Aran’s roar cracked across the arena.

  “No!”

  He lunged, rage blazing in his eyes, his body a blur as he hurled himself toward the stage. Aaryan swayed at the centre—blood-soaked, breath ragged. Crimson pooled at his feet, iron thick in the air. His blade sagged in his grip, edge quivering as though even steel shared his exhaustion.

  He was not alone. At his flank, silent as a shadow, a masked figure surged forward. The White Masked Man—no one could say when he had stepped into the arena, only that suddenly he was there, matching Aran’s charge with uncanny precision. Together, they became a single threat bearing down on Aaryan.

  The shouts lodged in every throat, freezing the arena. Even Deacon Puru, overseeing the duel, faltered in disbelief at the sudden turn. His hand lifted, ready to intervene, but before he could act…

  The masked man’s blade blurred toward Aaryan’s throat, faster than the eye could follow—yet steel never found flesh.

  Five longswords materialized mid-air, identical in form yet shimmering faintly with a translucent blue glow. They cleaved through space with sharp, singing cries, intercepting the masked man’s strike. Sparks flared. The masked intruder staggered back, repelled.

  Half a heartbeat of chaos followed—disbelief stretched so taut no one dared to move. Even Aaryan, vision swimming in blood and haze, could only stare at the swords hanging in the air, unreal in their glow.

  A blur of blue followed. Simmi. She landed between them, her movement so fast it left afterimages that quivered in the spectators’ vision. Her aura cracked like a whip as she drove into the White Masked Man without hesitation. The clash between them rattled the stage, qi scattering like shards of glass.

  Aran saw her arrival, but his eyes never left Aaryan. His voice carried over the chaos, low and furious.

  “No one can save you today.”

  Flame roared to life in his grip, coalescing into the shape of his spirit weapon. The air warped from its heat, distorting Aran’s figure as he rushed forward.

  Their blades met.

  Aran’s swordplay was violent, every strike heavy enough to split stone. Aaryan’s, in contrast, carried an ethereal weight—each swing cutting clean, detached from earthly restraint. Steel against steel rang like temple bells, every impact sending tremors rippling through the ground.

  The arena stirred at last. Gasps, shouts, hurried footsteps. Figures dashed toward the stage, some to intervene, others simply to witness. Above the clamour, the Green Fairy herself poised to move—but a faint voice brushed against her ear, laced with qi and inaudible to anyone else. Simmi’s whisper, carried amidst battle, stilled her hand.

  On the stage, Aaryan pressed forward. His right hand clenched.

  Blood streamed from his arm, yet beneath the ruin, light stirred. The glyphs carved into bone blazed awake, lines of gold threading from one to the next. The Dominion Tyrant Physique did not yield—it devoured.

  Aran’s eyes narrowed. His rank-three weapon had carved through Shravan, yet against Aaryan it yielded nothing. Retreat was unthinkable. He was Steel City’s number one prodigy—how could he falter here?

  He roared, driving his fist to meet Aaryan’s.

  The collision cracked like thunder. For a breath, neither moved—then flesh tore, bone shattered.

  Aran’s scream ripped free. Bone and sinew burst into the air, his forearm reduced to a rain of blood.

  “Y-you—!” His voice broke into agony.

  Before the echo faded, another voice split the arena.

  “Kid! You dare—”

  Varesh’s fury bellowed from the stands. Flames surged into form above him, coalescing into a sword wrought entirely from qi. Unlike the conjurations Aran and Ahana once wielded, this one pulsed with terrifying weight. Its edge burned with searing reality, its size thrice their attempts.

  The fiery blade descended.

  The sky itself seemed to ignite as it tore through the air, faster than thought. Heat scalded the stage. The vines blackened at their tips, curling and smoking. Aaryan’s knees nearly buckled—his battered body simply could not withstand what was coming. For the first time, the thought whispered: this blow would kill him.

  Yet it never reached Aaryan.

  The stage split with sudden growth. Green vines erupted, thick and alive, weaving a wall of living defence before him. But before the sword could strike even those, a greater shadow fell upon it.

  A claw—colossal, sheathed in blackened-grey flames—manifested in midair. It seized the flaming sword as if crushing paper. Fire hissed, crumbled, and died, scattering embers into nothingness.

  Gasps filled the arena.

  Deacon Puru stood at the forefront, his aura unleashed, his presence towering. The claw dissolved into sparks above him, leaving silence heavy in its wake.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Puru’s voice cracked like thunder. “Enough!” The single word crushed every whisper, every breath, until silence drowned the arena.

  Varesh’s fists clenched, knuckles bone-white. With Deacon Puru standing guard before Aaryan, he could do nothing—yet to swallow this humiliation in silence felt like poison. His voice broke through the hush, raw with fury.

  “Deacon Puru, this boy is too ruthless. He has crippled my son. He must pay.”

  Murmurs stirred like dry leaves. All eyes turned to the stage where Aran writhed, his groans jagged against the silence as Ahana and several elders struggled to steady him. Each sound hammered at Varesh’s pride.

  Before Puru could speak, another voice cut through. Calm. Flat. A release of weight long carried.

  “Varesh,” Megh Pramod said, “you truly have a thick skin.”

  He had not called him Clan Leader.

  Pramod’s gaze sharpened. “All saw it. Your son struck first. Vidyut only defended himself. You failed to restrain your own blood, then you lashed at a junior with intent to kill. Tell me— what shred of face remains to demand justice?”

  The words struck heavier than any blow. Varesh’s mouth twisted, ready to spit venom—only for Jitesh to move first.

  He stepped forward, bowing low toward Puru and Pramod, voice smooth but edged with opportunism.

  “Clan Head Pramod speaks truly. Varesh, the fault lies on your side.”

  The statement burned worse than open insult. Varesh’s vision darkened; rage swelled so sharp he nearly spat blood.

  The Verma clan had bent only after bitter struggle—

  And now, at the first crack, Jitesh turned. Shameless. Effective.

  Pramod’s faint nod sealed the betrayal.

  The air itself seemed to shift, heavy with changing loyalties.

  Then a voice like dry parchment settled the storm.

  “Let this matter be concluded.”

  Elder Nema. His presence silenced even whispers as he ascended the ruined stage, another elder at his side. Each step carried the authority of age. Puru bowed deeply; others followed.

  Aaryan swayed where he stood, exhaustion etched into every line, yet he cupped his hands in respect. Nema’s gaze lingered—then, unexpectedly, he inclined his head in return.

  The silence locked the arena in place, sharp as steel. He had returned courtesy to none before.

  Turning, Nema faced Varesh. His words were even, yet bound in iron.

  “As the Copper Circle has the duty to keep this competition fair, I advise you—do not press too far.”

  It was no advice. It was warning.

  Varesh bowed, though resentment coiled like a serpent within him. The future of his clan darkened in his mind—and its root was clear. The boy.

  Then, a voice slid into his ear, hidden and subtle. The words froze his blood. His gaze flicked from the white-masked prisoner bound under the Green Fairy’s power, to Aaryan, then to Aran—whose cries had at last weakened to hoarse breaths.

  When the son looked up, hoping for comfort, he found none. Only wrath, cold and endless, turned upon him.

  Varesh’s voice struck like iron.

  “Boy— If you dared lie to me… I’ll tear you apart no matter what.”

  Aaryan’s lips curved faintly, trembling with fatigue yet carrying his usual bite.

  “Sure. But if I’m telling the truth… want me to say it out loud?”

  The silence deepened.

  Varesh gave no answer, only turned to the Green Fairy.

  “Release him.”

  At Aaryan’s slight nod, the chains unravelled. Varesh seized the masked captive, Ahana supporting the limping Aran behind him. The youth glanced back—pain and hatred burning as if the boy before him had become his greatest enemy.

  The ruined stage emptied, leaving only silence and the weight of what had been broken.

  ?? — ? — ??

  A few short hours had passed since the duel, yet the wounds Aaryan had carried into the night were already fading. His body, tempered by the Primordial Tyrant Bone, mended at a pace that seemed to defy reason.

  What would have crippled another cultivator for weeks was little more than a dull ache to him now—muted further by the potent herbs sent by the Megh Clan. Given a day or two, he would stand at his peak once more, as if battle had never touched him.

  Across the long table where lanternlight pooled in shifting gold, Shravan leaned closer, his voice pitched just enough to be heard above the din of revelry. “Brother Vidyut, this is all thanks to you.” His smile carried both gratitude and something quieter—an acknowledgement of the bond between them.

  Before Aaryan could respond, movement stirred at the far side of the hall. A small group approached through the swirl of laughter, song, and clinking cups. Though Steel City now bowed beneath their rule—at least for the next century—there was no mistaking the subtle weight of respect in their steps as they drew near to him. Eyes lingered on him with an edge of deference, as though the shadow of his earlier battle still clung to the air around him.

  The Green Fairy spoke first, her gaze sharp yet curious. “Little friend, what did you say to Varesh that made him leave so quickly?” The question carried the hunger of many ears present, the unvoiced tension of all who wondered.

  Aaryan’s lips curved into a faint smile, his tone light but firm. “That matter lies between him and me. To speak of it here would be unwise—unless, of course, Varesh himself breaks his promise.”

  A ripple of laughter spread around the table, breaking the brief hush. Megh Pramod’s chuckle rolled above the rest, warm and approving.

  Kavya’s voice followed, hesitant yet eager. “Then… what about your Spirit Weapon? Will you let us see it?”

  The air tightened. Babita’s sharp retort came before Aaryan could speak. “Presumptuous.” Her tone cut through the hall, the weight of familiarity and possessiveness plain.

  Conversation thinned; even the musicians’ strings faltered for a breath. Those watching exchanged uneasy glances—Steel City’s twin jewels, their two most radiant daughters, reduced to quarrelling over a single youth. The clash between them hummed louder than the strings of the musicians in the corner.

  Aaryan, ignoring the tension, turned instead to Megh Pramod. His voice was steady, practical. “Senior, when may I enter the Tower?”

  Pramod’s smile thinned, his reply careful. “Formalities remain. The Dravhals have sealed themselves within their estate. But tomorrow—you may enter.”

  Aaryan gave a short nod. No more needed to be said.

  From behind, a booming voice rang out, followed by the heavy thump of a hand on his back. Subhash, broad-shouldered and ruddy with drink, grinned at him. “Kid, why not stay here with us? Use the Tower as much as you please.”

  The words brightened Shravan’s expression and lit a subtle glow in Babita’s eyes. Kavya, however, turned away, her lips pressed thin, bitterness darkening her face. She had barely known him, yet his display of strength earlier had carved a place in her thoughts—and the sting of his distance cut sharper for it.

  Aaryan shook his head gently. “I’ll be leaving soon. There are other matters I must see to.”

  The refusal was calm, but its weight struck harder than any blade Babita’s fingers stilled on her sleeve, the drink at her elbow untouched. Across the table, the Green Fairy’s gaze softened as she watched her daughter struggle to mask the pang in her chest.

  The evening unfolded with uneven ease. Elders and high-ranking figures drifted away one by one, their conversations pulling them toward matters of strategy and power. The younger generation lingered, laughter returning in fits and starts, though shadows of rivalry still lingered beneath the cheer.

  He walked over and inclined his head slightly. “Thank you—for earlier.”

  Simmi met his gaze, silent. A flicker passed across her face—something between acknowledgment and weariness—before she looked away. The words hung between them, unbroken.

  Outside, Steel City’s night stretched vast and still, its silence a striking contrast to the thunderous clashes of the day.

  Fellow Daoists,

  Destiny Reckoning has stirred your Dao heart even a little, I humbly invite you to leave behind a few traces of your passage — a comment, a follow, or even a favorite. These gestures may seem like mere pebbles, but to this wandering author, they are spirit stones paving the road forward.

  review would be as treasured as a heavenly-grade soul fruit — rare, potent, and deeply nourishing.

  Patreon gates stand open. Tread boldly... but beware the cliff’s edge.

  The Silent Monarch. His story unfolds in the same universe as Destiny Reckoning. Unlike Aaryan’s blazing rise, the Monarch’s path is cold, ruthless, and silent… yet destined to cross with Aaryan’s one day.

  follow The Silent Monarch as well, and be there when their worlds finally collide.

  and thank you — sincerely — for walking this path with me. ???