NOVEL NEXT Chapter 35 - Familiar Strangers
The mountain-top was eerily silent. The only sounds were the laboured breaths of the fallen and the faint rustle of robes as stunned disciples shifted in place.
Aaryan lay still, unmoving. Blood darkened the earth beneath him, his robes torn, his body battered—but even in silence, he cast a long shadow over those who stood around him. The once-roaring battlefield had fallen into uneasy quiet. The victors should have been gloating, but no one spoke. No one moved.
A disciple, the leader of the group Aaryan had negotiated with, finally stepped forward. His breath was uneven, his fingers curling into a fist as he loomed over the fallen figure. This wasn't about resources anymore—it was about pride. About making sure Aaryan stayed down.
Slowly, he raised his foot, aiming for Aaryan's ribs—
And stopped.
Because someone was already there.
The air shifted. The weight of the atmosphere deepened. A figure appeared beside Aaryan so smoothly, so seamlessly, that no one even saw him arrive.
Dharun.
The attacker stumbled back immediately, paling. The rest of the crowd tensed, their earlier arrogance now a fragile thing in the presence of the sect's most unpredictable force.
Dharun doesn't even spare the attacker a glance. His attention is solely on Aaryan, his sharp eyes sweeping over him—taking in every bruise, every torn fibre of his robes, the blood staining the ground.
Then, wordlessly, he kneels.
For a brief moment, the disciples believe he's helping Aaryan.
Instead, he removes the resource sachet from Aaryan's belt and sets it on the ground. A silent offering.
A statement.
"If this is all you wanted, then take it and be done with it."
The words were never spoken, but the message was clear. Aaryan never fought for this—they did.
The attackers don't dare to move at first. Dharun straightens, dusts off his sleeves, then looks at them. His gaze is unreadable, but his voice is light—too light.
"Resources are one thing. Killing your own sect members is another." His tone carries no particular threat, but something in the way he says it makes the disciples shift uneasily.
No one needed Dharun to say more. The silence carried its own weight, heavier than any spoken threat.
The sachet lay untouched on the ground, a single object holding the weight of a decision none of them wanted to make.
The leader's fingers twitched. His pride screamed at him to stand firm, but the weight of Dharun's presence pressed down like an unseen hand at his throat. His breath hitched. Even now, Dharun wasn't looking at him. He didn't need to.
Then Dharun turned, walking away, as if the outcome had never been in question.
The silence stretched—too long, too suffocating. Then, finally, someone's resolve shattered. A shaky hand snatched the sachet. The others exhaled, as if they had just been freed from a noose
Aaryan wakes up to the scent of something faintly herbal, mixed with an unfamiliar crispness in the air.
Am I dead? He stares at the ceiling.
It's… nice. Too nice. Not the damp, cracked stone of his cave.
Slowly, his gaze drifts down to the luxurious bedding beneath him.
Oh.
He has to be dead.
"Never thought the afterlife would have such high thread count," he mutters.
The moment he shifts, pain lances through his ribs, his limbs like dead weight. He groans, surrendering to gravity.
"Hell is just a more expensive cave. Good to know."
A soft chuckle interrupts his thoughts.
Aaryan freezes.
Someone is here.
He turns his head—slowly, painfully—and spots a figure standing near a small table, pouring tea into a cup. His movements are measured, as if the actions themselves are deliberate and timed, the kind of careful precision Aaryan had only seen in people who've spent decades perfecting their craft.
The man's immaculate robes and the meticulously arranged room give off an air of authority, a far cry from anything Aaryan's used to.
Aaryan shifts, wincing. The way the man moves—calm, deliberate—tells him this wasn't just some wanderer. There's real authority here.
The man sets the cup down with practiced ease before finally turning his gaze toward Aaryan. His eyes are sharp, but his expression remains neutral.
"You're awake," he states simply.
Aaryan doesn't respond immediately. His brain is still catching up.
"...I think so," He eyes the room, then mutters, "If this is a hallucination, I need a refund."
The man hums, taking his time. "Three days unconscious, and you're questioning reality?"
"I've had my share," Aaryan grunts.
The man sets the first cup down with practiced ease, then pours another one, the sound of porcelain against wood punctuating the quiet.
"You're in Dharun's chambers," he says as he turns back to Aaryan, voice steady and precise. "He brought you here after your… display."
Aaryan's eyebrows twitch. "Display? That was an award-worthy one-man collapse act, thank you very much."
The elder doesn't humour him with a smile. Instead, he takes a slow sip of tea.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
He paused, eyes scanning Aaryan. "Not everyone gets his attention."
Aaryan winced, eyes narrowing. Dharun, involved? For him? The man barely knew his name, let alone cared about his well-being. This wasn't concern; it was probably just another way to pass the time or test someone else's limits. After all, Dharun didn't go out of his way to make disciples feel special.
This was probably just some amusement to him. Or maybe an experiment. There was no actual reason for him to get involved—
The elder watches him, unreadable. " Rest. It would be unwise to leave now."
With that, he turns, exiting the room.
Aaryan watches him leave with the same quiet efficiency he arrived with.
Dharun's chambers. Three days unconscious. And now, apparently, he was special enough to warrant attention.
How unexpected. How annoying.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the sharp throb of his injuries. Even if he wanted to move, his body wasn't having it.
Still, he knew one thing for certain.
He couldn't stay here—not like this. The last thing he needed was to be someone's charity case. He'd rather crawl out of here with broken legs than let them think he couldn't handle this on his own.
The next time Aaryan wakes up, it's to the quiet shuffle of movement. The faint rustle of fabric, the soft tread of steps on the floor—he doesn't need to turn his head to know who it is. He can feel the presence of that calm, calculated authority in the air.
"You're alive," Dharun's voice breaks the silence, its usual unreadable edge sharper this time. "Impressive."
Aaryan grunts, still half-dazed from his injuries. "You sound so thrilled about it."
Dharun doesn't respond right away, as if his attention is elsewhere. Instead, Aaryan hears him step toward the window, his silhouette framed by the soft light spilling from the outside world. The air in the room feels heavy, the kind of silence that accompanies the presence of someone who doesn't need to speak often to command attention.
Aaryan grits his teeth and forces himself to sit up slightly, ignoring the flare of pain in his ribs. The ache feels like an old companion now. "I appreciate the hospitality, but I should probably—" He winces as he shifts his weight. "—get going."
Dharun remains where he stands, his back to Aaryan. The silence stretches out longer than Aaryan would've liked, and for a moment, he wonders if Dharun is even listening. Then, the man's voice cuts through the stillness, as cold and detached as ever.
Aaryan shifts slightly, gritting his teeth against the pain. A part of him wonders if Dharun is just indifferent, another part wondering if there's something else in play here. The man always had a way of making Aaryan feel like a piece in a larger game, but what was the end goal? His mind races, but he shakes off the thoughts. No time to dwell on this now. He needs to leave.
Dharun doesn't respond immediately, but then—
"Should you?"
Aaryan rolls his shoulders, the movement stiff and pained, but he pushes through it. He's used to ignoring his body's protests. "Can't stay here forever. I have a cave to get back to."
Dharun hums, his gaze still fixed on the sky outside. He doesn't make a move to stop Aaryan, doesn't argue. There's something about the stillness in his response that makes Aaryan pause.
As Aaryan finally manages to pull himself onto unsteady feet, wincing with each shift of weight, Dharun doesn't budge. But then, without warning, something small and light is tossed toward him.
The sachet lands in Aaryan's hands, and for a split second, his fingers freeze around the small bundle. Gratitude flickers in his chest—after all, Dharun has helped him. But that doesn't erase the question lurking at the back of his mind: What does this really mean? A payment for his suffering, or just another test in Dharun's game? He could feel the weight of Dharun's gaze—sharp, calculating—but Aaryan quickly pushes the thought aside. No matter the motive, it was still an offer. He wasn't in a position to reject it outright.
"What's this?" he asks, his voice dry.
Dharun's tone remains as neutral as ever. "Use it or don't. It's yours now."
Aaryan's lips curl into a half-smile, though it's devoid of humour. He snorts, shaking his head. "You're so generous."
He doesn't open the sachet. The gesture feels more like a mockery than a gift, but still, he tucks it away—pressing the sharp sting of bitterness deep into his chest where it won't be seen. He doesn't need Dharun's charity. Not now. Not ever.
He limps toward the exit, his body still weak but his steps firm. His mind is already moving ahead, considering what comes next. Dharun's silence has always spoken volumes, but Aaryan doesn't need to hear it now.
Just as Aaryan's hand reaches for the doorframe, Dharun speaks again, his voice softer now, almost like a shadow in the room. "Luck got you this far. Next time, it won't be enough."
Aaryan hesitated, the words settling in his chest like an unspoken warning. Dharun didn't deal in empty statements. And for once, Aaryan didn't have a comeback.
The silence stretched.
Then, with forced ease, he exhaled. "Noted." His voice was light, but the smile never reached his eyes.
With that, he steps out, leaving the room and Dharun behind him.
Five days had passed since the incident, and Aaryan's body was still a map of aches and bruises, the tender spots a constant reminder of how far he had pushed himself—how far others had pushed him. He sat in his cave, the only comfort being the rough stone beneath him, but even that didn't make up for the gnawing frustration that grew within him.
The simplest movements, like shifting his weight or stretching a leg, sent a jolt of pain through his body. His ribs ached with every breath, his muscles screamed in protest, and his head felt like it was constantly being gripped by an invisible vice. Training was out of the question. Even attempting a form, let alone trying any kind of strenuous practice, seemed absurd.
Aaryan clenched his fists, gritting his teeth as he slowly, carefully shifted his weight. Just a small movement. Just one proper stance.
His leg wobbled, his muscles screamed, and before he knew it—
He crashed onto the cave floor, pain shooting through his ribs like white-hot needles.
For a moment, he just lay there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to curse. Instead, he exhaled slowly, frustration sinking into his bones.
"Fine," he muttered. "Slower it is."
The thought of forcing his body into a strenuous position was both laughable and painful. He hated the helplessness of it, the way his body had become his enemy, forcing him to rest and recover when all he could think of was getting stronger, faster, better.
He tried to cultivate. He had to. It was the only thing he could do, slow though it was. His progress crawled—barely any forward movement despite his efforts. Every time he tried to draw in the power, his body protested.
His body fought him at every turn. Each breath of cultivation felt like trying to light a soaked lantern wick—flickering, unstable, frustrating
With each passing day, the silence around him grew heavier. There was no sign of retaliation, not from Varun or anyone else. And that… that unsettled him. If they had wanted to make an example of him, why hadn't they already?
Was Dharun really helping? Or was this just another form of manipulation, some silent test to see how far Aaryan would go before he broke?
His mind wandered to moments that still didn't sit right—like when Dharun had stepped in to save him at the resource hall, or when he handed him that sachet. Was it pity, or something more calculated?
Dharun had a way of making it seem like nothing was ever personal, but what if it was all part of a larger game? What if Aaryan was just a piece to be moved in ways he couldn't see yet?
But even as the suspicion gnawed at him, something else began to take root. He couldn't keep spiralling like this. The fear of being manipulated, of being tested again, kept eating at him, but was that really the path he needed to follow? Dwelling on others' actions—on their motives—wasn't helping. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. It only gave them more power over him, more control.
The answers he sought wouldn't come by questioning them. What mattered now was what he could control—and that was himself.
This wasn't just about surviving it. It was about not letting anyone push him into another corner. Not letting them dictate his fate. His thoughts sharpened. Strength—true strength—wasn't about responding to the tests others set for him. It was about being ready, being unbreakable when the world tried to crush him.
Even as doubts swirled in his head—about Dharun, Varun, and anyone else who might see him as a pawn—one thought remained clear: his own inadequacy. Every time he fought back, every moment he tried to defy the invisible forces shaping his fate, he was reminded of how far his strength fell short. The distance between his determination and his strength had never seemed greater.
The thought of being put through another test, another game where he was at the mercy of others, made his stomach turn. But it wasn't about surviving the next test. It was about not letting them happen at all. He had no control over whether or not someone would come at him, but he could control how ready he would be when they did.
So, he could only train, even if it was slow, even if it made him want to scream. Every inch of progress felt like a victory.
Every inch of progress felt like a stolen breath in a drowning sea. But no matter how far he pushed, the gap between him and real strength only seemed to stretch wider. It was a constant, grinding struggle—one that left him bruised, sore, and exhausted—but it was all he had.
This was the only path left to him, and he would follow it, no matter how slow or painful.