The morning sun crept slowly across the rooftops of the city, pale light sliding over tiled buildings and bustling streets like a reluctant blessing. The storm from the previous day had finally broken, leaving the air sharp, crisp, washed clean of dust and noise—the kind of morning where sound travelled farther and breaths came easier.

  Merchants rolled up tarps damp with night rain, the earth smelled of wet stone and bread freshly baked from nearby ovens, and the horizon glowed soft gold where the sun fought its way through thinning clouds. It was peaceful, deceptively so, like still water hiding deep beneath.

  Eklavya walked alone through the marketplace street, hands folded behind his back, not in leisure but with a purpose that ran silent beneath every step. His gaze traced each narrow alley, each rooftop where shadows clung like watching spirits, every face that passed him with hurried disinterest or curiosity disguised as casual glances.

  He moved as though the world around him was fragile glass—one wrong breath, one careless sound, and everything could shatter. The faint remnants of last evening's thunderous breakthrough still hummed in his veins, subtle as the echo of a drum long after the music ended, yet his expression remained calm, composed enough that no one would suspect anything.

  He wasn’t searching for goods, nor for pleasure or distraction like most who thronged the early market. He was searching for disciples of the Falling Leaf Sect—hunters who believed themselves righteous, who would gladly bind and drag him to their elders like prey caught in thorns.

  Their absence was unsettling. Eklavya walked half the breadth of the city—past tea stalls where steam curled like lazy serpents, past weapon shops with blades glinting in sunlight, past taverns where mercenaries argued over wagers and fresh scars—yet not a hint of their leaf-green robes appeared. No whispers of pursuit, no cautious eyes tracking him, nothing but the quiet hum of a city unaware of the approaching storm.

  He finally halted before the towering announcement board. Notices fluttered like autumn leaves pinned in place: missing daughters, stolen heirlooms, wanted bandits, sect announcements. And there among them still hung a poster sketched in rough charcoal.

  His face— or rather, the masked shadow of it. One-Star Practitioner, Wanted Dead or Alive.

  The letters clawed across the paper like accusations carved into bone, and though he had expected it, a subtle tension crossed his shoulders. News had spread—not just through the city, but across the empire. Such speed meant urgency and such urgency meant fear.

  Voices clustered beside him, men gathered around the board as though the parchment itself were treasure.

  “Why would a great sect go after a one-star warrior like this?” one asked, stroking his beard, tone thick with doubt. “Sect bounties are for rebels, traitors, demon-spawn, not children with swords.”

  Another leaned closer, eyes glittering. “I heard this boy is one of the ten most wanted by the Falling Leaf Sect. His posters are everywhere, in every city, on every wall.”

  Before Eklavya could even process the shock of becoming known across the Empire, a voice cut sharply through the air.

  A bulky man stepped forward, wearing robes white streaked with leaf-green color, jade pendant swinging against his hip as though it were proof of divine status. He stood tall so all could see him.

  “I am a disciple of the Falling Leaf Sect,” he declared, basking in the ripple of recognition through the crowd. “Two survivors returned the night before last. They said the boy is a demon in disguise, killing without reason. He is a monster wearing human flesh.”

  His words fell like black ink into water. Fear rippled through the crowd like smoke.

  Eklavya’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. So—they fled home bleeding that night. He imagined their trembling voices, their shame draped in the cloth of false heroism.

  ‘Not warriors, but cowards dressing failure in glory’, he murmured inwardly. An older man frowned, brow creasing. “Demons were eradicated years ago. What proof do you have?”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  The disciple nodded with false solemnity. “Some escaped extermination. This boy is proof.”

  Eklavya’s fingers curled faintly at his side—not shaking, just aching with the urge to silence the liar. One strike, and the man would choke on his words but not here. Not before innocent eyes, not where memory travelled faster than legs.

  So with a breath heavy enough to crush impulse, he turned away and walked on—swallowed by the market’s noise.

  He moved deeper through the streets, past baskets of spiritual lotus seeds glistening like pearls, past smiths shaping iron with rhythmic blows, past children chasing a stray dog dripping rainwater. For a moment, the world felt normal—simple—until a sharp cry tore the illusion apart.

  Ahead, near the high walls of Marwah Clan, two young clansmen loomed over an old peddler. His small cloth sheet lay scattered—bone pendants, wild herbs, jars of salve. His hands trembled as he bowed repeatedly, pleading to leave.

  One of them, a five-star warrior with arrogance gleaming in his eyes, drove his foot into the elder’s ribs. The old man crumpled with a broken gasp, body bending like dry reed in a storm.

  Eklavya halted seeing it. He wanted no conflict today, no blood spilled on this day. But watching a helpless elder kicked like stray garbage ignited something primal—not rage alone, but instinct. He stepped forward.

  Dust cracked beneath his foot. Golden incantations surfaced on his skin like a burning script as the Supreme Body stirred with silent but absolute. No dramatic lightning, no roar of heavens, just lethal intent.

  In a blur, his kick struck like a blade. The five-star warrior flew backward, slamming into stone with a grunt that rattled the wall, though it held firm. Shock wide in his eyes—disbelief that a youth of the lower stage sent him flying like a leaf in the wind.

  His companion flushed with shame. “You think being Rudra Clan’s young master gives you the right to interfere?”

  Guards rushed over at the commotion, and their spears raised toward Eklavya and the old man. “What happened here?”

  The injured youth jabbed a finger at Eklavya, his voice trembling with anger. “He attacked us unprovoked! He thinks his clan name makes him untouchable!”

  The guards eyed Eklavya’s clothing and symbols, then said sternly, “Apologize. Then you may leave.”

  Eklavya’s voice was cool and steady as forged steel. “I acted because he kicked a helpless elder. If protecting the weak requires apology, then this city has forgotten shame.”

  The youth spat, “None of your business. Leave quietly and we’ll forget this happened.” Eklavya lifted his eyes—slow, deliberate. His voice fell cold, weighty without needing anger.

  “I will not watch elders being beaten like animals while others treat it as a spectacle.” The crowd, bold moments ago, lowered their heads now, like sheep avoiding wolves. None wished to stand against the Marwah Clan.

  The old peddler gathered his scattered wares, fearful even gratitude might invite more trouble. Eklavya stepped beside him, voice soft but unwavering “Set your stall near Rudra Clan walls. No one will chase you from there.”

  Shock flickered in the elder’s eyes, then gratitude softened his worn features. He nodded quickly and fled. But peace never arrived so easily ever in the world.

  Eshan, the injured youth, walked toward him and grabbed Eklavya’s shoulder, grip challenging. “You dare ignore us?”

  Eklavya turned just enough for Eshan to meet his gaze. Then he released a fragment of his aura. It swept over them like a winter storm. Guards stiffened, their knuckles white on spear shafts. Eshan paled, snapping his hand away as though burned by some invisible face. He stumbled back and then collapsed as his heart thundered like a trapped beast.

  No one moved at that moment, fear nailed them into place.

  Ashish appeared like drawn steel — calm, and commanding. “If any of you lift a spear toward my little brother,” he said, his voice silky with threat, “pray your gods still hear you.”

  Before resistance could form, another aura descended — heavy, but was measured. “So the young masters of Rudra Clan arrive at our gate.”

  Vihaan of Marwah Clan stepped forward — a seven-star master, his eyes sharp as polished steel. His presence steadied the guards, though their breaths shook.

  He heard their account without interruption, then nodded — firm, not hostile. “The elder should not have been treated so. For that, we offer an apology.”

  His gaze slid to Eklavya, his tone polite, yet instructive. “But young master, acting openly invites consequence. Strength must be used with caution. Isn’t it, young master Ashish”

  Eklavya wished to reply, but Ashish’s hand rested lightly on his arm as guidance, not restraint. So Eklavya nodded and walked away with his brother. The market swallowed them again, their footsteps measured and unhurried.

  Behind them, Eshan watched, his jaw locked and humiliation burning like poison. “They will regret this,” he whispered, trembling not with fear, but promise. “News will reach them soon and then they will kneel.” Vihaan said seeing them going with a smirk on his face.

  And the city breathed on, unaware a fuse had been lit beneath calm day light.