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

The silence didn't break—it deepened.

Like a thick fog settling over the square, it pressed against skin and breath alike. No one moved. Not the guards, not the cultivators watching from the edges, not even Viyom—whose scowl now twitched with uncertainty more than rage.

The Ember Spire loomed behind them, runes faintly pulsing, as if sensing something in the air. The scent of smoke and cooled metal drifted through the plaza, but even the distant hammering from the forges had quieted to an echo.

Aaryan stood with his weight balanced evenly, arms at his sides. He wasn't tense. He wasn't defiant. Just… still. His gaze remained on Aran, cool and steady, as if he were waiting for something.

Aran didn't flinch beneath it. He met that look with the poise of someone used to being watched. Back straight, hands folded behind him, chin lifted just slightly—not from arrogance, but calculation. He didn't need to assert control.

He already had it.

Shravan's expression had shifted from polite confusion to quiet alarm. His eyes moved between the two, trying to trace the thread connecting them. Nothing made sense. Why would Aran press this hard over a nobody?

Not even he had received this much focus during these past few days.

Beside him, Babita's posture had changed as well. No longer leaning with smug disdain—she now stood upright, arms crossed more tightly, eyes narrowed. She wasn't scoffing anymore.

She was curious.

"I've passed through many villages recently," Aaryan finally said, his voice calm and casual. "Not all of them had signs. Hard to remember every name."

A faint rustle swept through the onlookers. Not quite laughter. Just a release of breath—reaction to his tone. Unbothered. Dry. Measured. Like he was speaking of weather, not accusations.

Aran's lips tugged slightly. Not a smile. Something smaller. "Understandable," he murmured. "The road can blur things. Trees. Faces. Names."

He took a single step forward. It was slow, soft. But it shrunk the distance just enough to make it clear—this was now personal.

"Still," he said, his voice lowering, "I'd wager Brackenhill left a mark."

A pause.

Aaryan didn't blink. His silence was not a defence—it was a decision.

"You're free to think what you want," he said simply.

His voice didn't carry weight. It didn't have to. The stillness that followed did it for him.

Viyom looked between them now, visibly unsettled. A flicker of doubt had crept in behind his resentment. One of the Verma cultivators leaned closer to whisper, but Viyom ignored him.

Babita tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. She was listening now. Fully. Not to the words—but the space between them.

Aran's tone shifted. Cooler. Smoother. "Of course. What I think doesn't matter."

His smile had faded, but the sharpness in his eyes remained. And then, as the murmur in the crowd began to fade, he leaned in—just slightly.

Not enough to draw attention.

Just enough for only Aaryan to hear.

His voice dropped to a whisper, smooth as silk, laced with something darker.

"You may be unknown now," he said, "but if I name you, you won't stay that way for long."

Aaryan's eyes didn't flicker, but the shadows within them deepened.

"What if Steel City thought you had something rare?" he said. "Something valuable. Something... powerful."

The words weren't a threat in the traditional sense. They were a suggestion, a glimpse—of what could come if Aaryan chose the hard path.

"Let's keep it simple," he continued, gesturing lazily toward the guards. "You hand it over, and I'll make sure you're never stopped again. No more gates. No more questions. The Spire will be open to you—like a second home."

Then Aran straightened again, smile returning, serene as before.

To everyone else, nothing had changed.

But between the two of them, something had shifted. Set.

A line drawn, quietly.

Permanently.

Aaryan still hadn't spoken.

Instead, he folded his arms slowly, gaze still on Aran. The movement was fluid, unhurried. Final.

The air between them thickened—as if even silence had chosen a side.

His eyes lingered on Aran for a long breath, as if weighing the last sliver of silence between them. It was the kind of quiet where a single breath could split the square open.

Then he spoke.

"Too generous," he said softly, the faintest curl of sarcasm beneath the calm. "I'd hate to disappoint by accepting."

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A flick of movement at the corners of a few mouths. A few chuckles. Uncertain. More in awe than amusement.

Aran didn't respond. Not with words.

Just a quiet tilt of his head, like a man watching an ant crawl across a blade's edge—curious whether it would fall or survive.

The crowd, once hushed, began murmuring. Low voices rippling out like water from a dropped stone.

"Did he just say no?"

"Who the hell he thinks he is?"

"After beating Viyom, I thought he had guts, but this…"

"But what did Aran offer him?"

"Whatever it was he should have accepted it immediately. It seems he really has a death wish."

Babita's arms uncrossed. Her eyes flicked across the square, watching reactions gather—too many eyes, too many whispers. Aaryan's name wasn't unknown anymore—but he was still just a silhouette beside Aran's legacy.

And yet, he stood there, refusing.

Shravan's brows had drawn close as the exchange unfolded. But before he could speak, a junior from the Megh clan rushed in from the side, robes fluttering, scroll clutched in hand.

Shravan caught it mid-stride and unfurled the seal with a practiced motion. His jaw tightened. Without a word, he turned to the guards.

"This," he said firmly, holding the scroll aloft, "proves his affiliation with the Megh clan. Whatever the reason, the youth is under our banner."

The guards didn't move.

One stepped forward slightly, halberd still lowered across the entryway. His eyes flicked to Aran.

Babita's patience snapped.

"What are you waiting for?" she barked. "Are you blind now? He has the damn scroll. Move."

The guard's jaw clenched. Sweat glistened at his temple. He didn't answer, just kept looking—to one man.

Aran's smile was unchanged.

Shravan narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't make this political, Aran."

Aran took a moment before replying. When he did, his voice was pleasant—measured, almost warm.

"Of course. Rules are rules."

He took a single step forward, hands still behind his back.

"And the rules say, with proper affiliation, he should be allowed entry."

A pause. He met Aaryan's eyes again, voice dipping slightly.

"But," he said, almost conversationally, "I've decided it's time the rules changed."

The square stilled again.

"From today onward," Aran continued, "only those my Dravhal clan recognizes… may enter."

His gaze sharpened as it settled on Aaryan.

"And those we do not…" —the words hung, suspended— "won't."

He didn't need to say the rest.

The silence that followed was jagged, unsettled. The runes on the Spire shimmered again, pulsing faintly—as if the building itself held its breath.

The weight of Aran's words hadn't fully settled—and yet, it hung in the air like the thick haze before a storm.

The crowd murmured again—but this time, with unease.

So it's true, someone whispered.

The Dravhals aren't hiding it anymore.

Another voice—sharper, lower—cut through.

"They're seizing the city. Out in the open now."

The Ember Spire loomed overhead, its runes faintly glowing, flickering like warning lamps. Light danced across the polished blackstone of the courtyard, throwing long shadows behind everyone—as if the tower itself had heard Aran's decree and was deciding how to respond.

Babita took a step forward. "You—" she began, voice like a whip about to strike.

But Shravan raised a hand and caught her wrist before the words could fall.

Her mouth stayed open, fury crackling in her eyes. But she held still.

Shravan didn't speak. Not at first. He looked straight at Aran, and for the first time, his easy-going mask cracked. Just slightly. A tautness around the eyes. A clench in the jaw that hadn't been there before.

Even the air around him seemed to tighten.

But then—his gaze flicked sideways, drawn as if by gravity.

To Aaryan.

Still standing there, shoulders relaxed, spine straight. The same stillness as before—not rigid, not bowed. Just… resolute.

No flicker of frustration. No flash of indignation. Only calm.

As if none of this touched him.

And when he finally turned his head to Shravan, there was a soft curve to his lips. A quiet, almost amused kind of detachment.

"It's no big deal, brother Shravan," he said, voice low, conversational.

A pause. The words were light, but they didn't vanish into the wind—they lingered, deliberate.

"I wanted to see the tower. But it's not a must."

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of respect.

Then turned.

Not toward Aran. Never toward him.

He pivoted without glance or pause, his robes stirring behind him as he began walking away. Each step unhurried. Controlled. Echoing faintly on the blackstone.

At the top of the steps, Aaryan paused briefly—just long enough for Aran to think he might say something after all.

But he didn't.

He simply walked on.

And Aran, still standing in the centre of it all, kept smiling.

But his eyes had narrowed.

The crowd parted, uncertain, instinctively.

Some stared.

Others whispered.

Many didn't understand—but they felt something shift.

Aaryan had barely taken twenty steps when a sharp, hacking cough shattered the stillness.

It cut across the courtyard like a falling blade.

He stopped mid-step. Heads turned. Even the whispering crowd fell silent again, drawn to the coarse, phlegm-filled sound echoing from the far end of the square.

There—leaning on what looked more like twisted scrap metal than a cane—stood a figure hunched in a robe two sizes too big, frayed at every edge and stained with soot and old grease. The folds hung off his wiry frame like an old sack draped over firewood. His long, white beard swayed in the lazy wind, unkempt and tangled with bits of ash and gods-knew-what else.

No one had seen him arrive.

And yet, it felt like he'd always been there.

Aaryan blinked. Of course it was him. Who else could it be?

Uncle Soot.

The madman of the Outer Commons. The curse of every neat street, the bane of blacksmith apprentices and clan pride alike.

The air seemed to shift around him. Some in the crowd took cautious steps back. Others turned and walked briskly away, choosing not to test fate. One guard quietly tightened his grip on his halberd; another simply took off his helmet and held it to his chest like a prayer.

Even Aran's face changed.

The polished calm cracked—barely, but visibly. A tightening near the jaw. A flicker in his eyes. Not fear, exactly. Wariness.

He'd heard the stories. Everyone had.

Soot's gait was uneven, one leg dragging with each hop-step as he limped toward Aaryan. His cane clanged on the blackstone with every other step, an irregular rhythm that filled the space with unease.

When he finally reached Aaryan, he didn't look at the guards. Didn't acknowledge the crowd or the tower.

He jabbed the end of his iron cane toward Aaryan's chest.

"I told you," Soot rasped, "to go inside the damn tower. To forge. Not to stand around gawking at it like a dazed mule at a painted barn."

Aaryan stared at him, jaw tightening. His stomach growled, his patience frayed. He hadn't eaten since morning, had just walked into an ambush of clan politics, and now this.

He exhaled sharply and snapped, "Hey, old man. Don't start with me right now."

He jabbed a finger toward the gate. "I tried to go in. They didn't let me."

Soot blinked, then tilted his head, beard swaying. "Didn't let you?" he echoed, almost mockingly. "You didn't tell them I sent you?"

Aaryan turned slowly toward Aran, a crooked smile curling on his lips.

"Oh, I told them," he said, voice loud enough to carry. "I said you sent me. But someone"—his gaze lingered pointedly on Aran—"said the words of a filthy, half-mad, junk-draped coot like you…"

He paused, grinning now with teeth.

"...meant less than a dog's fart."

The words echoed, crystalline in their delivery. Not loud. Not cruel. Just perfectly clear.

A few gasps followed. One guard made a choking noise and turned away.

Aran's smile didn't break—but his cheek twitched.

Just once.

Then again.

Sweat began to bead at his temple.

A moment passed. Then another.

Uncle Soot tilted his head again, slower this time. "A dog's fart?" he repeated, louder now, addressing no one and everyone. "That's what we are now, hmm?"

He let out a deep, rasping chuckle.

"A dog's fart?"