The Accidental Cultivator

The sun was gentle that morning, casting golden light over the quiet fields beyond Vaikunth Dham. Dew still clung to the grass. The smoke from Aryan's early training fire curled lazily toward the sky.

Bhaskar wiped the sweat from his brow, a wooden sword slung over his shoulder as he prepared to leave the training site. "I'll be back by sunset," he told Aryan, flashing a smirk. "Don't break the village while I'm gone."

Aryan chuckled, "No promises."

Bhaskar adjusted the strap on his shoulder and set off down the dirt road leading to his village—Kaliganj, nestled in the lush borderlands of the southern kingdom. It was a modest place: thatched rooftops, stone wells, and carved wooden idols at every doorstep. The village wasn't rich in gold or fame, but it was rich in warmth.

As he passed the temple bell tower,

he greeted Old Ramdas, the bell keeper, who was feeding pigeons.

Further down, he waved at Jyoti and Ramesh, an elderly couple who sold incense sticks and sweets.

Children chased chickens barefoot, laughing as they weaved between carts. The village lived like a breath held in harmony—steady, unshaken.

Bhaskar reached his small home at the edge of the village, near the banyan grove. His mother, Kamala, was grinding grain in the courtyard, and his little sister, Mira, no more than nine, was sitting nearby drawing mandalas on the floor with rice paste.

"Bhaiya!" she shouted, jumping up and hugging him.

He laughed, lifting her easily. "What mischief have you been up to now?"

"Nothing!" she said, eyes wide with the exact opposite of truth.

Their mother smiled softly. "Eat first, then tell us what new tricks you taught Aryan."

He stepped inside, the scent of boiling dal and warm chapati wrapping around him like a welcome embrace.

But above this peaceful scene… the sky was beginning to change.

The golden hour faded.

Clouds rolled over Kaliganj like whispers, and the early light dimmed behind a sudden mist. The air grew still. Too still. The kind of silence that made crows stop calling. That made oxen pause mid-step. Even the village dogs whimpered and slunk beneath carts and porches.

Old Ramdas, still at the bell tower, narrowed his eyes at the road.

Someone was walking down it.

A single figure. Small. Unhurried.

Wrapped in long black robes that seemed too heavy for a child his size. His face was completely hidden beneath a smooth obsidian mask, reflective and blank—no eyes, no mouth, just silence.

The figure stopped at the temple gate. Behind him, the fog thickened unnaturally, as if swallowing the world he came from.

Ramdas squinted. "Are you… lost, child?"

The figure tilted his head slowly. Then asked, in perfectly calm Sanskrit:

"Who is your strongest warrior?"

His voice was wrong.

It didn't echo right. It was like hearing someone whisper into your mind from inside your own skull.

Ramdas blinked. "What?"

By now, villagers were gathering—Jyoti, Ramesh, a few farmers, even children peeking from behind baskets and laundry lines.

The figure spoke again. Cold. Soft.

"Bring me your best. Or I will break your weakest."

Ramesh laughed nervously. "Look at him! Wearing a mask like a bandit! Must be one of them forest kids playing pranks."

Another chuckled. "Might be festival madness! You want a fighter, little one? Why don't you spar with Ramdas' goat?"

A few kids giggled.

The figure stood still.

Then, ever so slowly, raised his right hand.

He pointed a single finger at the ground.

The air twisted.

BOOM!

A shockwave rippled from beneath his finger and blasted a deep crater in the cobbled road—nearly three feet wide. The laughing stopped. Screams followed.

People stepped back.

And then the figure moved.

He didn't run. He didn't need to. He appeared in front of Ramesh in a blink—faster than eyes could follow.

CRACK!

Ramesh's chest folded inward as if crushed by an invisible hammer. His body flew ten feet backward and hit a wall with a wet sound. Blood sprayed across the stone. Silence hung for a heartbeat.

Then chaos broke loose.

People ran. Screamed. Begged.

"Monster!""Protect the children!""Call the guards—call—someone—!"

But no one escaped.

With each step, the boy sent walls tumbling. Bodies split. Flames erupted from his feet, chakra-fueled and wild, setting homes ablaze as he walked past them. Straw roofs turned to torches. Oil pots exploded into fireballs. The quiet village of Kaliganj turned into hell in under five minutes.

One by one, they fell—villagers who had nothing to fight with but wooden hoes and kitchen knives.

The boy didn't even draw a weapon.

He simply touched, pointed, or snapped his fingers. And people shattered like glass.

His chakra didn't blaze like others. It flowed around him like ink in water—dark, fluid, suffocating. And his eyes… hidden behind that featureless mask… never once blinked.

It was mechanical. Cold. Like death had taken the form of a nine-year-old.

The sky above the village was no longer blue.

It was painted in flames.

Ash fell like black snow, coating rooftops, cracking walls, and floating over the once-peaceful farms of southern Vaikunth Dham. Children cried from alleyways. Homes collapsed into embers. Chickens ran blindly, feathers smoking. And amid this fiery storm stood a single figure—calm, dark, motionless.

The boy was nine.

His robes were the color of mourning, stitched in ancient Yamalok patterns no one in the village recognized. A black obsidian mask covered the upper half of his face, hiding everything but his mouth—a faint, almost bored smile curved upon it.

He had asked a simple question.

"Who is your strongest warrior?"

And when no one gave a serious answer—when laughter replaced respect—he began the purge.

He didn't scream. He didn't threaten.

He simply moved.

Faster than eyes could track.

Villagers dropped—backs snapped, skulls crushed, limbs torn from sockets with surgical precision. Houses exploded behind him as he tossed chakra bombs like pebbles into courtyards. Fire rained on granaries. People who begged were silenced first.

He was not here to be seen.

He was here to erase.

From a narrow path into the village, Bhaskar was sprinting.

His breath was shallow, chest burning, legs pumping through thick air filled with smoke. His heart pounded—not from fear, but fury.

The closer he got to the center of the chaos, the worse it became. Bodies. Screams. Smoke-choked wind.

And then… he saw her.

His sister.

Mira.

She stood frozen in front of their home, arms raised in fright as the dark figure approached her. His mask gleamed orange in the firelight.

Bhaskar didn't think.

He leapt.

"STAY AWAY FROM HER!"

The boy turned slightly. His glowing eyes barely registered Bhaskar's punch before he caught it with one hand.

"You must be strong huhh.... ," the boy said casually, as if seeing an insect Infront of him. "Chakra 1. Stage 7. Average talent. Slightly above average control. Weak heart."

He released the punch, letting Bhaskar stagger backward.

"I'll enjoy this."

Bhaskar grit his teeth. Chakra exploded from his skin, enveloping his body in a cocoon of blue lightning. He didn't hold back. His fists blurred into a barrage. Kicks came from every angle. His movements were perfect.

But none of them landed.

The boy leaned, ducked, twisted—barely trying. He moved like smoke on water. And each time he evaded, he sighed. As if this fight… bored him.

"Are you even trying?" he asked, yawning.

Bhaskar shouted in rage and struck with a double palm blow—enough to splinter stone.

The boy raised a finger and blocked both hands with a flick.

"Predictable."

And vanished.

Bhaskar blinked. "Where—?"

Then he heard it.

A gasp.

Behind him.

He turned.

The boy stood there, holding Mira by the throat, her feet kicking helplessly in the air.

"No—NO! Let her go!"

As Bhaskar's bloodied feet thundered across the burning ground, eyes locked on Mira's fragile form struggling in the grip of that monster, something cracked inside him—not just the moment, but memory itself.

The porch steps.The soft sunlight.Mira's tiny voice as she sat there drawing swirls on the stone with her toe.

"Bhaiya," she had said that day, tilting her head up with that gap-toothed grin, "if I train hard… can I be like you someday?"

He had chuckled, wiping flour from her nose. "No, Mira. You won't be like me. You'll be better."

She had hugged his arm, swinging it like a doll. "But if I become strong… will I still need you to protect me?"

Bhaskar had looked at her seriously then, his palm gently resting on her head. "Even if you become the strongest girl in the world… I'll always protect you. That's my job. From monsters, lightning, war—everything."

"Even from nightmares?" she whispered.

"Especially from nightmares," he had smiled. "If darkness ever comes… I'll be your light. Always."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he'd said, sealing it with a pinky.

As Bhaskar got glimpse of her sister's moments like that

Bhaskar launched forward, but before he reached them—

The boy looked at Mira.

Then at Bhaskar.

"So this little pest… is why you fought so hard?"

And then—

Snap.

Bhaskar's scream split the air. "MIRAAA!!!"

Her body fell limply from the boy's hand.

Bhaskar caught her in his arms. Her eyes were open, but blank. Her warmth was already fading.

He shook her. "No. No. Wake up. Mira. Please—wake up…"

But she didn't.

Tears poured down his face. He turned, chakra pulsing out in wild arcs. "I'LL KILL YOU!"

He charged, this time with everything—no restraint, no fear.

But the boy didn't move.

He raised one hand lazily and caught Bhaskar by the face.

"You're loud."

Then he lifted him like a rag doll and smashed him into the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. Bones cracked. Blood pooled.

Bhaskar didn't scream anymore.

He just coughed.

And whispered, "You… monster…"

The boy stepped on his chest.

"You're not wrong."

Then with a slow, deliberate motion—

He raised his foot towards his head.

"Time to practice the sound of silence."

From afar, Aryan saw the smoke curling into the evening sky—thick, dark, and rising like the fingers of some giant invisible hand reaching up from the earth.

At first, he tilted his head.

"Huh," he mumbled, slowing his sprint. "Are they… burning something? Festival, maybe?"

System:

"Festival? Unless they're celebrating 'Total Annihilation Day,' I doubt it."

"No, no—look at it! Could be a bonfire. They didn't even invite me."

System:

"Yes, how dare they forget to invite the village weirdo with explosive sneezes and poor social skills."

Aryan narrowed his eyes. The fire wasn't flickering cheerfully. It was billowing—thick and hot. Too much smoke. No music. No voices.

And then came the scent.

Burning wood. Burning cloth.

And… something else.

A horrible, greasy edge that made his stomach twist.

"...That's not a festival," he whispered.

System:

"Ah, it lives! Took the prodigy thirty seconds to smell cooked disaster. Bravo."

Without another word, Aryan slammed his foot into the dirt.

His Acceleration Activated.

Ten seconds. Chakra flooded his legs.

Then—BOOM.

He shot forward like an arrow loosed from the gods themselves.

Trees blurred.

Wind slapped his face.

Branches cracked in his wake as he bounded across roots and stones, faster than ever before. The skill kicked in harder. Faster. Sharper.

The 40% speed boost from Acceleration wrapped around him like a jet stream.

After he runs continuously for 100 second his speed increases again with 40% Speed Boost 

But the faster he went, the worse it looked.

Ash rained from the sky.

The air was painted orange-red.

And then, over the final ridge, he saw it.

The village.

Or what was left of it.

Homes once made of stone and wood were reduced to black skeletons.

Roofs collapsed.

The training ground Bhaskar once practiced in was no more than a pit of smoking rubble.

People lay scattered in the mud, limbs twisted unnaturally, some still twitching.

Fires danced on their clothes like cruel spirits refusing to leave.

Aryan skidded to a stop, feet dragging through the ash and dirt.

His breath caught in his throat.

System:

"...This wasn't a raid. This was a purge."

Aryan's eyes widened. He whispered hoarsely, "No… Bhaskar… Mira…"

He ran again, dodging fallen beams, leaping over broken carts, past charred bodies and ruined homes, ignoring the sting in his lungs and the tears threatening his eyes.

Then he saw it.

Bhaskar's house.

Or what remained of it.

One side of it had collapsed completely. Fire gnawed at the support beams like ravenous insects. The balcony was broken. The windows shattered.

But the front yard—

The front yard was worse.

And that's when he froze.

There, standing tall in the middle of the yard, surrounded by cracked stone and corpses…

Was a boy.

Dressed in black.

Masked.

And beneath his boot-

Bhaskar.

Sprawled on the ground, twitching faintly, his hands bloodied, his face swollen. A few feet away, Mira's small body lay still, her eyes wide open, glassy, like a doll discarded in the mud.

Aryan's world went silent.

Even the fire seemed to hush.

He took a step forward—barely a sound.

But the boy turned his head, slowly.

As if he already knew.

And with a tilt of cruel indifference, he pressed his foot down—

CRACK.

Bhaskar's skull gave way.

The masked boy looked over at Aryan. Beneath the mask, something like a grin.

"…Now who are you, dumbo?"