—not quietly, "This is his first full sentence this year."

Laughter threatened to leak from a few corners. A low snort from the back betrayed someone's control. Another disciple coughed so hard they knocked over their teacup.

Shoya's jaw clenched. A single bead of sweat crawled down his temple like it feared for its life.

Before Elder Kiyan could even draw breath, the fourth figure stood up—Dhawan. Handsome, sharp-eyed, and usually composed like a statue carved from pride. But right now, that statue was developing cracks.

He gave a shallow bow, voice steady but pitched half an octave higher than normal. "I… I just received a clue about a bounty mission. A lead I've been chasing for months!"

He nodded as if trying to convince himself. "This could be my only chance."

Aaryan gasped like he'd just witnessed the heavens part. "Months? Why, that's incredible timing! What divine coincidence that it appeared today, right after three others bailed out! Almost suspicious. Almost as if… the heavens themselves are trying to frame me."

Dhawan twitched. Kuni groaned aloud. Shoya's hand flexed like it wanted to reach for a blade, or at least Aaryan's throat.

All three sat down in synchronized shame, like prisoners on a sinking boat watching their last raft catch fire.

Aaryan glanced at them. "Come now, brothers. If you're going to trap me, at least do it with dignity. Is this really how you want to go down in the sect's records? 'The Cowards Who Flinched Before the Funny One'?"

Kuni slapped a hand over his eyes. "Does he have to be this shameless?"

Dhawan muttered under his breath, "You're the one who said he was too irrelevant to ruin the plan."

Shoya didn't speak. But if a look could flay flesh, Aaryan would currently be soup.

Meanwhile, Elder Kiyan had turned a shade redder than the sect's ceremonial banners. A vein throbbed visibly near his temple.

He leaned forward slightly, teeth clenched, lips tight, and muttered—"that's not how this was supposed to go."

Then he looked toward the Sect Leader with something between a prayer and a silent scream for help. His expression said it all: Please, kill him. Or me. Either is fine.

The Sect Leader, unmoved, simply sat with quiet elegance. He didn't speak. He didn't smile. But… there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite amusement. Not quite approval. Just… something.

Elder Kiyan saw it. His lips pressed into a single, straight line. Then—he turned back to the hall, took a deep breath that tasted like suffering, and spoke.

"…Are there any other disciples who wish to abstain for completely unpredictable, definitely legitimate, and coincidentally synchronized reasons?"

The entire hall froze. The silence was now absolute—no coughs, no whispers, not even the wind dared enter.

Kuni, Shoya, and Dhawan sat as still as funeral statues, each regretting every choice that led to this moment.

And Aaryan?

He sat back down, smiled faintly, and folded his hands.

"Ah," he said softly, like a man sipping victory tea brewed from someone else's embarrassment. "What a lovely day to be surrounded by such supportive sect brothers."

A few chuckles fluttered through the chamber. Even Elder Dharun, usually carved from stone during such meetings, looked vaguely amused, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Then came the shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.

The air grew quieter than it had any right to be. The kind of quiet that didn't just fall—it waited. Like a coin hovering mid-flip, like the hush before lightning.

Sect Leader Pryag's voice flowed in smoothly, as if picking up a thread that had never been dropped. "These three have valid obligations. That leaves seven remaining… including you, Aaryan."

The chuckles died immediately. A few disciples tilted their heads, glancing between Pryag and the boy in black.

Aaryan turned toward him slowly, savouring the words like a wine that had soured just enough to be interesting. "Oh no, Sect Leader," he said, lifting a finger with mock politeness. "I volunteered not to participate right at the start. That should count for at least two people. Maybe three, if you factor in sincerity."

A few of the disciples coughed—whether from nerves or amusement was anyone's guess.

Pryag smiled in return, the same way a chess master smiles at a piece trying to escape the board. "Sadly, the Heavens don't measure sincerity. Only contribution."

"Tragic," Aaryan said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. "Then again, selective contribution seems to be trending lately. Some people raise their hands and get escorted to safety. I raise mine, and get drafted."

"Drafted?" Pryag tilted his head, tone still calm. "You misunderstand. No one is being forced."

"Of course not." Aaryan's tone stayed light, almost flippant. "Only gently… boxed in." His fingers danced in the air, sketching an invisible square. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

He smiled faintly. "I step back before the race even starts, and suddenly—" "—we're pretending the track only allows three off-ramps."

He let the words hang for a second longer than necessary—just long enough to become uncomfortable.

Then his gaze flicked toward the Third Elder, sharp and casual all at once. "Rules born the moment they're needed. Almost like they were waiting for me."

The chamber seemed to breathe in. Several inner disciples straightened unconsciously. One of them muttered something under his breath, but was promptly elbowed into silence.

The Third Elder's fan snapped open with a crack, louder than it needed to be.

His lips barely moved. Yet those close enough to hear caught the hiss of displeasure: Damn brat…

Dancing around the edge of it, and the others are starting to catch the scent. There was no rule—just a little opening, timed just right. A silent trap.

And now? He's turning it inside out… without even saying a word.

Damn clever.

Meanwhile, Aaryan sat perfectly still. Not smug, not rebellious. Just watching.

As if he were giving them the chance to pretend this was all aboveboard.

Pryag's expression didn't flicker. "Perhaps fate simply assigned you an important role."

Aaryan leaned forward slightly, the glint in his eyes too amused to be polite. "Fate seems oddly obsessed with me lately. Might need a restraining order."

A few disciples laughed, short and nervous.

"You're strong, Aaryan," Pryag said evenly. "Sharp. Unorthodox. The kind of cultivator a mission needs."

"Is that praise or a recruitment threat?" Aaryan asked. "I get those confused sometimes."

Someone near the back coughed—unclear if from laughter or discomfort. Maybe both.

But Pryag didn't lose his rhythm. "I trust you'll give it your best. Even unwilling brilliance can illuminate the path for others."

Aaryan gave a long-suffering sigh. "Wonderful. Nothing like a little reluctant illumination to start the week."

He slouched back, gaze drifting to the ceiling as if wondering whether karma was written in invisible ink up there.

Someone shifted behind him.

Dharun's lips quirked again—almost a smile this time. His eyes, however, flicked briefly toward Pryag and the Third Elder.

There it was again. That same lingering feeling: the rules had moved.

Not officially. Not aloud. But clearly.

And yet, no one would call it what it was.

Except Aaryan. Without ever saying it.

He never broke the rules. Just bent the light around them until everyone saw the shadows.

The silence stretched again.

Then Pryag's smile deepened just slightly. "Good. That's settled, then."

Aaryan smiled right back. "Oh yes. Settled beautifully. Like a stone in the shoe."

The meeting moved forward, but the undercurrent remained.

Several disciples had paled slightly. A few exchanged glances, realizing—for the first time—that Aaryan's sharp tongue wasn't just for show.

Even when cornered, he could shift the board beneath your feet.

And worse?

He'd make you laugh while doing it.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.