21-09-2025, 01:16 PM
(This post was last modified: 21-09-2025, 04:17 PM by halluvi. Edited 3 times in total. Edited 3 times in total.)
The hospital ward of the Mehta family was not a simple room. It was a tall pavilion built of sandalwood beams, the walls painted with faint alchemical inscriptions that glowed dimly in the dark. The smell of herbs lingered in the air, sharp and bitter, mixed with the faint tang of metal from medicinal cauldrons placed nearby.
Every major clan in Taxila had such a place. It was where disciples who injured themselves during training were brought, and where visiting alchemists often tested their brews. Though it was no grand hall like the auction house or martial arena, it carried its own sacred weight. For within these walls, life and death often balanced on the tip of a needle.
Avinash lay on a simple wooden bed, the white sheets damp with his sweat from earlier. Two lanterns burned faintly on the walls, their flames steady but weak. Outside the door, faint voices drifted.
“Will he wake again tonight?” one servant whispered.
“He already woke once… and then fainted again. Young master Avinash always pushes himself too hard,” another replied.
Shobana’s stern voice cut through them. “Keep quiet. If you don’t want to serve, then leave. But don’t curse the boy with your tongues.”
The servants fell silent. Shobana had served Avinash since birth. Her word carried weight even the younger disciples respected.
Not far from her, Sanghavi sat on a stool, her hands clasped tightly together. Her dark eyes were fixed on the closed door of Avinash’s ward.
“He looked so pale when they carried him in,” she whispered. “Like he might vanish if I blinked.”
Shobana’s expression softened. “The boy has carried too much on his shoulders. Heaven gave him talent, then took it away. That kind of wound… it hurts deeper than flesh.”
Sanghavi bit her lip. “But he still ran. Even when his body was breaking. He still ran.”
Her small voice trembled with admiration.
Meanwhile, in the family council hall, matters were far less tender.
Ashok Mehta sat at the head of the long table, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the lamplight. The elders sat on either side, their robes rustling as they shifted. Neeraj Mehta, the First Elder, wore a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Clan Head,” Neeraj said smoothly, “today’s results are plain. The boy is no longer worthy of the resources we pour into him. Even with your favoritism, he failed strength, and failed agility. The clan’s coffers are not limitless. We cannot afford to waste them.”
Ashok’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists on the table. He wanted to roar that his son had not failed — that he had shown spirit unmatched by anyone else. But the cold, calculating gazes of the other elders held him in place.
Duty warred with blood in his heart.
Neeraj’s voice dripped like poison. “If Avinash truly has potential, let him prove it in the auction houses. Let him learn trade. Perhaps he can still serve the family name in that way. But martial resources? No. Enough is enough.”
The council murmured in agreement.
Ashok closed his eyes. In that moment, he was not a clan head. He was just a father with a broken heart.
The faint glow of lanterns flickered against the sandalwood walls of the Mehta family hospital ward. Alchemical inscriptions shimmered weakly in the corners, half-forgotten sigils meant to steady a patient’s breathing, not to heal shattered meridians. The air smelled of old herbs, sharp and bitter, as though the room itself had drunk too much medicine and grown weary of it.
Avinash lay on the bed, white sheets damp with sweat, staring at the ceiling beams. His chest rose and fell unevenly. Each breath dragged through his throat like sandpaper. The silence pressed on him, heavy and accusing, broken only by the faint scratching of crickets outside.
It had been hours since he collapsed at the arena. Hours since the laughter of his clan still rang in his ears. “Avinash Fail.” The words were etched into his bones more sharply than the cracks in his meridians.
And yet…
The golden screen.
He shut his eyes, squeezing them tight until sparks danced in the darkness. But when he opened them again, the panel returned, faint and transparent, hovering above him as though carved out of moonlight.
[Questline: Severing the Chains of Mediocrity]
Quest 1: Train the Broken Vessel
Condition: Perform Black Iron circulation exercises for 3 consecutive days without fainting.
Rarity: [Uncommon]
Reward: ???
His lips trembled, caught between laughter and despair. “So I really am losing my mind,” he whispered. His voice cracked, hoarse from shouting against fate in the arena earlier.
Hallucination. That’s what it had to be. Maybe the blood loss, maybe the humiliation, maybe his body finally breaking under the weight of his own failures. What else could summon a golden panel no one else could see?
He dragged his hand across his face, fingertips pressing into the dark circles beneath his eyes. He wanted to scoff, to ignore it. But his gaze kept drifting back to the faint glow, to that single blinking word — Reward.
It mocked him with mystery.
Avinash let out a bitter laugh that dissolved into a cough. “Hallucination or not… it doesn’t matter. If it wants me to circulate, then fine. Circulation or death — what’s the difference?”
He shifted, painfully, into a cross-legged posture on the bed. His body screamed in protest. The sheets clung to his back, damp with sweat. His arms trembled as he steadied them on his knees.
Closing his eyes, he reached inward.
The world inside was a wasteland. His meridians, once smooth and bright, now lay cracked and jagged, like dried riverbeds after a drought. Energy trickled through them in fits and starts, catching on jagged edges before dissipating into nothing. Every attempt in the past two years had ended the same way: blood, failure, humiliation.
He drew a breath. Guided a wisp of inner energy from his dantian toward his chest.
Pain erupted instantly.
It was not pain of the flesh. This was deeper, sharper, like molten glass dragged through his veins. His back arched involuntarily. His teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw creaked. Sweat burst out of him in rivulets.
His mind screamed, Stop. You’ve failed here a hundred times. You’ll only collapse again.
But he forced the energy forward, past the first broken channel, into the second. The sensation was unbearable, like tearing open old wounds with his bare hands. His throat filled with the metallic taste of blood.
His vision blurred.
He had never made it this far.
For one, trembling heartbeat, hope flared. Perhaps… perhaps the panel was real.
But the moment the thought bloomed, the energy scattered violently. The backlash surged through him like knives. He doubled over, choking. Blood spilled from his lips, staining the sheets in jagged crimson streaks. His body shook as if possessed.
And then — silence.
The energy was gone. His channels were empty, hollow, mocking.
He collapsed sideways, cheek pressed against the damp bed, chest heaving. His breath came in ragged gasps. His vision swam with black spots, threatening to drag him into unconsciousness.
Somewhere in the haze, the panel flickered again.
[Progress: Day 1 — Attempt Registered]
His lips twitched. Not in joy — in disbelief. Even failure counted?
“Hallucination,” he whispered weakly, voice broken. “It has to be.”
No one answered. Only the quiet hum of the lanterns and the faint drip of water outside the window.
The door creaked softly. A voice, low and worried, slipped in.
“Still no sound from him?”
It was Sanghavi. Even through the blur of exhaustion, he knew that voice. Gentle, tight with worry, too young to carry such weight.
Another voice, stern and clipped, replied. Shobana. “He’s awake, but don’t disturb him. The boy is stubborn. If he’s training, let him fight his own body. That’s the only way he’ll survive this world.”
Sanghavi whispered something he couldn’t make out. The door shut again.
Avinash stared at the panel, still hovering faintly. His eyelids burned, heavy with exhaustion.
“Real or fake… doesn’t matter,” he murmured. Blood stained his teeth when he spoke. “If I collapse tomorrow too, then so be it. If it’s all a dream, then let me dream until my bones break.”
His vision dimmed, the world sliding into darkness.
The last thing he saw was the golden word — Uncommon.
It pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of something ancient waiting to be revealed.
And then, Avinash Mehta slept, a faint smile of defiance tugging at his bloody lips.
Every major clan in Taxila had such a place. It was where disciples who injured themselves during training were brought, and where visiting alchemists often tested their brews. Though it was no grand hall like the auction house or martial arena, it carried its own sacred weight. For within these walls, life and death often balanced on the tip of a needle.
Avinash lay on a simple wooden bed, the white sheets damp with his sweat from earlier. Two lanterns burned faintly on the walls, their flames steady but weak. Outside the door, faint voices drifted.
“Will he wake again tonight?” one servant whispered.
“He already woke once… and then fainted again. Young master Avinash always pushes himself too hard,” another replied.
Shobana’s stern voice cut through them. “Keep quiet. If you don’t want to serve, then leave. But don’t curse the boy with your tongues.”
The servants fell silent. Shobana had served Avinash since birth. Her word carried weight even the younger disciples respected.
Not far from her, Sanghavi sat on a stool, her hands clasped tightly together. Her dark eyes were fixed on the closed door of Avinash’s ward.
“He looked so pale when they carried him in,” she whispered. “Like he might vanish if I blinked.”
Shobana’s expression softened. “The boy has carried too much on his shoulders. Heaven gave him talent, then took it away. That kind of wound… it hurts deeper than flesh.”
Sanghavi bit her lip. “But he still ran. Even when his body was breaking. He still ran.”
Her small voice trembled with admiration.
Meanwhile, in the family council hall, matters were far less tender.
Ashok Mehta sat at the head of the long table, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the lamplight. The elders sat on either side, their robes rustling as they shifted. Neeraj Mehta, the First Elder, wore a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Clan Head,” Neeraj said smoothly, “today’s results are plain. The boy is no longer worthy of the resources we pour into him. Even with your favoritism, he failed strength, and failed agility. The clan’s coffers are not limitless. We cannot afford to waste them.”
Ashok’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists on the table. He wanted to roar that his son had not failed — that he had shown spirit unmatched by anyone else. But the cold, calculating gazes of the other elders held him in place.
Duty warred with blood in his heart.
Neeraj’s voice dripped like poison. “If Avinash truly has potential, let him prove it in the auction houses. Let him learn trade. Perhaps he can still serve the family name in that way. But martial resources? No. Enough is enough.”
The council murmured in agreement.
Ashok closed his eyes. In that moment, he was not a clan head. He was just a father with a broken heart.
The faint glow of lanterns flickered against the sandalwood walls of the Mehta family hospital ward. Alchemical inscriptions shimmered weakly in the corners, half-forgotten sigils meant to steady a patient’s breathing, not to heal shattered meridians. The air smelled of old herbs, sharp and bitter, as though the room itself had drunk too much medicine and grown weary of it.
Avinash lay on the bed, white sheets damp with sweat, staring at the ceiling beams. His chest rose and fell unevenly. Each breath dragged through his throat like sandpaper. The silence pressed on him, heavy and accusing, broken only by the faint scratching of crickets outside.
It had been hours since he collapsed at the arena. Hours since the laughter of his clan still rang in his ears. “Avinash Fail.” The words were etched into his bones more sharply than the cracks in his meridians.
And yet…
The golden screen.
He shut his eyes, squeezing them tight until sparks danced in the darkness. But when he opened them again, the panel returned, faint and transparent, hovering above him as though carved out of moonlight.
[Questline: Severing the Chains of Mediocrity]
Quest 1: Train the Broken Vessel
Condition: Perform Black Iron circulation exercises for 3 consecutive days without fainting.
Rarity: [Uncommon]
Reward: ???
His lips trembled, caught between laughter and despair. “So I really am losing my mind,” he whispered. His voice cracked, hoarse from shouting against fate in the arena earlier.
Hallucination. That’s what it had to be. Maybe the blood loss, maybe the humiliation, maybe his body finally breaking under the weight of his own failures. What else could summon a golden panel no one else could see?
He dragged his hand across his face, fingertips pressing into the dark circles beneath his eyes. He wanted to scoff, to ignore it. But his gaze kept drifting back to the faint glow, to that single blinking word — Reward.
It mocked him with mystery.
Avinash let out a bitter laugh that dissolved into a cough. “Hallucination or not… it doesn’t matter. If it wants me to circulate, then fine. Circulation or death — what’s the difference?”
He shifted, painfully, into a cross-legged posture on the bed. His body screamed in protest. The sheets clung to his back, damp with sweat. His arms trembled as he steadied them on his knees.
Closing his eyes, he reached inward.
The world inside was a wasteland. His meridians, once smooth and bright, now lay cracked and jagged, like dried riverbeds after a drought. Energy trickled through them in fits and starts, catching on jagged edges before dissipating into nothing. Every attempt in the past two years had ended the same way: blood, failure, humiliation.
He drew a breath. Guided a wisp of inner energy from his dantian toward his chest.
Pain erupted instantly.
It was not pain of the flesh. This was deeper, sharper, like molten glass dragged through his veins. His back arched involuntarily. His teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw creaked. Sweat burst out of him in rivulets.
His mind screamed, Stop. You’ve failed here a hundred times. You’ll only collapse again.
But he forced the energy forward, past the first broken channel, into the second. The sensation was unbearable, like tearing open old wounds with his bare hands. His throat filled with the metallic taste of blood.
His vision blurred.
He had never made it this far.
For one, trembling heartbeat, hope flared. Perhaps… perhaps the panel was real.
But the moment the thought bloomed, the energy scattered violently. The backlash surged through him like knives. He doubled over, choking. Blood spilled from his lips, staining the sheets in jagged crimson streaks. His body shook as if possessed.
And then — silence.
The energy was gone. His channels were empty, hollow, mocking.
He collapsed sideways, cheek pressed against the damp bed, chest heaving. His breath came in ragged gasps. His vision swam with black spots, threatening to drag him into unconsciousness.
Somewhere in the haze, the panel flickered again.
[Progress: Day 1 — Attempt Registered]
His lips twitched. Not in joy — in disbelief. Even failure counted?
“Hallucination,” he whispered weakly, voice broken. “It has to be.”
No one answered. Only the quiet hum of the lanterns and the faint drip of water outside the window.
The door creaked softly. A voice, low and worried, slipped in.
“Still no sound from him?”
It was Sanghavi. Even through the blur of exhaustion, he knew that voice. Gentle, tight with worry, too young to carry such weight.
Another voice, stern and clipped, replied. Shobana. “He’s awake, but don’t disturb him. The boy is stubborn. If he’s training, let him fight his own body. That’s the only way he’ll survive this world.”
Sanghavi whispered something he couldn’t make out. The door shut again.
Avinash stared at the panel, still hovering faintly. His eyelids burned, heavy with exhaustion.
“Real or fake… doesn’t matter,” he murmured. Blood stained his teeth when he spoke. “If I collapse tomorrow too, then so be it. If it’s all a dream, then let me dream until my bones break.”
His vision dimmed, the world sliding into darkness.
The last thing he saw was the golden word — Uncommon.
It pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of something ancient waiting to be revealed.
And then, Avinash Mehta slept, a faint smile of defiance tugging at his bloody lips.
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