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

Three weeks, and his body still refused to obey him.

Aaryan sat cross-legged in his cave, his breathing slow and deliberate, his mind focused solely on the flow of breath within. He guided it through his body, willing it to move the way it had before, the way it should have moved.

Nothing.

A spark of irritation flared. He adjusted his focus, tried again—this time more forcefully. The result was the same. His breath stuttered, fighting against an unseen blockage—like water struggling through a clogged channel. His body felt wrong, as if something had shifted after the beating. The Blood Purification Sutra, once something he could channel with sharp precision, now resisted him at every turn.

His fingers twitched against his knees, restless, itching to do something—anything.

It wasn't just cultivation—his entire body still hadn't fully recovered. He looked fine, but inside, there was an undeniable stiffness, a wrongness he couldn't shake. Every time he pushed past it, his control slipped—like sand through his fingers.

The worst part was that he could feel the difference. He knew how it was supposed to be—how his body had responded before.

Aaryan exhaled through gritted teeth. He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the dim cave walls around him.

Three weeks—and he still couldn't cultivate.

Frustration burned hotter than any injury. But stopping was never an option.

Fine. If cultivation refused to cooperate, then he'd focus on something else.

The fight haunted him.

Every time he closed his eyes, it played back in his mind, unbidden. The moment that fist crashed into his ribs. The sharp sting of a blade slicing past his shoulder. The crushing weight of multiple opponents pressing down on him.

But more than the pain, what haunted him was the failure.

'If I had adjusted my footwork here—If I had redirected instead of blocked—If I had baited him into overextending—'

Each mistake burned into his mind, an endless loop of what he should have—could have—done.

At first, he just analysed, sitting with his back against the cave wall, eyes narrowed in the dim light. But frustration refused to let him stay idle. Soon, his body moved before it was ready.

Aaryan pushed himself up, ignoring the dull ache lingering in his limbs. His movements were slow at first—measured. He traced the steps he had taken during the fight, then adjusted, shifting his stance to what should have been the right angle. His feet skimmed across the cave floor as he ran through sequences in the confined space, testing different reactions to the same imagined attacks.

Then came Coiling Serpent Bind.

He focused on the technique, not just as an execution of movement but as a concept. The way it flowed. The way it should have flowed.

Again. Again. Again.

Each repetition was minuscule, barely more than a subtle shift in weight, a sharper pull of motion, an internal tweak in control. He trained in fragments, in micro-adjustments, ingraining them into his body so that when he was fully healed, there would be no hesitation.

He wasn't ready. Not yet. But when he was, he wouldn't fail again.

Aaryan sat in his cave, exhaling slowly as he stared at the untouched sachet.

It had been sitting there for days, resting against the uneven stone wall like a silent question. A gift he hadn't asked for. A decision he hadn't made yet.

He didn't need to open it.

He knew what was inside. Recovery herbs. Supplements to strengthen his cultivation. Maybe a few other things he wouldn't recognize at first glance. Everything that should have helped.

And yet—

He still hadn't touched it.

His fingers twitched before he could stop them. He clenched his fist, jaw tight.

It wasn't hesitation. It wasn't.

Then why did it feel like déjà vu?

The moment the thought formed, his stomach coiled with irritation. No. Not again. But his mind was already dragging him back.

The cave. The dim firelight. The scent of damp stone and blood.

And a silhouette stepping inside, calm and deliberate, wearing a practiced, easy smile.

"I brought you something."

Aaryan inhaled sharply through his nose, snapping himself back to the present. His eyes locked onto the sachet.

Dharun had given him something too. Just as easily. Just as carelessly.

But there was a difference.

Ravi had looked him in the eye, waiting for a reaction. Dharun hadn't even checked if he'd taken it. That should have made it easier to accept. It didn't.

One expected something in return. The other...?

Dharun was not Ravi. He wasn't even trying to win him over. Dharun had given him the sachet without expectation, without effort. He had tossed it to him like it was meaningless. Like whether Aaryan used it or not didn't matter.

And yet—

It was still too much.

Aaryan's fingers curled around the sachet before he could stop himself. Not opening it. Just feeling the weight.

The material was cool against his skin, soft but durable—standard sect supplies, but packed heavier than usual. He pressed his thumb against the fabric, feeling the faint ridges of dried leaves inside. A slight crinkle when he shifted his grip. The faintest scent of something herbal, something sharp, something unfamiliar.

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Why?

Why had Dharun given him something like this?

It wasn't suspicion that clawed at Aaryan—it was something deeper. A wariness rooted in old wounds.

Nothing in this world came free.

Even if Dharun had no reason to sabotage him, that didn't mean he had no reason to push him.

A memory flickered through his mind—

"Luck got you this far. Next time, it won't be enough."

His fingers tightened around it. He could use it. Just this once. No one would know. No one would care. A simple choice. A breath. A release. And yet, he felt like he was standing at the edge of something too deep to climb back from.

Aaryan exhaled, forcing his grip to loosen.

It would be so easy to use it.

To let the herbs speed up his recovery, to allow the supplements to shave days—weeks—off his cultivation struggles.

But was it his own progress if it wasn't truly his?

And if he started depending on things he didn't understand, things freely given, what would that mean for the next time?

Would he hesitate again?

Would he start to question whether his strength was ever truly his own?

He closed his eyes.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he folded the sachet closed and pushed it across the cave floor. It slid a short distance before stopping against the uneven stone, forgotten in the dark.

Let it sit there. Let dust settle over it.

He wasn't rejecting the herbs. He was rejecting the dependence.

Then, without another thought, he turned back to training.

This time, he would rely on himself.

Only himself.

Aaryan exhaled sharply, the damp air of the cave pressing against his skin. Sweat clung to his back, soaking through the already rough fabric of his robes. His limbs ached—not the dull, manageable ache of exhaustion, but the deep, gnawing kind that settled into bone and refused to let go.

He pushed through it.

His body protested, but his mind was sharper than ever.

If he couldn't cultivate properly, then he would do the next best thing—train until his body and technique became sharper than his will to doubt.

His breathing steadied as he sank into a stance. Coiling Serpent Bind.

Not just the form. Not just the flow. The principle.

Where had he gone wrong?

He replayed the fight in his mind, over and over, forcing himself to relive each mistake. Every opening he left exposed. Every movement that had cost him precious seconds.

The moment Varun's lackeys had overwhelmed him.

The way his techniques had failed—not because they were weak, but because he hadn't used them well enough.

His grip tightened. His fingers flexed.

He sank lower, body twisting, mimicking the way he had redirected the first attacker's strike.

The footwork was sound.

But had he been just a fraction slower than he should have been?

He pivoted again, adjusting, feeling for the perfect angle, the perfect weight shift.

Faster. More precise.

He wasn't just practicing. He was rebuilding himself.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The days bled together. Time lost meaning. He no longer marked hours by the sun but by how many times his body collapsed before he forced himself upright again. He had no schedule anymore.

Sleep was something his body stole in fragments, not something he granted himself willingly.

When his body couldn't move anymore, his mind still worked.

Even as he ate, he trained—his fingers subtly shifting, adjusting internal energy flow, making every motion more efficient. Even the simplest acts became exercises in control.

One day, as he reached for a cup, his fingers adjusted mid-motion, correcting his grip automatically. A movement so small, so precise, it took him a moment to realize—it wasn't conscious. His body had begun to learn on its own.

His muscles still ached, but he felt them growing sharper. Tighter.

Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the fight again.

He would not make the same mistakes.

It wasn't just his training.

Even when he wasn't actively cultivating, something in his body began to shift.

At first, he didn't notice.

Then—one night, when exhaustion finally dragged him under, it happened.

A pulse. A deep shift in his core.

His body stilled in sleep, but something inside him kept moving.

A current. A slow, quiet unravelling.

And when he woke—

Something had changed.

He had broken through.

Aaryan stirred, his mind emerging from the depths of sleep with a sluggish weight, his body heavy and… damp?

His nose wrinkled before his brain caught up. An acrid, pungent stench filled the air. Something clung to his skin—thick, sticky, like tar.

But something else was wrong. No—something had changed.

He took a breath. Too easily. Too fluidly—like a dam had broken inside him. His chest expanded without resistance, his pulse steady in a way that felt... unnatural.

Aaryan's fingers twitched against the floor, expecting the familiar stiffness, the deep ache in his bones. Nothing.

His hands curled experimentally, then his arms, his legs. His body moved before he even thought to command it. Smooth. Too smooth.

His breath slowed. His brows furrowed.

This wasn't like before.

His eyes snapped open.

Dark, clinging grime coated his arms, his torso—thick, sticky, seeping from his pores like blackened tar. A sickly layer of filth covered his skin, slick with an unnatural sweat.

Then realization struck.

Breakthrough.

The second stage of Anima.

He exhaled sharply, his breath coming out steady despite the disgust curling in his stomach. He had heard of this before—when a cultivator stepped deeper into Blood Purification, their body would purge impurities held within. The waste that clogged their veins, the lingering remnants of imperfections from before cultivation—all forced out.

He flexed his fingers experimentally.

His body felt lighter.

Not in the way of fatigue, not in the way that exhaustion sometimes numbed the senses. No, this was different. Deeper.

Stronger, too—though not drastically so. Not yet. But there was a distinct clarity in his movements, as if something had settled into place. As if his blood flowed cleaner.

He shifted slightly again, expecting the usual sharp ache in his ribs, the stubborn tension that had clung to him for weeks. Instead—

The pain was still there, but muted. Less intrusive.

Aaryan sat up, peeling himself off the cave floor with a grimace. The stench was unbearable. It clung to him, thick and suffocating, worse than stagnant water or rotting wood.

He needed to wash. Now.

Fighting the stiffness in his limbs, he staggered to his feet, rubbing at his arms only for more of the vile residue to smear against his skin.

His lips curled in distaste.

If reaching the next stage meant turning into a walking cesspool, no wonder no one talked about this part.

Still—it was worth it.

His body had refined itself. His blood was cleaner, his vitality stronger.

This should have filled him with satisfaction. Triumph. Instead, he felt only stillness—because this wasn't how he had expected it to happen.

It wasn't a struggle. It wasn't a battle.

He hadn't felt himself pushing against a wall, hadn't felt the desperate climb, the moment of forceful breakthrough.

It had happened while he was asleep.

Unbidden, a thought rose from the depths of his mind.

His grip tightened.

Was this really… him?

The thought slipped in, unbidden, insidious. He clenched his fist. No.

And yet—for a split second, the certainty wasn't there.

This wasn't some outside force. It wasn't luck. It wasn't someone else's intervention.

This was the result of everything.

The obsessive training. The restless nights. The endless cycle of movement and adjustment, sharpening and refining.

He hadn't pushed past a limit—he had rewired his entire approach.

This wasn't like before.

This wasn't force. It was alignment.

He let out a slow breath, pressing his palm to his chest, feeling the faint but steady flow blood beneath his skin.

Slowly, he reached for his robe, meaning to brush off the filth—except his hand moved with an efficiency that felt… foreign. His grip adjusted mid-motion, subtle but precise, like his body had already calculated the most efficient way to move.

He blinked. Then, without thinking, he shifted his stance. A weight transfer. A correction.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't conscious. He hadn't even realized he was moving until it was already done.

His breath stilled. The realization settled, slow and sharp. How much of him had changed while he wasn't looking?

A pause.

Aaryan narrowed his eyes.

It wasn't just his strength that had changed. His instincts had, too.

His lips curled, slow and sharp. He rolled his wrist, then flicked his fingers—a test, a confirmation. His body no longer needed permission.

I see.

He hadn't conquered his limits with brute strength this time. He had become something that no longer had to struggle against them.

Then was it still victory?

The doubt flickered, faint, but this time, he didn't let it take root.

The realization settled deep in his bones.

And for the first time since the fight, since his defeat, since the relentless storm of doubt—

He felt satisfied.

But not content.

Never content.