The forest was quiet, unnaturally so. Birds had fled, animals hid in burrows, the earth still scorched black from where heavenly lightning had struck.
Arhaan walked through it all, his bare feet silent upon the charred soil. Though his body bore fresh scars, his aura flowed steadier than ever. The first seal was gone — his soul breathed freely.
Yet, with every step, he felt the sky's gaze upon him. Watching. Waiting.
"They'll send more trials," he murmured. "If heaven won't relent… then neither will I."
---
The Outpost
By dusk, he reached the edge of civilization — a crumbling stone outpost by the crossroads. Smoke rose from cooking fires, merchants shouted, and mercenaries sharpened blades while drunk on cheap wine.
Arhaan kept his hood low, slipping past the gates. His stomach growled, reminding him he was still human.
Inside, life was harsh. Beggars lined the streets, children no older than ten with hollow eyes reaching out for scraps. Cultivators from minor sects strutted through the market, their robes clean, their eyes looking down on everyone else.
One of them — a scar-faced disciple from the Iron Serpent Sect — dragged a young girl by her hair toward a caravan.
"She's worth good coin. Take her north to the mines," he sneered.
The girl whimpered, her wrists bleeding from the rope.
Arhaan's steps slowed. His hand twitched. His chest burned.
He tried to walk past. He should walk past — drawing attention now would invite disaster.
But then the girl's eyes met his.
Eyes full of terror.
Eyes that reminded him of the children he left behind.
Arhaan stopped. His voice was low, steady, but carried like thunder across the outpost.
"Let her go."
---
Clash in the Market
The scar-faced cultivator turned, sneering. "Who said that?" His eyes fell on Arhaan's thin frame. "A beggar dares to—"
He didn't finish.
Arhaan moved.
His hand shot out, seizing the rope, snapping it apart with a flick of his fingers. In the same motion, his palm struck the man's chest.
CRACK!
Ribs shattered. The cultivator flew back into a wooden stall, splinters exploding outward.
Gasps rippled through the market. The other Iron Serpent disciples froze in shock.
Arhaan stood over the freed girl, his eyes cold.
"You prey on the weak and call it cultivation. Trash like you doesn't deserve life."
The disciples roared and charged. Blades flashed.
But to Arhaan, their movements were slow. The golden chain-mark across his chest pulsed, feeding him strength.
He weaved through them like a storm given flesh. A fist shattered a jaw. A kick sent another sprawling. He caught a sword barehanded, lightning crackling as his aura flared, then snapped the steel in two before driving the hilt into its wielder's throat.
Screams echoed. Blood painted the market stones.
When it was over, the Iron Serpent disciples lay broken. Not one still breathed.
The crowd fell silent, staring at the hooded stranger who had just slain cultivators with nothing but raw power.
Arhaan turned. The girl trembled, but he gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You're safe now. Go home."
Her tears fell freely as she ran, vanishing into the crowd.
---
The Witness
From the rooftop above, an old man watched, stroking his long white beard. His robe was patched, his hair tied messily, but his eyes gleamed with sharpness — like blades hidden beneath silk.
He chuckled.
"So the boy who broke the heavens walks among us. Interesting… very interesting."
Arhaan never saw him vanish into the shadows, leaving behind only the faint echo of laughter.
---
That night, whispers spread across the outpost.
A nameless youth had crushed Iron Serpent disciples in public. A cultivator who fought like lightning, yet carried no clan's banner.
The heavens had already noticed him.
Now, so had the world.