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

The Ember Spire, for all its grandeur and importance, stood strangely still.

On most days, its base thrummed with quiet activity—measured footsteps, hushed exchanges between merchants, the crisp rhythm of scrolls unrolling and contracts being signed. Couriers moved swiftly, apprentices spoke in clipped tones, and the occasional shout or dispute, disrupting the rhythm ever so slightly. The heart of Steel City's craft and commerce.

But today… it felt like a forgotten shrine.

The morning light, usually fractured by banners and moving crowds, fell untouched. Only silence—dense and watching—hung over the square. The polished blackstone reflected too much, light bouncing from the runes etched along the Spire's walls. Even the wind moved cautiously, whispering rather than whistling.

And when Uncle Soot turned to look toward the entrance, it got quieter still.

Like the city itself held its breath.

The guard closest to the gate—the one who had earlier removed his helmet—now stared down at it in his hands, as if the polished curve might offer guidance or mercy. His knuckles whitened around the edge. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down his temple.

He didn't dare lift his head.

A few others in the crowd, who hadn't yet slipped away, found their courage failing. But running now would be a statement—and a risk. If Soot saw them flee and took it for insult…

None of them were willing to gamble.

So they stood. Frozen.

Watching.

The echo of Soot's cane on the stone returned—uneven and deliberate. It rang out every second or so, a broken metronome dragging all attention with it. With each hop, the mad old man closed the distance to the gate. Aaryan walked beside him, a few steps slower than before, but no less composed. His earlier irritation had faded, replaced by a devilish grin.

And for everyone watching, those twenty steps stretched impossibly long.

One. Two.

Babita's hands were clenched by her sides. Her gaze flicked between Shravan, Aran and the slow-moving pair.

Three. Four.

Shravan shifted slightly, arms folded, but said nothing. His face had gone still, but the muscle at his jaw ticked.

Five. Six.

Viyom stood with arms crossed but his shoulders had tightened. His mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a wince—but didn't last.

Seven. Eight.

And Aran.

Aran stood unmoved.

On the surface, nothing had changed. His robes remained flawless. His hands still calmly folded behind his back. His lips curled at the edges, as if amused by the turn of events. But his eyes…

His eyes followed Soot too closely.

Nine. Ten.

Soot didn't speak. Didn't glance at the guards. Just kept moving.

Each clang of his cane sent a jolt through the courtyard. No words were needed. No threat was voiced.

Eleven. Twelve.

The guards at the gate stepped back almost together, as if pulled by an invisible thread. One looked toward Aran for guidance—but Aran gave none.

Thirteen. Fourteen.

Soot exhaled through his nose. A harsh, wheezing breath. His cane hit harder now, each clang louder, more final.

Fifteen. Sixteen.

The gate stood just ahead.

The rune-lined doors of the Ember Spire shimmered faintly under the sun, their surface polished like dark glass. In their reflection, the two figures approached—one young and unreadable, the other old and feared.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

The guard holding his helmet stepped aside.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

Soot stopped first.

Then Aaryan.

The air trembled.

Aaryan looked at the gate.

Then, slowly, at the guards.

They didn't move.

They didn't dare.

Uncle Soot stood still, his weight resting unevenly on the crooked iron cane. His white beard fluttered faintly in the breeze, and his tattered, oversized robe swayed like loose sails. But there was nothing frail about the way his eyes moved.

He swept his gaze across the gathered crowd—not hurriedly, but with deliberate slowness. Each glance carried weight, stopping just long enough to remind people they were being seen. Judged.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

When his eyes passed over Viyom, the young man's shoulders jerked back stiffly, his expression twitching as though expecting a blow. Behind Aran, several Dravhal cultivators stood frozen, spines rigid, breath shallow. A few faces visibly paled. One man actually swayed where he stood, knuckles white around the hilt of his sheathed blade.

Aran held himself steady, but only just. His fingers curled slightly behind his back, betraying the tension behind his smile.

Uncle Soot's gaze finally settled on Aran—and lingered.

A beat passed. Then another.

It was as if time itself had paused.

Only when the weight of that stare became unbearable did Uncle Soot speak, his voice as sharp and nasal as ever. "So?" he asked, blinking owlishly. "Who was it, then? Hm? Come now. Who said my words are worth less than a dog's fart?"

He asked it lightly. But the words landed like a thrown hammer.

Aaryan shifted slightly, about to speak—but he never got the chance.

Aran stepped forward with unnatural speed. His bow was deep, and his voice came out laced with reverence that bordered on desperation. "Junior greets Senior," he said smoothly, "There has clearly been some… misunderstanding."

His tone was careful. Too careful.

"No one here would ever dare disrespect someone as esteemed and venerable as Senior Soot. It must be that—perhaps—our guards didn't hear this brother mention your name. Yes?" He turned to the guards, who began nodding furiously, necks bobbing like grain-pecking chickens.

Soot's frown lessened a fraction, but the air was still taut. Aran risked a glance upward—and exhaled quietly when he saw the old man's expression soften.

But his relief came too soon.

Aaryan's voice rang out behind him, casual but clear. "That's not right, though."

Aran froze.

"I did mention your name," Aaryan continued, his tone edged with just enough mischief to cut. "Said it plain—Famous, renowned, and a little mad—Uncle Soot himself sent me to the Spire."

For a moment, no one breathed.

The air hung between them, thick with disbelief. Babita blinked slowly, her expression twisting as realization dawned. Shravan's jaw slackened slightly before tensing again, the muscle twitching near his temple. He didn't need to say anything—his eyes said it all.

Aaryan hadn't mentioned Uncle Soot's name. Not once.

But now… here he was, lying through his teeth as if the heavens had engraved the truth for him.

Aran's lips parted, then closed. The Aaryan he had engaged moments ago—controlled, calm, nearly calculating—was gone. In his place stood a grinning upstart, brazenly tossing oil onto a smouldering fire. He couldn't decide what was worse: the sheer nerve of the act, or how expertly it was being played.

Even Viyom, shaking from the lingering tension, couldn't hold his tongue. "This dog is lying!" he burst out, the words scraping through his throat before Aran could raise a hand.

A moment of absolute silence.

Then—"See?" Aaryan's smirk widened, his tone biting. "They're still calling you a lying dog."

A collective groan rippled through the square. It was a rare moment where even enemies shared a singular thought: Did this fool have no fear—or just no skin left to scorch?

A few onlookers cursed under their breath. Others stared at Aaryan in horror, unable to fathom his recklessness. Everyone knew of Uncle Soot's infamous temperament. Everyone… except, it seemed, the very youth standing beside him.

All but one.

Viyom was now praying in his heart—not to the heavens, but to the shadows of his ancestors, nine generations deep. Protect me from the madman. I swear I'll change…

Soot's gaze turned on him.

Flat. Cold. Believing.

"You're calling me a liar?" His voice was even now. Which only made it worse.

Before Viyom could sputter, Aaryan added from behind, tone exaggeratedly helpful, "No, no… a lying dog, remember?"

Viyom's knees buckled. He collapsed onto his rear with a dull thump, eyes wild, face pale.

Soot lifted his cane a fraction. "Good. Good. Let me teach you pups how this dog bites—"

"Senior!"

Shravan's voice cut through the air like a blade. He stepped forward swiftly and bowed, low and deep.

"Junior greets Senior," he said, voice composed, though his teeth were clenched. "I've heard much from my grandfather about you—but even his praises don't do justice to your legacy."

Soot paused, cane still raised. His brow lifted, eyes narrowing.

"Your grandfather?"

Shravan straightened slightly. "I'm of the Megh Clan. My father is Megh Pramod, the current sect leader."

Soot sniffed, unimpressed.

Shravan pressed on. "He often said the Ember Spire owes much of its soul to Senior's fires—that the forges still echo your spirit."

A bold lie.

Babita glanced at him sharply but said nothing. She understood what he was doing. Everyone did.

Shravan's voice lowered. "What happened today is beneath someone like Senior. Please… let it go. If something happened to Viyom while we all stood watching, the Vermas may not touch you—but they'll turn their fangs on the rest of us. On our clans."

His eyes flicked briefly to Aaryan. Pleading.

Aaryan met his gaze.

Then gave the smallest of nods.

His voice followed, casual but a shade softer. "Maybe they really didn't hear me mention Uncle Soot. Can't blame the guards for being deaf."

Aran let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The pressure in his chest eased—but his hands, still folded behind his back, clenched slightly tighter. He didn't like how close that had been. Or how easily Aaryan could flip the board.

Viyom whimpered softly from the ground, too relieved to speak, too shaken to stand.

Soot exhaled through his nose. He lowered his cane with a grunt and turned to Aaryan, scratching his beard with a faint wheeze.

"Well, pup," he muttered, tone somewhere between amused and exasperated, "next time, tell them louder."

Aaryan huffed, dry and unimpressed. "Next time, write it on your damn beard."

Someone in the crowd choked, unsure if they were stifling a laugh or a scream.

Soot snorted. "Not a bad idea."

The tension cracked—not vanished, but fractured just enough for people to breathe again.

Soot's cane tapped sharply against the stone as he began hopping toward the entrance of the Ember Spire, the iron tip ringing with each step.

The guards didn't wait for a command. As one, they bowed low—far lower than protocol required. Their backs bent stiff, arms shaking slightly as they tried to lower their heads to the stone without kneeling. No one dared raise their gaze. One even closed his eyes entirely, as if hoping vanishing into darkness would keep him safe.

Soot passed without a glance. His robe fluttered behind him like a ghost refusing to fade.

"Move your feet, boy!" his voice echoed from within the Spire, rattling faintly across its ancient stone archway. "Unless you plan to stand there until moss grows on you."

Aaryan turned back toward Shravan and gave a faint nod. His expression was unreadable—neither proud nor defiant. Just calm. Still centered, as if none of the chaos had managed to reach him.

Then he stepped forward and vanished into the Spire's mouth.

Only once his figure disappeared into the shadows did the crowd release the breaths they'd been holding far too long. Shoulders slumped. Some let out shaky sighs. Others murmured low curses of relief. The tension hadn't just lifted—it had evaporated like heat off an anvil.

Shravan and Babita remained still for a moment longer.

Then, as one, they turned to glance at Aran.

He hadn't moved.

He stood like a statue carved in flesh, gaze locked on the entrance where Aaryan had disappeared. No one could tell what emotion—if any—lurked beneath that expression.

Babita scoffed quietly and walked past the guards with a pointed "hmph." The sound was quiet, but it landed like a thunderclap. One guard flinched so hard his halberd nearly slipped from his grip.

Shravan followed without a word.

A Dravhal cultivator, emboldened by the fading tension, stepped forward and said softly, "Young master, should we—?"

The slap came like lightning.

The man flew back several feet before collapsing into a heap, unconscious before his body hit the stones.

Only then did some in the dispersing crowd dare turn and look.

Aran's face was still smooth. Calm.

But his hand—his hand was bleeding.

Faint crimson drops dripped between his fingers, where his nails had dug too deep into his palm.

And that, more than anything, told the crowd:

This wasn't over.