Aaryan froze.

Out of all the faces he could've imagined, this—this was the last.

"Aman?" he whispered.

The figure stepped forward towards him, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. His robes were black, lined with crimson patterns that pulsed faintly. His eyes held no familiarity—only cruelty dressed in calm.

"You look surprised," Aman said, voice smooth like wet stone. "But you shouldn't be. Really, it's all thanks to you, Aaryan."

Aaryan blinked. "What...?"

"If you hadn't run off with that beast core," Aman continued, "maybe things would've turned out different. But you did. And just like that, any chance I had of entering a sect was gone. Father couldn't afford to send all three of us, even if he sold off the whole village."

Aaryan's mind reeled. He remembered the whispers, the rumours. The village chief's ambitions.

Aman laughed softly. "So, I decided to increase my chances. And while they were still out searching for you, I killed my competition, Sharan. He died choking on his own blood. Fitting, really."

Aaryan's breath caught.

Sharan was sharp. Cautious. Ruthless. That he had died at the hands of his younger brother felt... wrong. Surreal.

"But it didn't matter," Aman went on, shrugging like he was talking village gossip. "Father found out. Tossed me out."

A chuckle. "But luck favours the bold, right?"

He looked around at the ruined hall, at the corpses strewn like discarded dolls.

"Saved a man on the road. Dying. He owned all this."

A pause. A smile.

"Now I do."

"He treated me like a son. Taught me everything. And when the time came... I helped him burn Kamalpuri to the ground. Every. Last. One."

Aaryan's heartbeat pounded.

"What?"

Aman's grin widened. "Yes. Even Father. Mother. My little, hot-headed brother. All turned to ash and human pills. A hundred villagers, screaming, begging. But they were worth a lot. Helped me rise fast."

Aaryan took a step back. Faces flashed in his mind—Uncle Jeevan who taught him to fish. The aunty who gave him free food every time he woke up hungry in the morning.

Gone?

Murdered? Turned into... pills?

"You're insane," Aaryan whispered.

"Am I?" Aman tilted his head. "The old gang leader didn't want to share. So I slipped poison into his soup. He died like a pig. And thanks to all those human pills... Qi Condensation. Fifth level. In just one year."

Aaryan couldn't breathe.

His eyes shook, fists trembling by his side.

But Aman wasn't done.

"Oh, right," he added casually, as if remembering a missed errand. "If you hadn't shown up today, Dharun would've died too. Just like that woman."

That woman?

The words landed slowly.

The name hit him like a blade across the ribs—Kalyani.

His hands curled into fists, white-knuckled and shaking. The name rang through him, louder than anything Aman had said.

The air thickened.

Aaryan snapped.

No war cry. No warning. Just a blur of movement—and then the world around him burned.

The nearest masked man didn't even register his death. Aaryan's hand drove clean through his chest, ribs shattering like splintered twigs. Blood fountained. The body dropped.

The second reached for his weapon. Aaryan's foot crushed his knee sideways, and before the scream could rise, his head was twisted clean around.

The third tried to run. Aaryan hurled a shattered corpse at him. The impact broke the man's spine. Aaryan was on him in an instant, fingers digging into the man's face until the skull collapsed inward.

Four more swarmed.

Aaryan moved like a storm.

He grabbed the nearest by the throat and used him as a shield against a blade, letting it sink deep before wrenching both bodies forward—twisting—disembowelling the attacker in one brutal movement.

Another screamed, swinging wildly. Aaryan caught the blade barehanded. Blood ran down his palm. He yanked it free and jammed it through the man's mouth, the steel bursting out the back of his neck.

One of them dropped to his knees, sobbing, begging. Aaryan didn't even glance at him—his heel came down, crushing the man's skull like fruit under a hammer.

The last one tried to crawl away.

Aaryan dragged him back by the leg, raised his boot, and stomped—once, twice, three times—until there was nothing left of the head but red mush on stone.

Ten corpses lay sprawled. Twisted. Broken. Unrecognizable.

And in the middle of them stood Aaryan, drenched in gore, his breath heavy and steaming in the cold air.

Aman—who had killed his own family, burned a village, and fed innocents to the pill furnace—felt fear. Real fear.

This wasn't a man.

This was something worse.

Aaryan looked at him, eyes like molten amber, bleeding crimson from their edges. The weight of his rage made the very air shudder. The sound that came next was not human. A roar tore from his lungs—raw, animalistic, soul-deep.

He lunged.

Aman's smirk returned. He didn't want to be anywhere near Aaryan—but he didn't have to be. He raised his hand, and with it, a rush of black Qi exploded from his core. It formed into a massive, snarling skull wreathed in smoky tendrils.

The skull shrieked forward.

Aaryan met it with a snarl of his own. His instincts told him not to touch those smoky tendrils, so he drew his old, blood-stained, rusted sword—the same one he'd had killed the scorpion-tailed wolf with and had taken with him when he returned to the Evernight Sect.

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Steel met shadow.

And steel lost.

The sword screamed as it collided with the dark Qi. The blade blackened like it was poisoned and crumbled into pieces like rotting leaves. It was the first sword he'd ever called his own, kept as a souvenir. The one he'd killed to survive with. It had shattered like a lie.

A heartbeat later, the impact sent Aaryan flying—slammed through a stone wall and into a half-burned house.

The rubble shook. Dust fell.

Aman laughed. "You really thought you could—"

His voice choked off.

His body stiffened.

Something pierced into his mind. Deep. Violent. Wrong.

A soul attack.

What happened in the jungle of Diamond City has't spread much yet, so he had no way of knowing that Aaryan was capable of this.

It felt like someone shoved a red-hot poker into the base of his skull, twisted it up behind his eyes, and set his brain on fire.

He screamed.

Blood dripped from his nose, his eyes, his ears.

Through the ringing agony, he looked up—and froze.

Aaryan was already on his feet.

He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, his movements slow, deliberate. Something deeper than fury burned in his gaze now. Grief. Wrath. A face carved into his bones.

He stepped forward.

One step.

Another.

Aman tried to gather Qi. Tried to retreat. But his limbs felt heavy. His vision blurred. His soul was bleeding.

Aaryan reached him.

Grabbed him by the face.

And squeezed.

Aman shrieked, clawing at Aaryan's wrist. But the grip only tightened. Bone cracked beneath fingers. Aaryan didn't blink.

"You killed them all," he whispered. "You killed her."

He slammed Aman into the wall. Once. Twice. The stone cracked. Aman's jaw broke, a molar flying free. Aaryan smashed him down to the ground, straddled him, and began punching.

Over and over.

Each hit landed with a crunch. Cheekbone split. Nose shattered. One eye burst like a grape. Flesh peeled back under knuckles. Teeth scattered across the blood-slick floor.

Aman tried to scream, but his throat only made gurgling sounds.

Aaryan grabbed one arm—and twisted it full circle until the shoulder popped and the bone tore through the skin. Aman convulsed.

"Uncle Jeevan," Aaryan whispered, as he crushed the ribs.

"Ritu Aunty."

Each name, a blow.

And then—

A fist through the gut.

"Kalyani."

A whisper.

He leaned down, face inches from Aman's pulped ruin.

"Killing you won't be enough..."

His voice cracked.

"...but it'll have to do."

Then, with a final roar, Aaryan grabbed Aman's head with both hands—and ripped.

The sound was wet, thick, final.

The body twitched once, then stilled.

Aman's head dangled from Aaryan's hand, mouth agape, eyes wide with terror even in death.

Aaryan dropped it.

And for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of his breath.

Heavy.

Haunted.

Alive.

Dharun's breath caught as his gaze fell upon the mangled corpse beneath Aaryan's feet. Blood pooled like ink around the crushed skull. Aaryan still stood over Aman, chest heaving, eyes glazed, fists trembling.

Dharun swallowed. A sliver of fear pierced him.

But only for a moment.

He understood.

"Aaryan!" he called, stepping forward. "She's alive—Kalyani's alive!"

The words struck like a thunderclap.

Aaryan blinked. His posture loosened, as if a taut string had snapped. He dropped to Aman's corpse, rummaging until he pulled out a blood-soaked, rectangular wooden token.

He rushed to Dharun. With a flick of the token, the cage snapped open.

"She's alive?" he asked, voice strained with hope.

"Yes. She was injured, so I gave her a herb that slows the heartbeat. They thought she was dead."

Relief lit Aaryan's face.

"I hid her before they noticed. That's when Aman caught me."

Aaryan exhaled hard.

Then froze.

His spine tingled.

"Down!" he barked, dragging Dharun.

A silver spike of thorns slammed into the stone where they'd just stood, carving a jagged crater. Qi hummed off its tip as it hissed, dissolving the edge of the broken cage.

Another spike.

Then a third.

Aaryan dodged each with unnatural precision, feeling the ripples in the air before each strike. Since his breakthrough to Spirit Awakening realm, his instincts were sharpened—more than human.

"We're being hunted," he said. "Can you spot them?"

Dharun pointed. "There. Past that broken hut."

They moved. Aaryan darted forward, baiting the next spike. It hissed past his shoulder. Dharun's hands blurred through mudras—silver Qi crackled across his arms—and he hurled a bolt toward the spot.

The air split.

A figure stepped through.

Sect Leader Pryag.

His robes flowed like stormclouds, silver patterns flickering like lightning across the fabric. He walked like silence incarnate, but his presence boomed.

Dharun's eyes narrowed. "He used a concealment treasure."

Pryag smiled faintly. "Well-spotted. As expected."

He lifted a hand lazily. "The Grand Elder's seat is yours. Interested?"

Dharun spat. "Kind offer. But I'm still recovering from being caged like a beast. Not sure I'm 'worthy.'"

Pryag's smile faded.

Then he vanished.

Lightning fell like divine judgment.

Dharun's Qi flared, silver arcs clashing upward. The collision cracked through the chamber, tremors shaking loose stone and dust.

Aaryan flinched but didn't run.

He closed his eyes.

The Anvil Strike.

Pressure built behind his eyes. Pain. Focus. He shaped it into a single, formless point—a needle of soul.

He released it.

The silent strike pierced through the air.

And shattered.

Pryag didn't even blink.

"Soul-protecting treasure," Dharun muttered, jaw tight.

Pryag glanced back, voice calm. "Why do you think pawns like Aman are used first?" His gaze lingered on Aaryan. "To bleed. To burn. To trigger your little tricks… before I arrive."

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan flew back again.

He struck the ground like a broken doll, blood fanning out beneath him. Stone cracked where his body landed, ribs fracturing beneath the impact. His limbs barely responded—just the faintest twitch of fingers, the ragged rise and fall of his chest. His vision blurred, eyes swimming with blood and shadow.

He would've died long ago.

But Pryag didn't want him dead. Not yet.

The same couldn't be said for Dharun.

The elder's body was wrecked—skin torn, robes shredded, wounds crisscrossing like someone had tried to carve a map into his flesh. His left arm hung limply, bones jutting out at odd angles from an earlier break. His right, freshly shattered, twitched as Pryag's hand closed around his throat and hoisted him into the air.

"Dharun," Aaryan croaked. His mouth barely moved. He tried lifting his head and managed just enough to see Dharun dangling, gasping, blood leaking from his nose and ears.

The little dragonling still perched on his shoulder, unmoving.

Aaryan had tried to wake it earlier, begging it to help—but there had been nothing. No reply. No flicker of silver light. The beast was fully spent in the battle few days ago. Now it was just there, like an ornament, eyes closed and tail limp.

His hand twitched toward his ring.

The jade tablet.

It was still there. Hidden. Waiting. But his arms felt like they'd been dipped in molten lead. Every nerve ached. His bones screamed when he tried to move.

"You still alive down there?" Pryag's voice drifted lazily across the hall.

Aaryan didn't answer.

"I'd love to kill you right now, boy," Pryag said. "Truly. But you're too important. Not yet. Soon. Once I get what I need."

He turned slightly, eyes narrowing.

"But him?" His hand tightened around Dharun's throat. "And that girl, Kalyani—do you two really think you can protect anyone?"

Aaryan's breath caught. He rasped, "Let them go. Please. I'll… I'll surrender."

There was a beat of silence.

Then laughter.

Pryag laughed like he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. "Surrender?" he echoed. "What do you think this is, boy? Some noble duel?"

His eyes narrowed with contempt.

"You're crawling in your own blood, trembling on all fours… and you beg?" His grip twisted cruelly, and Dharun choked, legs kicking weakly.

Aaryan's hands clawed at the ground. His face was pale. Eyes red.

And then—

They flickered.

Silver light flashed through his pupils. A pulse of soul force burst outward from his battered body like a ripple in still water.

But Pryag stood unmoved.

"Again?" he muttered. "Useless. All of them." His voice was almost bored. "But don't worry. Once I take you, this technique will be very useful to me."

He turned his attention back to Dharun.

His fingers began to tighten.

And then he froze.

He sensed no Qi, no soul power—just stillness. And then, the sudden, crawling instinct of death… too late to react.

A sharp whistle—then a wet, cracking thud. A jagged shard punched through the side of Pryag's skull, angled just above his cheekbone. It burst out behind his opposite ear in a fine spray of blood.

His eyes widened for half a heartbeat—then went glassy.

His grip released.

Dharun dropped to the ground in a heap, coughing violently, eyes wild with confusion and disbelief.

He looked up.

Hovering in the air before Aaryan was the shard—the tip of a broken sword, its edges dulled and body chipped, rusted with blood. It pulsed faintly.

More pieces rose from the dirt and rubble nearby—half-buried hilt, crooked edge, shattered fragments. They lifted slowly, like pieces of a forgotten memory.

One by one, they drifted together.

A cracked sword took shape. Jagged. Ugly. Stained.

And yet it had just pierced the skull of a man at the seventh stage of Qi Condensation.

The sword dropped in front of Aaryan.

He reached for it.

But his body wouldn't obey.

His hand trembled, then froze mid-motion.

He wasn't controlling his limbs anymore.

An unseen force wrapped around his form like threads of air and will. His body lifted gently off the ground, floating. His head lolled to the side as the air shimmered near the far wall.

A footstep echoed.

Then another.

The air parted.

And from the distortion stepped a figure clad in ash-white robes, embroidered with spiralling runes of status and age. His presence weighed heavier than the sky.

The First Grand Elder.

Aaryan groaned.

"Come on," he muttered, barely conscious. "Why don't all of you just come together and stab me at once?"

His voice cracked, dry and broken.

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