Long ago, in an era lost to time, there existed a world unlike any other—**Ambika**, a celestial planet blessed by the presence of three supreme deities: **Brahma**, the Creator; **Vishnu**, the Preserver; and **Shiva**, the Destroyer. Their presence filled the planet with divine energy so potent that even after their mysterious departure, remnants of their power lingered.
This energy became known as **Spiritual Qi**—a force that awakened humanity's potential. With time, the art of **cultivation** was born. The world evolved, giving rise to **five great Sectors**, each ruled by a powerful leader. Cultivators trained to ascend through **five Realms**, each split into **nine stages**, chasing power, enlightenment, and immortality.
But for one boy, power was nothing more than a dream.
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In **Sector 5**, within a royal courtyard of grandeur and might, the sound of clashing swords and focused breathing filled the air. Children trained, flames of ambition burning in their eyes. Except one.
**Aryan**, the third son of the Sector Lord, sat silently under a willow tree, eyes dim, fists clenched. Unlike his siblings, Aryan was born without the ability to sense Spiritual Qi. In a society that worshiped strength, he was the **flawed one**, the **mistake**.
"You shame our bloodline," his eldest brother once spat, eyes sharp like a blade.
His younger sister, cold and distant, added salt to the wound. "You're nothing, Aryan. Not even worth a servant's rank."
He didn't argue anymore. What was the point?
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That evening, as dusk painted the sky in orange and violet, Aryan was cornered near the training ground by a group of Sector disciples.
"Still pretending to be royalty, trash?" sneered **Kael**, a disciple known for his cruelty.
"I challenge you," he declared, tossing his wooden staff at Aryan's feet. "Fight. Or kneel before all of us."
Aryan hesitated. "I don't want trouble..."
But fists didn't wait for answers.
The fight was swift, humiliating. Blood pooled on the ground as Aryan lay bruised, mocked by laughter.
"Look at the prince," they jeered, "Can't even throw a punch."
No one helped him. Not a guard. Not a servant. Only one soul stood by him.
"Here… drink this," whispered **Dev**, his only friend, kneeling beside him. He placed a bitter herb mix to Aryan's lips. "You'll be okay."
But Aryan wasn't okay. His body ached. His spirit cracked. That night, alone, he stumbled into the forest, pain in every step, shame in every breath.
---
The moon hung high above as Aryan reached the edge of a cliff. Wind howled past him like ancient spirits.
"I don't belong here," he whispered.
And he jumped.
But fate had other plans.
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He fell—plummeting into darkness—until his body slammed into something soft yet unworldly. He gasped, opening his eyes to see a **glowing temple** nestled inside a hidden canyon.
Massive, radiant with golden runes, the temple rose like a stairway to the heavens. On its front, three massive statues stood tall—Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva.
As Aryan staggered forward, the temple doors creaked open, inviting him in.
Inside, he felt it—**Spiritual Qi**, not around him, but within him. It surged, painful and pure, tearing through his bones, shattering his fragile body... and rebuilding it.
He screamed, eyes wide, body glowing like starlight.
---
When the pain faded, he stood reborn. A faint mark shimmered on his chest—**The Vajra Seal of Brahma**.
And in that moment, Aryan saw something strange—a flicker of a vision—**the face of a warrior he'd never met, and a war that hadn't yet begun**.
He had awakened a sliver of divine power.
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He wasn't weak anymore.
Not broken.
Not forgotten.
He was chosen.
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**To Be Continued...**