Elder Nema’s gaze held Aaryan’s, steady and distant, as though peering through him—into some memory only he could see.

  “Before I became an elder of the Copper Circle,” he began softly, “I was no cultivator of note. Just an ordinary man, living quietly with my wife and daughter not far from Steel City.”

  His breath shuddered once, then steadied. “We had little, but our days were warm. Until one night, that warmth was stolen.”

  Aaryan didn’t move. The flicker in the old man’s eyes told the rest.

  “When I returned home, my wife lay dead,” Nema continued, voice thinning. “My daughter—gone. Vanished, as though the heavens themselves had swallowed her.”

  The silence between them thickened. Outside, the faint hum of wind seemed to bend around their stillness.

  “I searched,” he murmured, fingers curling against his robe. “Begged, bartered, questioned anyone who would listen. But the village knew nothing—or pretended not to.” His jaw tightened. “Months later, I heard a drunkard boasting of silver he’d earned by delivering young girls to a young master. His laughter—” The elder’s voice broke for a heartbeat. “—I followed him. And when he sobered under my hand, he confessed. He and his men had raided my home.”

  His eyes hardened, old pain catching the light. “I killed them all. One by one. No mercy. No peace. But their employer... that young master still lives.”

  Aaryan listened, expression unreadable. Everyone carried shadows in this world. Grief buried deep. A wound dressed in silence. He knew what would come next—the part that mattered.

  “I was too weak to face him then,” Nema said, breath deepening. “So I swore to change that. I poured everything into cultivation. Heaven showed me a sliver of pity—an inheritance, hidden and fierce. It lifted me higher than I’d ever dreamed, yet bound me there. My strength grew, but the heavens had already written where my road would end.”

  His voice softened with bitter calm. “Even so, I was content. Until I remembered who my enemy was—a young master, backed by an entire sect. One man’s hatred could never topple that alone. So I joined the Copper Circle. Sought strength in unity.”

  The old man’s eyes lowered. “But…”

  Aaryan’s tone cut gently through the pause. “But you still couldn’t take your revenge.”

  Nema’s silence was answer enough.

  Aaryan leaned back, his shadow folding across the floor. His voice was steady, almost detached. “And now you want me to do it for you.”

  Elder Nema’s head dipped in a slow nod, the faint light catching on the silver threads of his hair. “That man was trash,” he said quietly, “but his father was not. Power shields even the useless. Because of that bloodline, the boy rose through the ranks—handed a place he never earned.” His voice cooled, edged with old bitterness. “When the Copper Circle learned of my plans, they forbade me to act. They didn’t want entanglements—not over something that happened nearly four decades ago.”

  The air seemed to still after his words, leaving a faint ring of silence in their wake.

  Aaryan exhaled, his shoulders loosening though his gaze stayed sharp. “I’m sorry, Senior,” he said, voice steady. “Truly. No one should endure what you did. But I don’t fight for others—and I’m no mercenary. Even if I wanted to, if your Copper Circle fears this man’s backers, what could I do? I’m just a kid.”

  A sharp huff escaped Nema, half scoff, half sigh. “A kid, is it?” He leaned forward, the faint glint in his eyes sharpening. “I climbed too fast for their liking. The jealous whisper loudest in halls of power. Because of them, I’ve no allies left within the Circle.” His lips curled into a faint sneer. “And as for you not being a sellsword—did you not fight for coin before the entire city, ten days past? For the Meghs?”

  Aaryan’s mouth tugged into a small smile. “That was different. I needed access to the Ember Spire. And Aran was already gunning for me.” His eyes flicked upward, calm but cold. “Two birds. One stone.”

  For the first time, a trace of amusement lit the old man’s face. “Clever. Then you’ll like this.” His grin turned fox-like, ancient and knowing. “The condition is the same.”

  Aaryan’s brow arched. “Meaning?”

  “I know how you forced Varesh to retreat,” Nema said.

  Aaryan went still, though surprise never reached his eyes. Of course the Copper Circle knew. Their web stretched far and deep—nothing in Steel City escaped their notice.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Seeing his silence, Nema nodded slowly. “So it’s true. All the better. The Dravhals have sent word to the Crimson Hell Sect. It won’t be long before they act.”

  So they’d pinned it on me, then. His calm unsettled the elder. “You’re not worried?” Nema asked at last. “Boy, the Crimson Hell Sect isn’t like the Dravhals or the Meghs. They are a giant. If they come for you, it’s a death sentence.”

  Aaryan laughed softly. “Worried? Of course. But what use is that? I didn’t expect things to turn out this way, and no doubt Aran’s hand is behind it—but so what?” His smile thinned. “If they come, it won’t be easy.”

  He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait. Where does this fit into your revenge… ah. That young master. He’s from the Crimson Hell Sect, isn’t he?”

  Elder Nema nodded once, slow and grim. “And before you refuse again—know this. The one they’ll send for you is the very man I want dead. He’s risen far since then—now a judge of others’ sins, in the Crimson Hell’s Crime Department.”

  Aaryan’s smile faded. A crime elder, was it? So fate had a cruel sense of humour.

  He fell silent, gaze turning inward. The faint hum of Qi in the garden seemed to slow, matching the measured rhythm of his thoughts. “What if he doesn’t come after me?” he asked. “What if fate spares us both?”

  Elder Nema gave a quiet laugh—more weary than amused. “Then I suppose I’ll never have the pleasure of fulfilling my last wish.”

  Aaryan’s eyes lifted, a faint furrow forming. “Last wish?”

  Nema’s hand brushed the edge of the table, fingertips tracing idle circles. “The inheritance I obtained,” he said, voice softening, “was both a blessing and a curse. It drove me to the Core Pillar Realm within a single year. Strength beyond my dreams. But the heavens demand balance.” His words thinned, sharp and cold as a blade’s edge. “It sealed my path forever—and devoured my lifespan in return. At best, I have five years left.”

  For a moment, only silence answered him. The air carried the weight of those words—five years, neither long enough for vengeance nor peace.

  Aaryan’s eyes shifted to the small lacquered box resting between them. It had sat unopened since the beginning, quiet yet insistent, like a question waiting to be asked. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

  Nema noticed. “Don’t worry,” he said, faint amusement ghosting across his face. “This technique isn’t from that cursed inheritance. I found it recently, by chance. A relic of worth. I promise, it won’t disappoint.”

  Aaryan gave a single nod and reached forward. The lid creaked softly as he lifted it. Inside, a crimson scroll lay coiled tight, faint wisps of light rippling across its surface like dying embers.

  He lifted it with both hands, reverence mingling with curiosity. The faint scent of old parchment and burnt ash drifted into the air. Closing his eyes, Aaryan extended his soul sense toward it. The scroll shivered, and the air around him rippled—Qi flickering like candlelight—as ancient secrets unfurled in his mind. Symbols flared behind his eyelids—complex, radiant—before dissolving into comprehension.

  Time stretched. When at last he opened his eyes, five minutes had passed in silence.

  Elder Nema watched, intent. “Well?” he asked quietly.

  Aaryan exhaled—and a rare smile broke through his calm. “It’s… perfect.”

  For all his restraint, satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. This was no ordinary technique. His Dominion Tyrant Physique and Smouldering Art Vein made him unmatched in close combat. The Anvil Strike had once bridged that reach, a mid-range art forged through soul strength—but his spiritual growth had stalled, leaving the technique dull and heavy.

  This new scroll filled that void. Its flow matched his essence, its reach vast, its rhythm fierce. A mid- to long-range strike—swift as dawnfire, brutal as a storm. And beyond that—he could see it already—its patterns would resonate with his reforged Dawnshard, amplifying its edge.

  Heaven-Burning Eclipse Slash

  It was no common art. The inscription told of its origin: a nameless flame cultivator who had once sought harmony between radiance and void, forging the technique beneath a veiled sun during an ancient eclipse. Legend claimed his body burned from within as he completed the art—his final slash cleaving both sky and light in two.

  Thus the name—Heaven-Burning Eclipse Slash—a technique that did not merely burn heaven, but carved through the brilliance that tried to hide it.

  Aaryan’s focus deepened. Flame condensed into an edge, reaching far as his will dared. At its heart, white-gold radiance pulsed; shadows circled like devouring halos. A perfect balance—light burning through itself.

  When released, the technique warped the very air, space bending under its will. Qi shivered, torn by the slash’s wake, and the path it carved ignited into a crescent inferno—silent, merciless, absolute.

  His lips parted, breath leaving him slow and steady. This was no mere combat art. It surpassed what he had even dared to request. Eclipse-grade, low-level—a tier beyond reach for most cultivators. Wealth alone couldn’t buy such power.

  He rolled the scroll closed, its warmth still lingering against his palms. For a moment, he simply breathed—then lifted his gaze toward Elder Nema. “Why didn’t you give this to your organization?” he asked quietly. “They’d have rewarded you handsomely. Might’ve even helped with your revenge.”

  Nema chuckled—a dry, brittle sound, like old wood catching fire. “Reward?” he echoed. “What use is gold to a man whose candle’s almost burned out?” His eyes, clouded with age, flickered once more with sharp understanding. “As for revenge—I did everything they demanded. Obeyed every command. Yet when I asked for their aid, they turned away.”

  He leaned back slightly, the faint tremor in his hands betraying neither weakness nor fear, only weariness long endured. “In their eyes, I’m not worth the trouble. Why trust a circle that values profit over people? They’d sooner seize the technique for themselves—or worse, sell it to the very man I swore to kill.”

  His eyes darkened, words cooled, like iron left too long in the forge. “Don’t be fooled, boy. The Copper Circle isn’t a brotherhood—it’s a brothel draped in titles. For the right price, anything can be traded. Anyone can be sold.”

  The words lingered, heavy and acrid as smoke. Aaryan said nothing, but his fingers tightened around the scroll. Power and betrayal—woven into every promise this world had to offer. Perhaps that was the truest technique of all.

  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. ???