The Accidental Cultivator

The marble halls of Vaikunth Dham's southern palace gleamed under the soft golden light filtering through stained-glass windows. Long banners bearing the royal insignia—the twin lions of fire and wind—swayed gently in the breeze, but the silence in the main chamber was uneasy.

Princess Roshni sat beneath one of the great stone pillars, lost in her scrolls.

The pages were filled with combat diagrams and chakra theory, but her mind wandered elsewhere- she thinks how to fight that mysterious boy of kingdom of Yamalok in the tournament Her daydream was shattered by the sound of heavy boots.

"Roshni," came a voice—steady, but urgent.

She looked up.

Her elder brother stood at the doorway, flanked by two guards. Barely sixteen, Prince Rudraksh already carried himself like a seasoned warrior.

His training robes were torn at the sleeve, and sweat lined his brow.

But what unsettled her was the look in his eyes—focused, dark, and unreadable.

Despite being the First Prince and the Fifth Princess positions that often bred rivalry within royal bloodlines Rudraksh and Roshni shared a bond untouched by politics.

While others whispered of the throne and its contenders, Rudraksh always made time for her, whether it was sparring in the training hall or sneaking out to steal laddoos from the royal kitchen.

He never saw her as a competitor, but as his little sister—bright, curious, and stubborn in ways that reminded him of their mother.

And though Roshni respected his rank, she never hesitated to punch his shoulder or tease his brooding face.

In a palace full of masks, their siblinghood was real. Unshakable.

"Brother?" she stood, brushing her braid over her shoulder.

He walked toward her briskly, dismissing the guards with a glance. "We have a problem."

Roshni frowned. "What happened?"

He handed her a folded message—sealed with the mark of the outer scouts. "Early this morning, one of the border villages—Kaliganj—was attacked. Not raided. Not looted. Destroyed."

She unfolded the message. Her eyes scanned rapidly. Her breath caught. Entire homes gone. Over sixty dead. Zero survivors reported.

Her hands trembled slightly. "This… this can't be right."

"I thought the same," Rudraksh said grimly. "So I sent two shadow messengers myself. They confirmed it."

He leaned closer to whisper in her ear to maintain secrecy. "And they said something else. A witness saw the attacker. Said it wasn't a beast. Not a horde. It was a boy."

Roshni's brow furrowed. "A boy?"

"Dressed in black," her brother continued. "Head to toe. Wore a black obsidian mask. His chakra was… wrong. Dark. Unstable. Unlike anything they'd ever sensed before. And fast. Too fast to be human."

Roshni's mind began spinning.

Black robes.

A mask.

Chakra that didn't feel right.

She took a step back, heart pounding. A memory flared—one she hadn't wanted to revisit.

That quiet boy she met days ago inside the treasury trying to steal scrolls. Polite. Oddly calm. Something off about him, but she hadn't thought much of it. He said his name was Rohit.

She remembered the way he didn't blink much.

The way he asked her strange questions.

The way she had to stop herself from reaching for her blade.

"…Could it be him?" she mumbled beneath her breath.

But her words came out louder

Rudraksh narrowed his eyes. "You know something?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "I met someone like that. Not long ago. Same description. Said his name was Rohit… but I doubt that's real. He felt… ancient. Like he was acting."

Her brother straightened. "If what you're thinking is true, then this isn't just some bandit. He's something worse. Something trained. Someone sent."

The princess looked down at the scroll in her hands, but it may as well have turned to ash.

Her eyes narrowed. "Then we need to find out who sent him. And why he started with our people."

On the other side of the Kingdom the crunch of broken ground beneath Aryan's boots was the only sound in the silence that followed Bhaskar's death.

His eyes didn't blink. His jaw trembled.

But he didn't scream.

He just stared at the blood pooling under the broken shell that had once been his friend.

The masked boy didn't move either.

He stood there—boot still resting casually on Bhaskar's skull as if it were nothing more than discarded pottery.

System:

"Aryan… breathe. I need you to breathe. This isn't over."

The words echoed faintly in his mind.

But Aryan's ears were ringing. The taste of ash sat thick on his tongue. His fists curled until nails cut skin.

System:

"You're not ready for this fight. Not yet. But that doesn't mean you can't learn. Ask him questions. Find out who he is. Why he's here. Stall for time—get his pattern. His chakra usage. His origin. His weakness. Anything."

Aryan's lips parted, not in question, but declaration.

His voice came out low at first—like a rumble beneath stone.

Then it rose, sharper. Firmer. Royal.

"Who are you to walk into our land and claim lives that weren't yours to take?"

The masked boy tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

Aryan stepped forward, the air rippling faintly around his shoulders as chakra began to hum beneath his skin.

"What are you?" Aryan continued. "You move like a shadow, strike like thunder, yet wear the face of a child. What beast hides behind that mask?"

The boy's boot slid off Bhaskar's crushed head. He turned fully now, facing Aryan with silent, interested eyes.

Aryan didn't stop.

"What name does death call you by? What empire sent you to our soil? Was this village your message—or merely your warm-up?"

System:

"Well... okay then. You were supposed to ask, not conquer the moment, Your Majesty."

But the boy was listening.

He took a slow step forward. Not aggressive. Not mocking.

Curious.

Aryan didn't flinch.

"Did you come here to provoke a kingdom, or did you come to find someone worthy to strike you down?"

The boy laughed softly.

Just a chuckle.

And when he spoke, it was the first time Aryan heard his voice without blood in the background.

"…You're interesting."

Aryan's chakra pulsed violently.

He didn't break eye contact.

Neither did the boy.

It was no longer predator and prey.

It was two forces on a collision course.

And as the wind picked up around them, carrying ash and embers like petals at a funeral…

The masked child whispered:

"I'll play with you next."

The wind howled through the ruins.

Flames hissed from broken walls.

Ash clung to Aryan's clothes like mourning silk.

And still, the masked boy stood motionless—watching him like a puzzle he hadn't decided whether to solve or crush.

Aryan's fingers twitched.

Chakra surged inside him. Raw. Wild. Unshaped. His core wasn't refined yet—but it was deep. Furious. Burning like molten iron.

The boy chuckled again, lifting his chin.

"I'll play with you next."

Aryan's eyes narrowed.

He didn't blink.

His lips curled—not in a smile, but in something more primal.

"Me too."

Then he moved.

BOOM!

Aryan's feet blasted off the stone, launching him like a cannonball. His first strike came fast—a shoulder-level hook with chakra-infused momentum.

The masked boy didn't dodge.

He raised his arm, catching the blow with a forearm so solid it cracked Aryan's wrist on impact.

Aryan gritted his teeth and spun low, sweeping for the boy's legs.

Blocked again—bare shin to shin. Pain shot through Aryan's bone, but he didn't stop. He flipped backwards, landing in a crouch.

System:

"Analysis: Raw speed above average. Control wild. Coordination? About as elegant as a drunken rhino on ice. But damn if that chakra flow isn't stupidly powerful."

"Say it faster," Aryan muttered, darting in again with a series of rapid punches.

The masked boy dodged lazily. Every strike missed him by an inch, his robe flowing like shadow. But Aryan kept pressing, twisting his body between attacks, using chakra not just in bursts—but to fuel rhythm.

The boy ducked a knee and flicked Aryan's chest with two fingers.

BANG!

Aryan flew back five meters, skidding across broken tiles before flipping to his feet.

Blood dripped from his lip.

But he was grinning now.

"I thought you said you'd play," Aryan called.

The boy adjusted his stance slightly, folding his hands behind his back. "I am. This is the warm-up. You're still on Chakra Stage One, aren't you?"

Aryan wiped the blood from his mouth. "And you're...?"

The boy tilted his head. "Stage Two. Level Three."

Aryan exhaled. "Of course. Just great."

System:

"Oh don't be dramatic. You've got more chakra inside you than a newborn volcano. He's just better trained, faster, smarter, more precise, and—"

"Not helping."

The masked boy stepped forward this time, bare fists raised.

He came at Aryan without skill. No fancy footwork. No martial forms. Just raw, refined force behind every movement. The kind that spoke of muscle memory forged in blood.

Aryan ducked a straight jab and countered with a brutal upward palm. The boy blocked it with his elbow, spun, and kicked Aryan in the side.

THUMP!

Aryan grunted, his ribs rattling. But he caught the next punch and twisted—slamming his own forehead into the boy's mask.

CLANG!

The blow barely fazed the child. But he paused.

Then laughed.

"Who are you?" the boy asked. "You fight like a storm that hasn't learned what direction to blow yet."

Aryan breathed hard. "Who are you? Why kill them? Why Kaliganj?"

The boy didn't answer immediately.

Then: "Because someone had to be first."

System:

"Cryptic. Arrogant. Murderous. Yep. Classic tournament psycho."

Aryan steadied his stance. His arms ached. His legs were bruised. His breath was ragged. But his chakra… still burned.

"I'm Aryan," he said quietly.

The boy looked at him.

"And I'll remember your name," he replied. "Before I crush it."