"Fate isn't fair—it's a drunk gambler,stacking dice for some,snapping them in half for others,then tossing both onto the same tablejust to watch the chaos explode."
The eastern wing of Vaikunth Dham's palace was hushed, as though the marble itself had decided to hold its breath.
The oil lamps burned in steady rows, their golden light licking across lotus-carved pillars.
Outside, the breeze was scented faintly with sandalwood from the temple gardens, but inside, the silence was heavier — the silence of a boy chasing something vast.
Prince Rudraksh sat cross-legged on a woven mat soaked in rare oils, his back perfectly straight, shoulders squared with the discipline of one born to be heir.
His eyes were closed, but the air around him was alive.
Motes of golden chakra drifted like fireflies, drawn into him with each breath, only to dissolve into his skin.
The marble beneath him hummed faintly, as if it recognized the pressure of a prodigy seated on it.
At ten years old, Rudraksh was already standing at the final edge of the First Chakra.
Stage Seven — Perfection.
His next step would be the one every genius feared and longed for: the threshold of the Second Chakra.
The step that would open paths ordinary cultivators could only dream of.
His brow glistened with sweat, but his voice was steady as he whispered to himself:
"Break through. Just one more chain. Just one barrier."
The golden light thickened around him, coiling like threads of destiny waiting to be woven tighter.
And then, as his aura swelled, his thoughts betrayed him.
They wandered — not to power, not to thrones, but to his sister.
Roshni.
She was younger, yet the palace already whispered her name as though she were a goddess in miniature.
In a few days, she would walk into Nalanda University, carrying not just her own dreams but the weight of Rudrayan's royal bloodline.
To Rudraksh, she was still the girl who laughed at the sound of bells, who tugged at his sleeve when she was scared of the dark, who asked him to spar with wooden sticks in the courtyard.
But soon she would stand among the heirs of empires, among geniuses with sharp tongues and sharper blades.
And he would not be there.
The thought tightened in his chest, heavier than any cultivation bottleneck.
He wanted to go, to stand behind her in Nalanda, to silence any who dared speak against her with his aura alone.
But duty held him here — the palace, the throne, the expectation that the crown prince does not wander.
Still, he promised himself: If I cannot walk beside her in Nalanda, I will at least make my shadow so high that no person there will dare to cross paths with her.
His breath deepened, golden threads spiraling faster around him, responding to his resolve.
His aura pressed harder against the invisible wall of the Second Chakra.
The marble floor trembled faintly.
Then—
thrum.
A faint vibration rippled through the chamber.
The flames of the oil lamps shivered.
Rudraksh's eyelids twitched. His focus wavered. "...Aura?"
Another pulse followed, stronger, like a drumbeat rolling through the palace corridors.
A vase rattled in the corner.
The wooden screen behind him creaked.
Rudraksh's frown deepened. His mind immediately sharpened, weighing possibilities.
The day had begun with talk of Grandpa Ganpat's execution.
Could it be rebels, trying to storm the royal court?
Or some lunatic disrupting the ceremony?
He inhaled, steadying himself.
Then shook his head. "No. Focus. It's nothing."
He pushed the distractions away, forced his breathing into rhythm, and closed his eyes once more.
But the air was no longer still.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls, a storm was stirring
The hum of Rudraksh's aura cracked like glass when the world outside decided to scream.
ROOOOOOOAAAAAARRRRRRR!
The entire palace shuddered. Tiles rattled.
The golden lamps flickered like scared children.
The sound wasn't thunder.
It wasn't an earthquake.
It was something older, louder, and way more personal.
Rudraksh's eyes snapped open.
His servant, a thin boy in plain robes, nearly dropped the brass jug he was carrying.
"Y-y-young master!" he stammered.
Rudraksh didn't answer.
He strode to the balcony, every step sharp, deliberate.
When he flung open the carved doors, the world outside made even his disciplined heart skip.
From the royal court below, tearing straight through the roof like it was paper, a dragon erupted into the skies.
Its wings stretched wide enough to blot out half the horizon.
Fire licked from between its teeth.
Its scales caught the sun and burned like a second dawn.
The roar rolled through heaven and earth, making even the mountains in the distance echo back in terror.
And on its back… were two idiots.
One was a boy barely six, clinging to the dragon's neck like he was hugging the world's deadliest tree.
His face was pale, his mouth stretched in a scream that sounded like it couldn't decide between bravery and regret.
His hair whipped in all directions like it wanted to abandon him.
Beside him, swaying like a flag in a storm, was an old man.
Grandpa Ganpat.
He wasn't drunk — jail had wrung every drop out of him — but he still yelled like a tavern brawler.
"ONWARD, YOU BIG LIZARD! TO GLORY! TO FREEDOM! TO—WHEREVER WE'RE GOING!"
Aryan screamed even louder, clinging for dear life. "I DON'T WANNA GO TO GLORY, I WANNA GO TO NALANDA!"
The dragon ignored them both, roaring again as it flapped its wings. Wind ripped banners clean off the palace walls.
Rudraksh's servant froze. His jaw dropped so wide it looked like it might dislocate. "M-master… are they—are they—?"
"Quiet," Rudraksh muttered.
His pupils narrowed.
Chakra surged, flooding into his eyes.
The world sharpened.
The blur of figures on the dragon's back snapped into clarity.
There.
That boy.
The same aura Rudraksh had felt moments ago, hammering through the palace like a war drum.
The unstable, dangerous rhythm that had ruined his cultivation focus.
A boy barely older than his sister, screaming like an idiot but still… riding a dragon.
Rudraksh's jaw tightened.
His aura stirred, not with fear, but with something sharper. Rivalry.
Roshni is going to reach Nalanda in a few days.
If this boy goes there too… if this monster-child who could "control" a dragon appears on that stage… then Roshni's path will not be smooth.
He clenched the railing until cracks spidered under his fingers on the stone balcony. His eyes never left Aryan.
"So. This is the one," he whispered, half to himself, half to the storm overhead.
The servant gulped, voice trembling. "M-master… should I summon the guards? Should I—"
"No." Rudraksh's voice cut through the chaos, cold as steel.
His chakra eyes glowed faintly, locking onto Aryan's terrified face. "I don't need guards. What I need… is to remember this boy."
The dragon tilted upward, ripping through clouds, flames scattering from its jaws like sparks from a forge.
Aryan and Ganpat clung on, screaming their lungs out, one young and dumb, one old and dumb — but in Rudraksh's sharpened eyes, it was no comedy.
It was a warning.
A rival had just entered his sister's future.
On the other point on the back of the Dragon Aryan's lungs were burning from how much he screamed.
Wind whipped his face until his cheeks stung.
His tiny hands clung to a scale bigger than his torso, and still his body rattled like a rag doll every time the dragon's wings slammed against the air.
"I DON'T WANNA DIE LIKE THIS!" he shrieked.
System:
[Then maybe stop climbing onto things that BREATHE FIRE, you maniac.]
"This wasn't my choice!" Aryan spat back, eyes streaming from the wind.
System:
[Oh yes, because falling onto a dragon's back is SUCH a normal accident. Do you want me to print you a certificate for "World's Dumbest Transport Choices"?]
"GRANDPAAAA!" Aryan wailed.
Ganpat was beside him, his gourd long gone, his beard standing up like it was trying to leave him behind.
The old man yelled louder than the wind, "HOLD ON, LAD! IF WE FALL, AIM FOR SOMETHING SOFT!"
"LIKE WHAT?!" Aryan screamed.
Ganpat thought for a second, then roared back, "A CLOUD!"
The dragon did not share their enthusiasm.
Inside its vast mind, Taarask's thoughts coiled like smoke. Illusion. This has to be some foul trick. Mortals cannot simply ride my back. This is no reality—just a lingering curse. These pests do not belong here. And if they are real… then I will end them.
His muscles bunched. His wings tilted. He angled upward, soaring higher and higher until the palace and city shrank into toy bricks beneath him. The sky grew thinner, sharper. The world blurred into pale blue.
Aryan's stomach flipped inside out. "NONONO—TOO HIGH! TOO HIGH!"
Then Taarask folded his wings.
The entire world dropped.
Wind screamed louder than Aryan. His body nearly peeled off the dragon's back. Ganpat's yell turned into something between a laugh and a prayer.
System:
[Well. Congratulations. You've upgraded from "Walking Disaster" to "Meteoric Idiot."]
"I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS!" Aryan howled.
System:
[Neither did the ground. But it's about to meet you face-first.]
Taarask's golden eyes narrowed with grim satisfaction. Yes. Smash them. End them. Break them like flies. My back will be mine again.
Aryan clung tighter, knuckles white, his small arms trembling. His teeth rattled so hard he thought they'd crack.
And then—
[System Notification: New Skill Unlocked → Dragon Rider.]
Aryan blinked. "Wait. WHAT?!"
The System's voice was dry as desert sand.
System:
[Oh no. Not again. The universe just LOVES you. Even gravity can't get rid of you. Congratulations, lucky brat—apparently you can ride dragons now.]
"HOW DO I USE IT?!" Aryan screamed.
System:
[Oh, I don't know. Maybe READ THE—oh wait, there IS no manual. Good luck activating it mid freefall, genius.]
"I DON'T KNOW HOW TO ACTIVATE IT!" Aryan's voice cracked, rising higher than the wind.
Ganpat, still half-flapping in the storm, shouted, "JUST PULL SOMETHING! ANYTHING!"
"THIS ISN'T A HORSE!" Aryan yelled back.
The dragon tucked tighter, his body now a living spear aimed straight at the forest below. Heat built around his throat, fire rolling in preparation.
Aryan's eyes widened. His body froze. His mind screamed one thought, loud enough to echo even in the dragon's ears:
I don't know how to ride a dragon.
The jungle of Vaikunth Dham breathed with its own rhythm. Mist curled around trunks like lazy serpents, and sunlight broke into scattered shards as it filtered through leaves older than kingdoms. Birds hopped and argued overhead, while small insects stitched their songs into the silence.
And through this world walked a boy.
Barefoot, his steps careful, though not always graceful. His robe was plain white, stitched in a style no villager in Vaikunth Dham would recognize. A knot of black hair was tied behind his head, swaying slightly as he moved. He looked not like a warrior on a journey, but like a boy searching for something he couldn't quite name.
He carried no companions. Only his shadow kept him company, stretching and shrinking as he passed between trees.
Every so often, his eyes flickered with a strange heaviness, as if the mist around him had teeth. He was young, yet his gaze carried the weight of too many nights gone wrong.
He remembered his village. He remembered how it burned. He remembered how he ran, because running was the only thing luck had left him. Everyone else—parents, neighbors, even the man who taught him to hold a sword—fell to a group of experts whose names he never cared to know. He thought at the time: maybe this is my luck, keeping me alive.
But as he grew, the thought twisted. Survival didn't feel like luck anymore. It felt like punishment. Sometimes, in his darkest hours, he thought it would have been kinder if he had died with the rest.
He shook his head, forcing the memory back where it belonged—behind him. The only thing ahead was Nalanda. The Tournament of Martial Arts. If his life had to stumble forward, he would at least stumble into the ring.
The jungle, however, wasn't interested in letting him walk with dignity.
He stepped over a fern, brushed aside a vine, then—his sandal caught on a thick root bulging from the ground. His body pitched forward. He caught himself with his hands, palms stinging against the rough soil. A puff of dirt clung to his sleeve.
For a moment he just sat there, glaring at the root like it had personally betrayed him. His lips twisted, and the words spilled out sharp, bitter, almost childish:
"Of course. Of course it had to be me."
He kicked the root with his heel. It didn't move. His sandal hurt.
The boy sighed, tilting his face toward the canopy. "Why? Why is it always me? Bad luck in the village, bad luck on the road, and now… tripping on trees."
He spat on the ground, dusting off his robe, muttering to himself as he stood again. "Destiny is a cruel joke. A very, very bad joke."
Above, the jungle gave no answer. The mist simply swirled around him, as though waiting for the next disaster to arrive.
The boy dusted his robe, still muttering curses at roots and destiny, when the light around him dimmed.
At first he thought it was clouds. The jungle often played tricks like that, mist thickening and swallowing the sun for a few breaths. He sighed and tilted his chin up—
—and froze.
A shadow wasn't crawling over the forest. It was stabbing into it.
From the heavens, a figure tore downward at impossible speed, blazing like a meteor wrapped in flame. The air itself whined, the treetops shivering as if begging him to run.
His knees locked. His mouth dried. "No… no no no…"
The figure grew sharper—wings, scales, fire trailing like a comet's tail. A dragon. A dragon falling directly on top of him.
He shrieked, voice cracking into a childish pitch. "I WAS JUST CURSING DESTINY, I DIDN'T ASK TO DIE WITH IT!"
His hand shot to his sword. He yanked it halfway out of the sheath, steel glimmering—then his brain finally caught up. "WHAT AM I THINKING?! I CAN'T CUT A METEOR WITH A TOOTHPICK!" He slammed it back in, stumbled, turned to run.
His sandal caught another root. He nearly faceplanted. He scrambled upright, flailed for balance, then tried to zigzag between trees as if the dragon would politely miss him for effort alone.
"NO! BAD IDEA! EVERY IDEA IS BAD!"
Above, the sky screamed.
…
Aryan's world was a hurricane of wind and terror. His arms ached from clinging to the dragon's scales. His throat burned from shouting. His heart pounded like it wanted to jump out first and abandon ship.
[System Alert: Scanning… Scanning…]
"What now?!" Aryan yelled over the storm.
System:
[Just like we gave you Max Luck stat… we've detected its opposite. A max unluck person who is unlucky from birth.]
"WHAT THE HELL KIND OF MATCHMAKING IS THIS?!" Aryan bellowed.
System:
[Don't worry, fate will handle the introduction. Brace for impact.]
"I DON'T WANNA MEET HIM LIKE THIS!"
The dragon, ignoring all complaints, folded tighter, blazing toward the jungle.
…
The boy looked up one last time and saw nothing but fire. He shrieked so loudly birds fell out of nearby branches. "DOES DESTINY NEVER TAKE A BREAK?! DO THEY JUST WANT ME DEAD?!"
…
Impact.
The forest exploded.
Trees split, snapped, burned. Dust fountained upward, blotting out the sun. The ground split into a crater, soil raining back like black snow. Shockwaves blasted through the jungle, flattening ferns and sending frightened animals racing for miles.
And then silence.
Broken branches dangled like ribs from the wounded earth. Smoke curled lazily from charred trunks. At the center, the dragon lay sprawled, unconscious from the force of its own landing.
Ganpat groaned, rolling onto his side. "Still… still alive… That's cheating."
Aryan coughed, hacking up dust, and staggered upright, brushing soil and leaves off his robe. His hair stood in every direction like he'd fought a thunderstorm barehanded.
Across the crater, the boy pulled himself up too, his white robe smeared brown with dirt. His face was pale, his eyes wide, but he was breathing.
The two of them stood there, a few meters apart, the wreckage of destiny smoldering around them.
They stared into each other's eyes.
One boy born with Max Luck.
The other cursed with Max Unluck.
Neither knew whether the world had just gifted them a brother, a rival… or a disaster waiting to happen.
The silence between them was heavy enough to crush the trees that hadn't already fallen.
And somewhere in the dust, fate grinned.
"One boy carried fortune like a shield.One dragged misfortune like chains.When their gazes clashed in the ashes of ruin,the heavens cracked with laughter—for destiny had finally found its favorite disaster."