Destiny Reckoning[Book 1 Complete][A Xianxia Cultivation Progression Mythical Fantasy]

Aaryan stiffened. He turned toward the voice, and from the smoke and shadows of the broken alley, a figure emerged. He was hunched and limping, draped in a ragged robe several sizes too big. A long white beard spilled down his chest like it was trying to escape him. His eyebrows were just as wild, and his eyes—his eyes gleamed with too much clarity for someone who looked half-dead.

He leaned on a twisted iron cane, one leg dragging slightly as he hobbled into view.

Vedik shrunk further under Aaryan's robe, letting out a low warning chirp.

The old man squinted at Aaryan, then sniffed loudly. "Soul like a blade left soaking in soup. Not sharp. Just… soggy."

Aaryan opened his mouth, but the old man held up a finger.

"No, no, I'm not here for your tragic backstory or your confused questions. Save those for Book... what, Four? Five? Assuming whoever's writing this figures out what he is doing by then."

Aaryan blinked. "Wait, what?"

The old man didn't acknowledge it. "You should leave the city, boy. Go back to wherever you came from. Get a fishing pole. Live a peaceful life."

Aaryan frowned.

"Except you won't. Of course you won't. Because some overenthusiastic amateur with a writing brush decided this was your next arc." He glanced at the sky with a look of deep suffering. "No setup, no mentor, no build-up. Just toss him into Steel City and hope something sticks. Brilliant."

He took a few steps backward into the smoke, then paused.

"Oh, and don't look for me. If I need you, I'll find you. Or maybe I won't. Depends on if the author gets bored."

With that, he vanished around the corner—his cane tapping once more, then silence.

Aaryan blinked.

Vedik poked his head out, blinking too.

"…Was that a lunatic?" Aaryan asked.

Vedik, who had no business understanding sarcasm, gave the slowest, most betrayed nod in history.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan and Vedik stayed crouched in the shadowed corner of the alley, motionless as the last few echoes of shouting faded into the city's night hum. Vedik's eyes glowed faintly beneath his illusionary feathers, still bristling with indignation, while Aaryan exhaled a long breath, his back pressed to the cool, cracked wall behind them.

Only after several long minutes had passed in silence did they finally rise.

After brushing soot from his sleeves, Aaryan led them cautiously through winding alleys, avoiding open roads, until they slipped quietly back into last night's modest inn.

By the time they reached their room, the city had settled—its uproar dulled to a familiar hum.

Aaryan dropped onto the low wooden stool with a sigh. "No more forges for now."

He meant it. There was something oddly compelling about the art of forging— something about shaping power with his own hands—not just borrowing strength, but building it, very close to what he believed in.

But wanting wasn't the same as understanding. And knowledge, clearly, was something he severely lacked.

Even now, the old man's ramblings echoed in his mind—nonsense wrapped in riddles, or something else?

"Maybe I inhaled too much soot," he muttered.

Vedik snorted, curling into a ball of feathers and attitude on the bed.

Aaryan sat cross-legged, and began his breathing cycle. The Confluence Codex activated smoothly, his Qi circulating with natural ease. His cultivation was stable now, his strength well within his control, but forging? That was still a maze.

No more guesses. Before he touched another cauldron, he'd learn—watch, listen, understand.

He didn't open his eyes again until the first rays of sun slipped past the shutter slats.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

By morning, the inn's modest dining hall was already filling with guests. Clinks of bowls, murmured conversation, and occasional bursts of laughter blended into a familiar, calming chaos. Aaryan sat at a corner table, sipping his tea in silence. Vedik, now perched on his shoulder in the form of a plump, silver bird, eyes looking curiously around at the lively atmosphere.

He was here for information. And places like this were often the best wells to draw from.

Just as he was considering how to strike up conversation, a waiter approached—young, overly cheerful, with bright eyes and the faint sheen of someone used to getting tips through flattery.

"Young master must be quite talented to be a Spirit Crafter already," the waiter beamed.

Aaryan looked up with unreadable eyes. "I'm not."

There was a brief pause—long enough for discomfort—but the waiter recovered quickly, plastering the grin back on. "Ah, then perhaps young master is here to improve his weapon? Yes? That must be it!"

Aaryan didn't answer right away. Then, with a vague nod: "Something like that."

The waiter leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah, then I fear it may take time. One must submit a request to the City Forging Council. After that, you're put on a list, and eventually… eventually… someone is assigned to assist."

Aaryan's gaze sharpened. "You have an alternative?"

The waiter hesitated.

Aaryan's hand slipped into his robe. A small pouch landed silently on the table.

The waiter's smile returned with remarkable speed. He snatched the pouch without blinking, tucking it into his robes like a magician performing a sleight of hand. After glancing around the room, he leaned even closer.

"There's a place," he said softly. "The Underground. Not a name—an actual place. Beneath the city. They call it that because, well… it's literally under the streets."

Aaryan stayed silent. The waiter took that as permission to go on.

"It's… unofficial. Illegal, even. But many Spirit Crafters operate there. They're quicker, though pricier. But skilled. And more than just weapon reforging—rare ores, techniques, tools, you wouldn't see on the surface."

Aaryan narrowed his eyes. "If it's that useful, why is it illegal?"

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The waiter hesitated again.

Another pouch of spirit stones landed lightly in his palm.

"I've heard," the waiter whispered, eyes darting around again, "the main business of underground is slave trades and that the clans—those that run the Ember Spire—they're involved. Just not openly. No one wants to admit it, but rumour says they profit both ways."

He stepped back with a nervous laugh. "But that's all I know—truly. I should get back. Busy morning—thank you, young master!"

And with that, he vanished back into the kitchen like a rabbit into a hole.

Aaryan sipped his tea slowly, eyes fixed on the rising steam.

"The Underground, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Vedik tilted his bird head.

"Looks like we're digging a little deeper."

Vedik chirped, feathers ruffling with excitement—or mischief. Hard to tell with him.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The alley was narrow and crooked, tucked between a collapsed brick kiln and a shuttered warehouse. No signs marked the path—just a dim lantern hanging above a rusted iron door. Aaryan stepped forward, his presence unnoticed in the bustle of the main street behind. Vedik let out a low trill from his shoulder.

As he approached, the iron door creaked open before he could knock.

Two guards stood just inside, far different from the sleepy ones at the city gates. Both were clad in blackened armour, their auras sharp and unmistakable—Qi Condensation experts, at least first or second stage. Their gazes were cold, the kind that measured lives in spirit stone weight.

"Entry fee," one of them growled.

Aaryan blinked. "How much?"

"Twenty."

He raised a brow. "That's more than four times—"

"You want in, or not?"

Aaryan sighed and tossed over a pouch without another word. The guard caught it mid-air, weighed it in his palm, then jerked his head. "Don't cause trouble."

The door groaned wider. Darkness swallowed him whole as he stepped through.

What lay beyond was another city entirely.

The Underground wasn't crude or broken—it breathed like a forge at full bellows, searing and alive. Cavernous and circular, the market sprawled outward like the rings of a furnace. The ceiling arched high above, its surface veined with lamps and glowing ore lines that bathed everything in a dull, reddish sheen. Thick support columns, carved with strange patterns, held the stone vault up.

Vendors lined every path, their stalls and shops bursting with wares that shimmered and hummed.

Aaryan passed a smithy where rare metals hung from chains like trophies—ores he couldn't name, some faintly glowing, others completely black yet dense with spiritual pressure.

Across from it, a long scroll shop displayed cultivation techniques under glass cases, each tagged with mysterious symbols, guarded by a sleepy-eyed attendant who radiated killing intent.

Further down, a weapon stall displayed finished Spirit Weapons. Each floated above a pedestal, their faint presence pressing against Aaryan's senses. Swords, spears, chained blades—each one dangerous in its own right.

Then, he stopped.

One store, guarded by chains and iron gates, sold slaves.

Men and women, young and old, sat in rows. Some glared back with quiet rage; others stared blankly at the floor. One child, maybe twelve, clutched a cracked jade pendant.

One girl stared through him—not afraid, not angry, just... empty. The kind of emptiness even freedom might not fix.

Vedik let out a low, unhappy chirp. Aaryan looked away and walked on.

At the heart of it all, the paths widened into a great open arena.

Stone bleachers rose around a sunken pit, its floors cracked and stained. A tall iron gate stood on one end—clearly an entrance for fighters. Crowds were already gathering, voices loud and excited.

"Underground, indeed," he muttered.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

A harsh clang rang out as two cultivators clashed in the arena below. Sparks flew. Dust swirled. The first real fight of the evening had begun.

Both fighters were at the First Stage of Qi Condensation. Each wielded a sword—second-grade weapons, gleaming with faint symbols etched across the blades. Their footwork was fast, though clearly rehearsed. One surged forward with a flame-imbued slash, his Qi flaring orange along the edge of his sword. The other responded with a defensive water technique, a thin mist shielding his steps as he deflected and circled.

Aaryan sat on the upper stone steps, hands clasped loosely before him, eyes sharp with attention.

Vedik rested on his shoulder, tail flicking lazily—but his gaze, too, was fixed on the action.

"So that's how cultivators use Qi techniques with spirit weapons in real combat…" Aaryan murmured. His gaze drifted to the glowing sword of the flame user.

He could feel it. The weapon wasn't ordinary. It pulsed faintly, a rhythm in tune with its wielder's aura. There was a connection—shallow, but present. A thread of soul force binding weapon and man.

But…

His eyes narrowed slightly.

It wasn't like Dawnshard.

Dawnshard pulsed like it had a heart. A presence all its own. When he'd held it, it didn't just respond—it spoke. It yearned for battle. These other Spirit Weapons... they were alive, yes, but dimmer. Subdued.

"Like candles beside a furnace," Aaryan whispered.

Another match began. A spear user against a hammer-wielding cultivator. Earth Qi exploded in bursts as the hammer crashed down, shaking the pit's floor. The spear danced with wind techniques, graceful and precise. This time, Aaryan leaned forward slightly, absorbing every detail.

Then, noise.

Laughter. Loud and crude.

A commotion broke out behind him.

A young man, maybe twenty-two, swept into the arena's viewing area. He wore silk dyed in the deepest red, gold thread stitching symbols Aaryan didn't recognize. Rings glittered on his fingers, and his long hair was tied with a jade clasp.

Three or four women clung to him, barely dressed. Their faces were painted, their eyes dull.

As he walked, the crowd shifted.

People moved aside to let him pass, avoiding eye contact. Some even bowed slightly.

A young master. That much was clear.

He sat at the central viewing bench, directly across from Aaryan. His girls nestled around him, whispering and giggling.

One of them suddenly pointed.

At Vedik.

"Oh! That little thing is so cute!"

The young master followed her gaze and raised a brow. His lips curled.

He snapped his fingers. A burly man behind him nodded and walked toward Aaryan.

"You there," the man said gruffly. "The young master likes your bird. He'll pay well."

He didn't blink. Vedik shifted slightly, but Aaryan's gaze stayed on the fight below, calm as ever. "Not for sale."

"Did you hear—"

"I did."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Refusing a direct offer from Master Viyom can get you killed."

Aaryan didn't flinch. He turned his head slowly, his gaze like steel. "Try me"

The man hesitated, but something in Aaryan's expression made him back off. He returned to Viyom, whispered into his ear.

The young master's smile vanished.

He stood up, laughing as if nothing had happened—but his tone dripped venom.

"A country rat with a sharp tongue. I'm in the mood for sport tonight."

He clapped once. "Let's make this fun. I'll have one of my men challenge you. You win, keep your bird. You lose, it's mine."

Aaryan didn't move. "Not interested."

"What's the matter? Afraid? Or just pretending to be strong?"

A few chuckles rolled through the crowd.

Vedik bristled, his eyes glowing. Aaryan placed a hand on his tiny head.

"No."

More laughter. "Then what do you want?"

Aaryan stood slowly. His voice was soft but sharp as cut glass.
"If I lose, I give up everything. If you lose, nothing happens? That's not a fair bet. If we're betting, let's make the stakes fair."

He raised his hand, fingers curled into a fist.
"If I lose—you can take everything I own. My ring, my spirit stones, my bird. Everything. But if I win… you do the same."

The arena fell into silence.

Even Viyom looked stunned. "You serious?"

Aaryan nodded. "I'll sign a binding contract if needed."

Murmurs swept through the stands like a wave. The stakes were ridiculous—not for the unknown kid, but for Viyom. He wasn't just some young cultivator. He was the young master of one of Steel City's dominant clans—the Verma Clan. His clothes alone cost more than some shops, and he obviously carried many spirit stones and other precious things with him.

Viyom narrowed his eyes. "And why would I make a bet at all?" he said, voice calm but sharp-edged. "Why not just beat you bloody and take what I want?"

Aaryan gave a half-shrug, unfazed. "You could. But it was you who challenged me, wasn't it? You were the one who made it a game."

He took a slow step forward, unblinking.

"And if you're so sure about winning, then why back down now? Unless you're worried that betting against a rat like me might not be as safe as you pretend."

A few people sucked in breath.

Viyom's expression flickered—briefly—but the pride of a young master was a brittle, flammable thing. Laughter bubbled up from around him, uncertain and sharp.

He barked a short laugh of his own and waved a dismissive hand.

"Heh. You've got guts, I'll give you that," he said. "But after I win, I'll be taking those too."

He turned to his guard.

He turned to his bodyguard. "Lao. Crush him. Break his arm if you want."

The man—a bulky cultivator with dead eyes and a long scar on his jaw—stepped into the pit. He unsheathed his weapon.

A second-grade sabre, curved and lined with sharp runes.

Aaryan stepped in barehanded.

Another wave of laughter.

"Doesn't even have a weapon!"

"Is he suicidal?"

The announcer, sensing drama, raised both arms. "A duel of pride and possessions! Begin!"

Aaryan smirked.

The guard surged forward.

Fourth Stage of Qi Condensation.

Faster than expected.

He swung, his sabre screaming with spirit resonance.

Aaryan didn't move until the last second.

He raised his right arm—Qi flowing like liquid silver around it—and struck.

One clean, perfect blow.

CRACK.

The sabre shattered.

Shards spun midair. Several in the crowd stood up. One of the older merchants backed away from the railing, pale.

Lao staggered, blood trickling from his palm. He looked down in disbelief.

Aaryan didn't give him a second chance.

His palm slammed into the man's chest, knocking him out cold. He hit the arena floor like a sack of wet grain.

Silence.

A single stunned moment.

Then chaos.