Scroll 7: The Pettiest First Strike
Ethan was a king in the hot misty womb. The outside world was noisy, with metal clanging in some inner courtyard of the clan, low voices murmuring and saying things in low tones and the far-off rhythmic thump of his mother heart beating. To each movement of hers there was a rocking in the liquid about him, a soft, rocking ebb and flow that would have almost rocked a man to sleep. Almost.
He was not sleeping however. Ethan had been taught at an early age that sleep was lost opportunities and opportunities were the currency of survival in this screwed up cultivation world. The womb was not a mere, stupid bag to raise babies in, not when you came back with a memory and, more to the point, a system that would now and then chime in like a slack landlord to see whether you had paid the rent.
To-night it was not chiming, however. The golden son of the house, the blessed son, the chosen one, his future younger brother, was crouching a little to his left. Too quiet.
The boy was coming out of it, and that was good. He never parodied. He did not require him to be awake in order to do what he was going to do.
In the real history, at least the one Ethan recalled, his initial defeat by this brat would occur during a clan ceremony three years after his birth. A mortifying defeat in a public contest, such as would be the beginning of years of comparison, criticism, and casual rejection in favour of the prodigy. Ethan had lived that time line. Why not outclassed?
What is in the so-called Child of Destiny to warrant a first round? Why should the so-called Child of Destiny be a first round? Nah. Mine in the first round.
He twisted slowly, feeling the soft resistance of the amniotic fluid shift against his limbs. The womb wasn't spacious — it was cramped, slippery, and full of weird echoes that made every movement sound exaggerated inside his skull. But Ethan had been practicing micro-movements for weeks. If you could dodge a floating bit of umbilical cord, you could dodge anything.
The younger brother stirred slightly, eyelids twitching in fetal dreams. Ethan almost snorted. Probably dreaming about spirit swords and dragon blessings already.
Perfect.
With the kind of sharp, petty precision that should probably be studied by historians, Ethan snapped his leg backward and delivered a decisive smack right to the kid's rear. Not hard enough to cause real harm — he wasn't a monster — but hard enough to make the little prince jolt like a startled fish.
The result was immediate.
The brat kicked out wildly, spinning slightly in the liquid, tiny face scrunching in what could only be described as infant rage. A muffled, garbled cry pulsed through the fluid, the sound distorted but unmistakably pathetic.
Somewhere far above, his mother gasped. The vibration ran down through her body, a quick ripple of tension that made the womb's walls tighten slightly. "Oh—" Her voice was low, anxious, though Ethan couldn't make out the full words through the layers of flesh and fluid.
The midwife outside — an older woman whose voice always carried the steady tone of someone paid not to panic — murmured something in return, all reassurance and calm. Probably telling her it was normal for the babies to move.
Ethan, meanwhile, was already settling back into position. Hands tucked close, expression perfectly neutral. The amniotic dark hid the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, but oh, it was there.
A soft chime echoed in his head.
[System: +50 points for making Child of Destiny cry.]
Oh, that was sweet. That was better than sweet. This little "test run" had just confirmed something important: the system didn't just reward survival — it rewarded initiative. Even if the "initiative" in question was petty, borderline childish, and completely unprovoked.
Ethan's thoughts began to spin, calculating. If a single slap earned fifty points, what about other, slightly more creative forms of sabotage? The womb had its limitations, sure, but a clever man could still turn this cramped underwater prison into a playground.
And if he could stack points before birth? Well… the Child of Destiny wouldn't even see the first punch coming.