The Accidental Cultivator

Far away from the smoldering ruins of Vaikunth Dham and the quiet valleys of Eastern kingdoms, beneath a sky painted in sun-gold and lotus-pink, stood the University of Nalanda—a living monument to wisdom, power, and secrets buried under centuries of silence.

From the outside, Nalanda was paradise carved in ivory and emerald.Massive towers kissed the clouds, inscribed with glowing mantras that shimmered even under sunlight. Grand libraries spread like a lotus in bloom, their roofs golden and tiled in sacred geometry. Monk-warriors glided across skybridges in saffron and indigo robes, whispering mantras while levitating scrolls, artifacts, and training weapons.

But beneath the perfect symmetry of this eternal citadel, below the main prayer towers, behind three shifting stone doors and a wall of protective mantras only visible in moonlight, there lay a chamber never spoken of to students or generals.

Twelve thrones. One round table.And the air inside the chamber… was heavy with something far older than knowledge.

At this table sat The Council of Twelve—Nalanda's inner guardians.Comprising Grandmasters, monks, seers, tacticians, and hidden lords of cultivation—each one chosen by the will of the ancient founders, sworn to balance power and peace across the continent.

A large candle at the center burned with a silver flame.It never dimmed.Its light never flickered.And if it ever did… it was said the world would fall into chaos.

Today, however, that flame shimmered with unease.

"The South has already declared its heir. Princess Roshni of Vaikunth Dham," said Master Devendra, dressed in silver robes etched with dragon-scale patterns. "Her Garudtalons are awakening. And the girl… shows promise."

"The North is equally prepared," muttered a hoarse voice to his left. It belonged to Lady Maheshwari, her face masked behind a veil of frost. "Prince Abhimanyu's cultivation has crossed Stage Six. The Ice Heart clan has trained him since birth. He is born to lead."

"To no one's surprise, Suragiri is pushing two contenders," said a younger council member, barely twenty, with flames constantly flickering along his fingertips. "10-year-old Meera and her 5-year-old younger brother. One fire, one water. Twins of dual essence."

There was a pause.

Eleven heads turned to the twelfth seat at the table.

It was empty.

The youngest council member swallowed. "But from Yamalok… still nothing. No scroll. No messenger. No aura traces. Not even a whisper."

Grandmaster Kalesh, the oldest among them, eyes blind but voice sharper than thunder, finally spoke.

"Yamalok was never predictable. Their monks walk through shadows. Their emissaries can vanish in mid-breath. But never—not in a hundred years—have they hidden their representative… until the final moment."

A new scroll lay unopened on the table.

No seal. No name. Just ink burnt into black silk paper.

Kalesh slowly touched the scroll and unrolled it.

Only five words were written in deep crimson ink:

"He has already arrived. Watching."

Silence consumed the room.

Even the flame at the center seemed to flicker… just once.

Master Devendra leaned forward, voice tense."What does that mean? Where is he? Who is he?"

The flame's reflection shimmered on Kalesh's blind eyes.

"Not who," he whispered.

"What."

beside this in the morning fog clung to the stone tiles of the southern training courtyard like a living spirit, swirling softly as if holding its breath. The sounds of the palace were distant here—muted birdsong, faint footsteps of patrolling guards, and the occasional clink of steel echoing from the war-hall.

In the center of the courtyard, Princess Roshni stood barefoot, dressed in her sleeveless combat robes. Her hair was tied back. Her hands rested over the hilts of her twin claws—Garudtalon—fastened tightly to each wrist, their silver curves twitching as if eager for blood.

And across from her stood Instructor Vikram, one hand behind his back, the other gently tracing a glowing sigil into the air.

"You've trained your body," Vikram said calmly. "Now it's time to test your mind… against legends."

A circle of light bloomed around her feet.

The air shimmered. The courtyard blurred.

And suddenly—she wasn't alone anymore.

The first figure stepped forward from the fog—a man dressed in the ceremonial gold and blue of the Northern Kingdom of Ashtaka. His arms glowed with frost markings. His eyes were void of warmth.

"This is Master Bhairav. Former champion of the 17th tournament," Vikram's voice echoed as if from the heavens. "He once froze an entire arena mid-duel."

The illusion raised his hands. Shards of frozen chakra burst from his palms like razors. Roshni barely dodged, rolling under a line of ice-blades before countering with a leap and slash—clang!

Her claws struck ice-coated arms.

He didn't flinch.

"You'll have to be faster," Vikram said.

She tried. Feints. Spirals. Slashes from impossible angles.

But Bhairav was like dancing steel, fluid and sharp. His counters were brutal, calculated, nearly breaking her guard in half.

After five minutes, the illusion vanished in a mist of frost.

Roshni dropped to her knees, panting.

"Get up," Vikram said coldly.

The second opponent rose from the mist.

This one… was silent.

Wearing black robes, a face entirely hidden, even her gender impossible to guess. She moved with no sound, her footsteps invisible on the marble.

"This is Silken Death, the most feared competitor from the Western Kingdom of Yamalok. She never spoke. She never lost. Some say she was just a shadow given form."

The opponent lunged.

No warning. No aura. Just death.

Claws met claws—but the Yamalok shadow flickered, dodged, struck again from behind. Roshni turned just in time, blocking with her elbow and spinning her Garudtalons into a defensive whirlwind.

Slash! She felt a cut—light, but sharp—across her ribs.

"You're hesitating," Vikram growled. "She would have slit your throat by now."

"I—I can't see her properly," Roshni gasped.

"You're trying to see. That's the problem. Learn to feel."

The shadow disappeared mid-step.

Roshni closed her eyes.

She listened. Her heartbeat. The flick of the breeze. The air pressure behind her left shoulder—

She spun.

SLASH!

Her claws met cloth.

The illusion broke.

Roshni collapsed, sweat pouring from her brow.

Vikram walked to her slowly, his tone now softer. "These are the enemies you will face. The tournament isn't a place of mercy, Roshni. It's a battlefield in disguise."

She looked up at him, exhaustion and fury dancing in her eyes.

"They were too strong."

"No," he replied. "You were too predictable."

He knelt beside her.

"That will change. You have one month. And I promise—when I'm done with you… no illusion will scare you."

The mist thickened once more.

And new figures stepped from the veil.

Stronger. Faster. Harsher.

She stood.

And she fought again.

Three days had passed.

Three days of meditation, sweat, bruised knuckles, and late-night shadowboxing beside the old goat shed.

The sun blazed high above the treetops of the village, casting long beams down upon a shirtless Aryan, who now sat in deep meditation on a flat stone. His hair was a mess. His breath was steady. His body shimmered with a faint hum of chakra—no longer wild and unstable, but smooth, like water wrapped in glass.

And then—his eyes snapped open.

"System," he said calmly. "I think… I did it."

A pause.

System:"Oh? You think you did it? Is this before or after your last 'I've ascended to heaven' speech?"

"No, seriously," Aryan stood up, stretching his arms, "I've mastered Chakra 1 Stage 1. I can feel the flow, the circulation."

Aryan shows him do pushups.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then collapsed flat on the ground like a dying fish.

"Gahhh! My arms are made of jelly!"

System:

"Correction: jelly has more muscle definition."

"Can't you just install muscles in me or something?" Aryan groaned, rolling over and staring at the sky.

System:

"If I could install sense first, I would. Now get back up. You wanted to be strong, remember?"

He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up again, sweat trailing down his brow. He wasn't cultivating today—at least not the way he used to. This was all physical.

Squats, pushups, lunges, plank, stone lifting, sprinting across uneven fields, even shadowboxing against imaginary opponents.

After three days of meditating and learning to circulate chakra, he was starting to realize… his body wasn't keeping up with his energy.

He could feel the power inside him. Like a coiled dragon waiting to be unwrapped. But every time he tried to use it, his body almost broke under the pressure.

So today was different.

He trained.

And trained.

And—

DING!

New Passive Skill Unlocked: Body Endurance

+1 Stat Point to Endurance

Increases resistance to fatigue, external blows, and internal chakra strain.

(Auto-levels with physical training. Currently: Level 1)

Aryan blinked at the blue window hovering in front of his sweat-drenched face.

"…Huh. That's new."

System:

"Congratulations. You've unlocked the ancient, sacred art of 'not dying from one punch.' Marvelous."

He smirked and looked down at his arms. They were still skinny, sure, but not as soft as before. There was some tightness now. Some shape.

"I guess this means I'm getting stronger?"

System:

"You're surviving your own training without sobbing. That's a start."

He stood up, stretching his arms behind his back, and took a few mock swings at a tree.

One of them lightly cracked the bark.

He didn't notice.

The System did.

System (internal log):

Subject chakra capacity still rising. Physical vessel adapting faster than expected. Current chakra saturation: 97%. If he sneezes wrong, we're rebuilding the hut. Again.

Conclusion: do not inform the idiot.

Let him assume he's weak. Arrogance is a worse poison than ignorance.

Aryan, meanwhile, had moved on to sprinting drills. He ran in wide circles around the hut, counting aloud like a child playing a game.

"Three laps more and I'll be ready to crush Stage 1 users!"

System (casually):

"Yes. Of course. Stage 1. You're totally not already capable of blasting Stage 7 users through a wall or anything."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Focus on not tripping over that chicken."

He almost did.

By the time the sun began dipping behind the treetops, Aryan had collapsed beside a small puddle of water and fallen leaves.

His breath was ragged. His face was flushed. But his eyes…

They burned with purpose.

"…I still feel weak," he murmured.

System (softly):

"Good."

Next day

he wasn't alone.

Today Across the field, a boy slightly older than him—maybe by a year or two—was throwing punches at a thick wooden dummy. Each strike landed with practiced precision. His name was Bhaskar, a visiting junior disciple from a nearby border town school, temporarily staying in the village.

Bhaskar had sharp cheekbones, messy raven-black hair, and a quiet confidence that Aryan found annoying.

But worse—he was smart.

Too smart.

As Aryan struggled to lift a log using chakra-enhanced arms, Bhaskar walked by casually balancing two of them on his shoulders.

"You've got energy," Bhaskar said without looking, "but no control. Try using circular breathing with pulse contractions."

Aryan glared at him. "Try using… not your mouth."

System:

"Brilliant comeback. Devastating. A real war of wits."

Bhaskar chuckled and moved on, leaving Aryan boiling.

But… he tried it.

He inhaled slowly, focused his chakra, and contracted his muscles in rhythmic pulses while pulling the log.

It moved.

His eyes widened. "...That jerk's right."

He didn't admit it out loud, of course. But something inside clicked.

That afternoon, while Bhaskar trained with elegant sword forms, Aryan kept watching. Every move. Every mistake. Every recovery.

And then, when no one was watching—

He started mimicking.

At first, his limbs flailed. His footwork was off. He looked like a monkey being electrocuted.

System:

"You're either dancing or dying. I'm still deciding."

But he didn't stop.

Again. Again. Over and over.

He sprinted across uneven terrain, climbed trees, dodged falling rocks he tied to ropes himself. His legs burned, lungs screamed, but he kept going.

He wanted to understand—not just chakra, but motion, timing, technique.

And then… something changed.

He started pushing harder.

10 seconds. His strides became smoother.

30 seconds. His body felt lighter.

60 seconds. His reflexes sharpened.

90 seconds. His eyes focused faster than ever.

100 seconds. The world around him slowed.

And then—

DING!

New Passive Skill Unlocked: Acceleration

When running or moving continuously for 10 seconds, gain a +40% increase in Speed and Reflexes.

Effect stacks with continued movement. No upper limit.

Current Status: Active (Speed Boost: 80%)

Aryan blinked.

"Wait… so if I just keep running, I get faster? Forever?!"

System:

"You're a human momentum bomb. You've basically unlocked the cheat code for escape plans and power punches."

He ran again.

The wind blasted against his cheeks like a gale.

Bhaskar, still training across the yard, turned—only to feel a sharp gust shoot past him. Aryan zipped by, a trail of dust in his wake.

Bhaskar's jaw dropped. "What in—?"

Aryan skidded to a stop, flipping dramatically and raising two fingers like a victorious anime character.

"Told you I learn fast."

System:

"Don't celebrate too hard. You're one tripwire away from becoming a human cannonball."

But Aryan couldn't help it.

For once, his body was catching up to his potential.

And this time, he didn't just feel strong—

He felt fast.