The Accidental Cultivator

The courtyard of Vaikunth Dham's royal palace was no longer the garden of tranquility it had once been. Smoke still hung like a shroud above the stone walls. Guards scrambled across scorched tiles, shouting orders, carrying buckets of water, and dragging away what few scorched artifacts had survived the blaze.

And then the royal horns blew.

Dhoonnn! Dhoonnn!

A majestic white chariot pulled by four obsidian stallions screeched into the courtyard. Soldiers saluted. Servants bowed. Silence fell.

From the chariot stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man with a crown of serpent-gold resting atop his neatly tied jet-black hair. His crimson cape fluttered slightly behind his intricate battle robes. The lines on his forehead were deeper than they had been years ago, carved by war, wisdom, and weariness.

King Rudrayan had returned.

He took a single look at the blackened walls of the treasury, the molten edges of gold handles, and the faint outline of dragon claws melted into the stone floor—and his face went pale.

"…What in Mahadev's name happened here?"

Before anyone else could speak, an elderly man in deep-blue priestly robes stepped forward. His long beard was braided with prayer beads, and his eyes bore the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

Bishop Veerabhadra, Royal Advisor and Seer of the Inner Circle.

"Your Majesty," the Bishop said, voice trembling, "you may wish to sit before hearing this."

Rudrayan didn't budge. "Speak."

Veerabhadra swallowed. "Last night, at the third hour of moonrise, the Vault of Flames was… breached."

The King's eyes narrowed.

"Breached… by whom?"

"We do not know. The magical seals were ruptured, likely by force or unintended interference. The corridor sigils—burned off. The door—split in three. And more importantly…"

The Bishop hesitated.

"…The beast guarding the inner sanctum—Taarask—was… awakened."

The courtyard seemed to freeze.

Even the guards stopped breathing.

King Rudrayan's fists clenched. "The dragon... was released?"

Veerabhadra bowed his head. "Yes, my King. We believe the containment sigils were accidentally damaged during the intrusion. Taarask broke free… and destroyed the treasury."

Rudrayan's voice turned low and dangerous. "Destroyed? As in…?"

"…Every scroll. Every manual. Every artifact. Turned to ash. The walls are melted. The floor's fractured. The treasury… no longer exists."

The King stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing like thunder across the marble.

He gazed upon the ruined door to the vault—the edges still glowing faintly orange, as if refusing to cool.

"This was… the legacy of my father," Rudrayan said. "Thirty years of collection. A thousand years of history. Gone."

A moment passed before he turned, voice sharper than a blade.

"Who did this?! Where are the intruders?!"

Bishop Veerabhadra raised his hands. "We found only fragments. Charred bones. Half-melted boots. It's likely the dragon incinerated him before we could arrive."

The King's jaw clenched. "The dragon is still inside?"

"Yes," Veerabhadra confirmed. "It retreated to the molten core of the vault after the destruction. We've sealed the chamber with divine barriers—temporary, but they hold for now."

A pause. Then the Bishop added, "We have begun scrying rituals to identify the intruder, but… the chaos of the dragon's flames destroyed all magical traces."

King Rudrayan slowly exhaled. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Summon the Grand Court. All nobles. All warriors. Tonight."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And send word to the Nalanda Council. Tell them… the Kingdom of Vaikunth Dham has suffered a breach."

Veerabhadra's face twitched. "Shall we mention the Martial Arts Tournament?"

The King looked up, eyes like steel.

"No. Not yet. If the other kingdoms sense weakness, they will send wolves."

He turned back to the blackened vault.

"But we will rise from the ashes. Even if I have to build this kingdom again—scroll by scroll, stone by stone."

And far behind him, the melted treasury door gave off a low, haunting rumble—like the faint growl of a beast still awake.

In the aftermath of the treasury disaster, the royal halls of Vaikunth Dham were buzzing with confusion and fear. Yet in a quiet corner of the palace, tucked away behind layers of guards and drapes, a six-year-old girl sat cross-legged in her chamber, staring at the burn marks on her sleeves.

Roshni, Princess of the Southern Kingdom of Vaikunth, daughter of King Rudrayan, wasn't thinking about the destruction. She was thinking about him—that strange, quiet thief named Rohit, who had somehow blocked all her attacks without breaking a sweat.

'He seemed… scared. But his reflexes weren't scared. And when he dodged that pillar—no ordinary kid could have done that.'

The door creaked open.

"Still awake, Roshni?"

She turned. It was her instructor—broad-shouldered, calm-eyed, with a beard that looked like it had survived ten battles.

"Instructor Vikram," she stood up quickly, brushing her hair aside. "I… needed to talk."

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "I figured. Your father's angry, your mother's worried, and the guards are useless. You, on the other hand, walked out of a burning treasury like it was a kitchen fire. So… what happened?"

"I went in," she said simply. "Looking for something. I met someone."

"Someone?" His eyebrow arched.

She nodded. "Another thief. Said his name was Rohit. He was… strange. Clumsy. But somehow… powerful. I think he blocked my Chakra strikes by instinct."

"Describe him."

"Small. My age. Nervous eyes. But when the dragon attacked… he dodged fire like he'd done it a hundred times."

Vikram narrowed his eyes. "That's not something one learns at this age. Either he's pretending… or he's been trained well."

"I don't think he has a clan," Roshni added. "And he didn't know about the Martial Arts Tournament. I told him."

"Which means he's either hiding something… or he's an unpolished gem."

He sat down beside her.

"Then let me tell you what you're up against."

She straightened. "The tournament?"

He nodded.

"You know the University of Nalanda is surrounded by four great kingdoms. Your kingdom, Vaikunth, lies in the South. Then there's the Northern Kingdom of Ashtaka, known for their frost combat techniques. The Eastern Kingdom of Suragiri, where elemental fire users are born into warrior bloodlines. And the Western Kingdom of Yamalok, home to the Shadow Monks."

"Shadow Monks?" she asked.

"They can move without sound. Strike without warning. Even the King avoids crossing them."

"And the competitors?"

He sighed. "Each kingdom sends its best. Princes. Princesses. Warrior heirs. You'll likely face Prince Abhimanyu of Ashtaka, who is already at Chakra Level 1 Stage 6. Then there's Princess Meera of Suragiri, a dual-cultivator with control over fire and water. And from Yamalok… well, no one knows. They don't register until the final moment."

She blinked. "And me?"

"You're strong," Vikram said gently. "But you're too kind. You hold back. That won't work this year."

"Why?" she asked.

He stood, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain aside.

"Because someone new is coming."

The moonlight poured through the open window, casting a long shadow across the marble floor.

Vikram's voice lowered.

"Word has come from the East. Across the great seas. From the Chinese Continent."

"Another kingdom?"

"No. Another method. They don't cultivate with Chakras. They follow Qigong—a 9-stage internal cultivation path, rooted in ancient Chinese mythology."

"And someone's coming?"

"Yes. A child. Around your age. But he's already reached the 5th Stage of Qigong. A sword practitioner."

Her eyes widened.

"Who the hell did he train with to become such a monster?"

Vikram shook his head. "No aura tags. No affiliations. He's completely self-made an unpredictable force forged in absolute isolation."

She looked down at her hands. "What kind of sword does he use?"

He closed his eyes. "They say he slices stone like cloth. Leaves curved trails in mountains."

Then, he opened his palm, and two small metal claws materialized.

"Now… you've got your own gift. It's time you mastered it."

The twin weapons glimmered like silver fangs—twin claw-like blades, curved like crescent moons, one for each hand. Their name etched on the inner hilt: "Garudtalon".

She slipped them onto her hands. They extended halfway up her arm, anchoring tightly.

"Show me," Vikram said.

She took a deep breath, then charged.

He blocked the first swing. The second came under his shoulder. She spun, slashing upward—but he stepped back. Her movements were wild, raw, furious—but not refined.

"Too emotional," he muttered. "Again."

They clashed again. Sparks flew from claw against steel. Her arms burned. Her breath grew sharp. But her footwork improved with each clash.

Thirty minutes passed.

Finally, she fell to her knees.

He walked to her side. "Better. You're fast. But not controlled. You'll never beat that boy from Qigong unless you sharpen these claws with precision."

She nodded, wiping sweat from her forehead.

"And the boy from the treasury?" he added.

"I want to fight him again," she said. "But not as a thief."

He smiled.

"You'll get your chance. The Martial Arts Tournament is just four weeks away."

He walked away, leaving her beneath the flickering candles.

She looked down at her claws.

'Rohit… whoever you are. I'm going to beat you. Not because I hate you. But because I want to be stronger than this fear inside me.'

From the window, the moon watched silently.

The sun dipped behind the burnt treetops of Vaikunth Dham as Aryan unrolled the first Chakra Manual, his hands trembling with excitement. Smoke still lingered from the morning disaster, but none of that mattered now.

He was ready.

Sitting cross-legged behind his hut, scrolls open and heart pounding, Aryan inhaled deeply.

"Today… no more pretending. I'm going to cultivate for real."

From inside the hut, a belch echoed.

Then the unmistakable voice of Grandpa Ganpat, slurring through a haze of cheap liquor.

"Boyyy…! You better not be suckin' in chakra like a madman again. Bucket only holds so much, you pour in a river, it's gonna—hic—burst!"

Aryan winced. "Go back to sleep, Grandpa. You're drunk again."

"I'm drunk with wisdom!"

System:

"He's not wrong. Though I resent being lumped into a bucket analogy. Especially since I'm the one who'll be picking up your exploded pieces."

Aryan rolled his eyes.

The System—his ever-annoyed, sarcastic companion—was not just any mystical voice. No. He was a middle-aged man who claimed to have once ruled galaxies, now trapped inside an iron core of unknown origin… and unfortunately bonded to Aryan's soul.

And right now?

He was hoping this stupid kid would burst.

System:

"Come on… just one pop. One good explosion and I'm free. Finally, no more chakra constipation, no more babysitting…"

Aryan closed his eyes and began meditating.

Deep breaths.

Long exhales.

The scroll's glyphs began glowing. His already-awakened chakra absorption rate—10 times faster than normal—kicked into overdrive.

Within seconds, his body buzzed with raw energy.

Then trembled.

Then quaked.

His veins bulged. His skin tingled.

System:

"Okay, now we're cooking! Yes! Burn yourself alive! Unleash that internal hurricane!"

Aryan gritted his teeth. "Ughh… s-so much chakra…"

System:

"That's it! Feed me the sweet release of detonation! Let me OUT of this iron hell—!"

BOOM!

A blinding flash erupted from Aryan's core.

Birds took off screaming. Grandpa Ganpat rolled off his hammock like a barrel.

Aryan gasped, chest heaving.

And then… the light faded.

He was still alive.

System:

"…No."

Aryan blinked. "I didn't die?"

System:

"You were supposed to explode! That was my exit plan! This isn't fair! You're a tiny human sponge, not a divine battery!"

Aryan stood up slowly, arms shaking. He felt… impossibly full of energy. A fire coiled in his chest, not hurting him—but fueling him.

DING!

New Passive Skill Unlocked

Chakra Overload

Allows the user to store 100x more chakra than average.

Enhanced compatibility with future techniques.

Strength scales with stored chakra.

Current Status: Beginner (Caution: Overloading without control may lead to muscle shredding, temporary blindness, or explosive sneezes.)

System:

"This is what I get for hoping. Now you're a walking chakra volcano with zero common sense. I'm stuck with a kid who just turned into a ticking time bomb."

Aryan grinned, flexing his fingers.

"...I feel amazing."

System:

"Fantastic. Now you'll punch someone's skull into orbit without meaning to. And I'll be tried for war crimes."

He kicked a small rock.

The rock blasted through a tree trunk, leaving a clean hole.

Aryan froze.

"...Oops?"

System:

"Oops, he says. Oops. Do you know how many monks trained for decades to get that kind of destructive force? You did it by accident! While undernourished! With noodle arms!"

From inside the hut:

"Boyyyy!" Grandpa Ganpat bellowed. "Why does the chicken coop have a new skylight?!"

Aryan ignored him.

He was staring at his hands, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"I… can really do this. I'm strong now. I can go to Nalanda."

System:

"Yes, but you better learn control before you accidentally sneeze and evaporate a village."

Aryan sat again, ready to meditate.

But now, his heart was calm.

And the System… despite himself… felt something stir.

Hope?

Or just terror at what this kid might accidentally destroy?

He didn't know yet.

But he sighed.

System:

"Fine. You win this round. Let's see how long you can keep it together before becoming the main event in someone else's nightmare."

And far above them, the sun finally dipped below the edge of the sky.

A boy sat under stars, unknowingly preparing to change the world.

One mistake at a time.

Far across the sea, beyond the Great Eastern Waters, where the skies burned a different shade of orange and the winds whispered through bamboo groves, a lone mountain stood silent.

Its surface, once proud and unbroken, was now scarred—clean curves carved into solid stone, as though a divine sculptor had taken a brush made of lightning to its face.

Each stroke cut with purpose. Precision. Patience.

And at the base of that very mountain, a boy stood barefoot on cracked earth.

His eyes were calm. Too calm.

In his right hand, he held a slender, pitch-black sword, its blade curved slightly like the crescent of a dying moon. The sword shimmered—not with light, but with stillness, as if it absorbed motion rather than created it.

He stepped forward.

Exhaled.

And moved.

In a single blink, he slashed upward. No sound. No effort.

But twenty meters above, a deep curve appeared on the cliff's wall, dust trickling from the newly made scar.

The boy didn't flinch.

He rotated his wrist—once, twice—then stepped sideways and cut again. A perfect horizontal line joined the first curve. Then a diagonal, almost invisible, yet clean as water on glass.

A gust of wind arrived late—finally reacting to what had already happened.

Leaves rustled.

Rocks rolled down the cliff's shoulder, startled.

The boy sheathed his sword in silence, the steel sliding into its ornate home with a sound softer than breath.

Only then did he speak in broken Sanskrit his voice barely louder than the breeze.

"To the Martial Arts Tournament… here I come."