The Unwanted Twin
Forest of Silence – Xian Continent, Year 4189 of the Moonlight Cycle
The sky bled crimson
Dark clouds rolled like beasts in heat, smothering the moon in waves of unnatural pressure. The stars vanished one by one, as if afraid to witness the ritual. The forest around the altar was deathly silent—no chirp, no wind, no howl. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
They called this the Night of Suppression.
A pledge made once every 350 years to the ancient forces sealed beneath the Forest of Silence—old powers from a time before sects and empires, when cultivation was raw, primal, and unforgiving. To protect the clan's legacy, one soul had to be offered. One bloodline had to be bled.
Tonight, the Xian Clan had chosen its offering.
A boy—barefoot, shirtless, thin to the bone—walked the stone path between lines of robed elders and disciples. Each footstep echoed louder than the last, the slap of skin on cold stone ringing like a drumbeat of doom.
No one reached out to help him.
No one looked him in the eye.
His name was Haaron.
Fourteen years old. Pale skin, black hair that fell unevenly across his face. His silver eyes held no emotion, only a dead calm that unnerved even the cultivators who towered over him. He wasn't crying. Not trembling. Just walking. Silent.
Behind him, two guards trailed with weapons in hand—but they weren't needed.
Haaron never resisted.
He stopped at the altar, a massive slab of bloodstone etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with life. The scent of incense, copper, and spirit energy filled the air.
Standing at the altar was Bellard—his twin brother.
Everything Haaron was not.
Where Haaron wore tattered linen pants, Bellard stood in ceremonial robes woven from immortal spider silk, embroidered with golden phoenixes and heavenly dragons. His posture was regal, chin lifted, arms folded behind his back like a prince awaiting coronation.
Their resemblance was uncanny—same angular jawline, same lean build—but the similarities stopped there. Bellard's aura shimmered with spirit qi. Cultivators whispered of his talent, how he'd reached the Third Stage of Core Formation at just fourteen. A prodigy. A rising star.
The future Patriarch.
The favored son.
The only one their parents acknowledged.
Behind Bellard stood their father, Xian Jun, and their mother, Lady Wen—robed in power and pride. Neither spared Haaron a glance.
"Begin," the Grand Elder said, voice hollow from age, but heavy with authority.
Haaron stepped forward without being told. He knelt onto the altar, the cold biting into his skin like knives. Iron chains rose from the stone, wrapping around his wrists and ankles with a click.
Still, he said nothing.
The Grand Elder approached with a ritual dagger. "Let the unwanted twin be cast away. May his blood anchor the Xian Clan's dominion for another cycle. May the forest accept this soul."
The dagger glowed.
Haaron felt the burn before the pain—the metal pressing into his back, dragging downward with practiced ease. Blood spilled, soaking the altar and lighting the runes in violent red. They pulsed like a heartbeat.
Still, Haaron didn't scream.
His eyes were locked on Bellard, who stood above it all like a deity watching an insect squirm.
Bellard didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. Didn't look away.
That cold indifference was worse than hatred.
They'd grown up side by side in the same manor. But Bellard had slept in silk sheets while Haaron slept in a storage shed. Bellard had been taught swordplay, calligraphy, alchemy. Haaron had cleaned the stables and starved for days.
Because he was born second.
Because his birth aura was "inauspicious."
Because the clan priest had declared him cursed.
A mistake.
The altar rumbled beneath Haaron. The runes glowed brighter. The stone cracked.
A massive fissure split the platform in two, revealing a pit of writhing black roots and swirling spirit fog beneath. The temperature dropped. Breath misted.
"The Forest calls," the Grand Elder said.
Xian Jun stepped forward. His voice cut like frost.
"Let the offering be taken. Let our legacy be eternal."
The altar began to sink.
Roots reached up, curling around Haaron's legs like fingers, dragging him down. The chains snapped as the altar cracked further. Fog surged up, swallowing him from the waist down.
Still, Haaron never begged.
Never screamed.
But as he was pulled deeper, the fog rising to his chest, he lifted his head.
And for the first time in his fourteen years of life—he smiled
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't forgiving.
It was the smile of a child who knew what the world truly was.
His eyes locked with Bellard's for the last time.
And then he was gone.
Swallowed whole by the forest.
Darkness.
No pain. No time. No sound.
Only a soft warmth. Strange. Coiling. Alive.
He floated in nothingness, his body dissolving, reforming, unraveling again. Then, a voice. Feminine. Ancient. Sensual.
"You should not be here, little one."
The voice wasn't angry.
It was curious.
"But I see you. I feel you."
Haaron tried to speak, but his voice came out like dust.
"I… was sacrificed."
A laugh answered him. Smoky. Soft. Lustful.
"They discarded you. How delicious. Would you like to live, child?"
A pause.
Then his voice, stronger, colder:
"Not as a child. Not as what I was."
"Then I shall burn away the past… and give you what was stolen."
The warmth became fire.
His bones cracked, then regrew—longer, thicker. His muscles tore and reknitted with spirit energy. His organs hummed with life. Knowledge poured into his skull: cultivation arts lost to time, sexual techniques used by forbidden sects, poison formulas, demonic contracts.
A library of lust, pain, and power.
When Haaron opened his eyes, he was lying naked in a field of black lotus flowers.
The moon above was white. The stars were unfamiliar. The air buzzed with qi so thick he could taste it.
His body was that of a man now—tall, lean, powerful. His fingers curled and uncurled, testing flesh that was no longer weak.
The world had changed.
He didn't know how long had passed.
Decades? Centuries?
But something inside whispered: Your time has come.
He stood slowly, flexing, letting the qi of the lotus field fill his lungs.
Then he spoke, voice low and sharp like a blade.
"Bellard."
He smirked.
"I hope you grew up into someone worth killing."