Vikram ransacked the village like a shameless storm.
There was no guilt, no hesitation. Every house was turned upside down, drawers flung open, shelves emptied, cupboards picked clean. He wasn't thieving, at least not in his own eyes. He was salvaging, ensuring that every last valuable object was stripped away before he stepped out of this damned place forever.
His fingers closed around a curious object.
[Asylum Key]A key in form, yet not in shape. Said to seal the greatest blacksmith the world had ever known. Madness had claimed the smith, or so the stories went. No one truly knew why he had been locked away.
The "key" itself was a circular disc, no bigger than a child's palm, etched with esoteric glyphs that pulsed faintly in the dim light. It hummed with a subdued, ominous resonance, as though whispering secrets from an age long past.
Vikram stared at it for a second too long, then shoved it deep into his storage. Better sealed than sorry.
Next came the herbs.
[Mayfly Grass] ×3A vibrant scent, tinged with medicinal clarity. Likely alchemical in nature.
[Bloodgrim Berries] ×2Each one exuded a bloody, yin-specific aura. Dangerous perhaps, but undoubtedly useful for someone who knew how to handle it.
He tossed them into his storage without further inspection. Then he paused, frowning, as he picked up another object.
[Blood Metal]A torturer's tool, forged solely for the purpose of removing eyes from its victim.
He shuddered. "Never gonna use that," he muttered under his breath. It too went into storage, though he made sure to wrap it in a thick cloth first.
Then, something more delicate.
A weathered page, its edges singed and brittle. He unfolded it gently.
[A Piece of Journal]
It is getting more and more suspicious lately. The Village Head is acting strange. Bloodshot eyes. Nervous habits. Maybe it's just stress.
I've been spending too much time in the forge. The heat messes with your head. Maybe that's it.
I've started saving up. Planning to ask for her hand. Linda. The Village Head's daughter.
He's been easing up around me. Maybe he senses I'm serious about her.
We're not married yet, but Linda is pregnant. I need to protect her. I won't let the rumors start.
One more week. Just one more week and I'll have enough saved.
Everything's going to be fine. It's not like the world is going to flip upside down in the next few days…
Goodnight, Brother.
Vikram exhaled sharply.
"Why did you have to jinx it like that..."
He grimaced, folded the letter back, and slid it into his storage. With that, he turned to leave. One final glance around, one final breath within the silence of the ruined village.
And then the words appeared.
[You have been slain.]
"What the hell—"
His voice was cut short. Darkness swallowed him.
Light returned.
Vikram stirred as the warmth of the sun brushed against his face. The familiar sky greeted him like an old friend, calm and untouched by what had just happened.
He flexed his fingers. The transformation in his body was undeniable. What had once been a stick-thin frame with wiry limbs had grown into something far sturdier. Muscle had replaced bone-thin hollowness, and his stance now carried weight.
That cruel and agonizing cig had done more than suppress his illness. It had pushed his body into a corner, and from there, something inside had clawed its way out.
Much of the credit went to Kayala.
She had slipped him a tempering exercise, disguised beneath her usual intense demeanor. It was a brutal regimen that forced his physique to adapt, to strengthen itself day by day. It hurt, but it worked. And whether she admitted it or not, it had been a gift.
Vikram stood quietly, letting the morning rays seep into his skin. For a moment, there was no death, no cursed items, no looming horror. Just the stillness of breath and the awareness of his own heartbeat.
Then reality returned.
He had received notice. A trial was coming next month. December.
His batch of Walkers would be tested. And the trial wasn't just a formality. It was survival. It was standing tall while others fell. It was a chance to earn his place in this ruthless world.
There was more. Next week, he would finally receive his cultivation scripture.
One more piece of the puzzle. One step closer to the path that had long seemed barred to him.
Vikram didn't need the help, not really. But appearances had to be maintained.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly on the surface. He had shelter, daily meals, and training resources. Yet beneath that thin veneer of calm, a quiet question gnawed at him like a hidden crack in polished marble.
Why were Kayala and Brunus treating him so well?
He wasn't stupid. Or at least, he liked to believe he wasn't. And no matter how he spun it, their kindness made no sense.
Kayala knew. He was certain of that. She had to be aware of his condition—the things that made him unfit for the path everyone else seemed to tread so easily. From the very beginning, Vikram had feared the worst. That he'd be labeled defective. Discarded. Recycled in some sterile room without even a passing thought.
But none of that had happened.
Instead, Kayala had doubled down. She trained him. Gave him resources. Guided him when no one else would. She hadn't coddled him, but she hadn't abandoned him either. And that, more than anything, made Vikram suspicious.
Especially when he looked at the others.
There were monsters in his batch. People like Vold, who could swat away robots as though they were paper toys. Others who dominated every sparring session with effortless grace and overwhelming strength. Comparatively, Vikram was... a joke.
He had no talent. No spark. No miracle bloodline or awakened ability.
He was a walking flaw, dressed in the same uniform as the rest.
By all logic, he should have been written off. Forgotten. So why wasn't he?
One possibility had crossed his mind—that maybe, just maybe, the system was built to include outliers like him. But even as he thought it, he discarded the notion. Systems that spanned galaxies weren't made for the weak. They were made to weed out inefficiency, to prioritize the strong. Earth hadn't achieved equality in a single nation, much less across entire star systems.
The idea that something so vast would slow down for someone like him?
Delusional.
He drained the last sip of bitter coffee from his chipped mug, relishing the heat and the way it grounded him. Routine helped. It gave him the illusion of control.