Chapter 1: The Orphaned Curse
Rain fell in sheets, drenching the earth and turning the narrow dirt paths of the village into slick, muddy trenches. A young boy, no more than twelve, trudged silently through the downpour, his dark robes soaked through, but his steps unwavering. His name was Bhoumik Pal.
Bhoumik was a sight that commanded attention. His long, straight black hair clung to his back, water dripping from its obsidian strands as it cascaded down to his waist. A few loose strands framed his pale face, but it wasn't his beauty that drew the occasional sideways glances from villagers who dared to look at him—it was the sharp, cold expression in his dark ocean eyes, eyes that reflected an abyss of unfathomable depth. Eyes that saw everything, felt nothing.
As he walked, the intricate embroidery of clouds and dragons on his dark robe caught the dim light from the few lanterns still lit in the windows. The symbols of aspiration and strength sewn into the cloth seemed ironic, considering how the villagers saw him. On his waist hung a jade pendant shaped like a lotus, a reminder of a family he never knew—an heirloom from a life forgotten.
Bhoumik lived alone, isolated on the outskirts of this forsaken village. He had been brought here when he was no older than five by a mysterious stranger, someone who appeared in the night and vanished just as swiftly. The stranger had never returned, leaving him abandoned in this place that did not want him. From the moment he arrived, things began to go wrong.
The villagers whispered about it behind closed doors, but Bhoumik had heard enough to know the truth. The crops had begun to wither, the once-fertile lands turning barren, incapable of supporting the village's needs. Year after year, their food sources dwindled. The villagers, a superstitious and fearful lot, had found someone to blame—him.
He was a curse. A monster.
Bhoumik's boots splashed into a puddle as he neared his small, decrepit house on the outskirts, a simple structure built hastily out of wooden planks and thatched roofing. The house had been given to him by the village elders only because they could not bring themselves to leave him to the wilderness. He had heard their decision one night when he was six. "The boy is a curse. If we let him stay, we will all starve. If we abandon him to the wild, perhaps the land will recover," one elder had argued.
But the village head had spoken up that night, his voice gruff but filled with an unexpected sympathy. "He's just a child. Killing or abandoning him in the wild is cruel, even if you believe he's cursed. Do we have so little humanity left?"
And so Bhoumik was allowed to live, though barely tolerated, treated as a necessary evil—not a boy, but a burden. The village hated him, feared him, and refused to interact with him. No one spoke to him unless absolutely necessary, and he was forbidden from entering their homes or taking part in any village gatherings.
They would not raise a hand against him now, but the hatred in their eyes was plain every time he crossed paths with them. It burned through the cold rain, a constant reminder that he would never belong.
He didn't care. Not anymore.
When Bhoumik had turned ten, everything changed. The village head, the same man who had spared his life, had taken pity on the boy and shared with him the secrets of cultivation. The old man had seen the boy's sharp mind and calculating gaze, sensing something more beneath the surface. "Perhaps if he can cultivate, he'll find his path away from this village, away from the hatred," the old man had thought, his mind already burdened with guilt for allowing the village to treat Bhoumik the way they did.
The village head hadn't expected much, certainly not for the boy to excel at cultivation. But Bhoumik had exceeded every expectation. At the age of twelve, he had already reached the seventh level of the Martial Mortal Realm, an incredible achievement for someone so young. The village head had been surprised, though the boy himself seemed entirely indifferent.
For Bhoumik, cultivation was a means to an end. He felt no pride, no satisfaction from his achievements. Emotions were foreign to him, or perhaps they had been numbed by years of cold stares and whispered curses. All he knew was that power was the only way to survive in this world—a world that despised him.
Bhoumik reached his house, pushing open the creaking wooden door. The air inside was damp and cold, but it was better than being outside. He removed his soaked robe, hanging it by the door, and sat cross-legged on the worn mat in the center of the room. His long hair fell around him like a dark curtain as he settled into a meditative posture.
He closed his eyes, focusing inward, feeling the familiar flow of Qi within his body. The energy of the Martial Mortal Realm surged through him, powerful yet still limited. He had been stuck at the seventh level for weeks now, his progress halted by some invisible barrier that he had yet to break through. But he knew it was only a matter of time. He would reach the Master Realm soon, and then the village would have no choice but to acknowledge his strength.
Not that it mattered.
The sound of rain pounding against the roof was the only noise that accompanied his meditation. In the back of his mind, he recalled the faces of the villagers—how they had looked at him as if he were some untouchable beast, an unspoken consensus between them that he should never be part of their world.
Bhoumik's expression remained as cold and emotionless as ever. They feared him. They had feared him since the moment he arrived, and they were right to. He could sense it within himself—the darkness that had taken root in his heart, the bitterness that festered with every glance of disgust or hatred.
But this darkness was not something he rejected. He embraced it. It gave him strength. It pushed him to cultivate harder, to rise above the limitations of those around him. While they scorned him, he would become someone they couldn't ignore.
He would transcend them.
In the village, the rain continued to pour, the villagers huddling inside their homes, away from the storm. But one house remained empty and cold, save for the lone boy within it, cultivating in silence, his thoughts devoid of warmth, of love, of any human connection.
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As the night wore on, Bhoumik's mind drifted, not to the village or its people, but to the path ahead. He would leave soon. He could feel it in his bones. Once he broke through to the next realm, there would be nothing holding him here anymore. He would go into the world, find the power that called to him from beyond the confines of this small, cursed village.
The villagers feared he would bring ruin to them, but they had no idea what true ruin looked like.
When Bhoumik finally rose to his feet, the rain had lessened, the storm weakening. He walked to the door, pushing it open and staring out into the mist-covered land beyond. His cold eyes scanned the horizon. Somewhere out there, far beyond the reach of this miserable place, lay his true destiny.
And when he found it, the world would tremble.
Bhoumik stood at the threshold of his small, worn house, the wooden door creaking as it hung open, allowing a faint breeze to stir the strands of his wet, dark hair. The storm had finally begun to die, leaving only a mist that clung to the air, casting an eerie glow over the empty village. A silence followed, the kind that pressed down on him, but he was used to it. Silence had been his companion for years, just like the cold.
The village, which had never welcomed him, now slept uneasily, unaware of the boy who stood at the edge of its borders, gazing out with predatory intent.
His thoughts wandered back to the beginning of it all, to the moment he had arrived here as a lost child, left behind by that mysterious figure. The figure who had dumped him like unwanted cargo on the doorstep of this remote place. Back then, Bhoumik had still been a boy with a spark of hope in his heart, a vague yearning for love, for some sort of connection.
But that hope had long since withered, replaced by a sharper, colder resolve. He had been hated, feared, and isolated for so long now that the very idea of warmth felt like a distant memory. Now, all that remained was a raw desire for power.
Power was the only thing that had never abandoned him.
His hand instinctively moved to the jade lotus pendant at his waist, his thumb brushing the smooth surface of the heirloom. The lotus was the only link he had to his past, to a family he knew nothing about. Sometimes, when he stared at the pendant in the quiet of the night, he wondered what kind of people had left him behind. Were they still alive? Were they as cold as he was now?
A faint sound from the village caught his attention. His sharp, abyssal eyes shifted, locking onto a small flicker of light from one of the nearby homes. The soft glow of a lantern wavered in the mist, as the door of a house creaked open slightly. Bhoumik narrowed his eyes and, with the grace of a hunting predator, moved silently across the slick ground toward the house.
As he neared, he recognized the figure stepping out into the cold night air—the village head. The old man moved slowly, his back hunched with age, his features worn with the burden of keeping this cursed village alive. Bhoumik's cold gaze remained fixed on the man who had spared his life, who had taken pity on him and taught him the art of cultivation. But pity was not something Bhoumik desired. He wanted strength, not sympathy.
The village head's wrinkled face twisted into a frown as he noticed Bhoumik approaching from the shadows. He clutched the lantern tighter, the light casting long shadows on the boy's pale face.
"Bhoumik," the old man greeted him in a low voice, not unkindly but with a deep weariness. "It's late. You should be inside."
Bhoumik's gaze didn't soften. "I prefer the rain."
The village head sighed, his old eyes filled with a mix of caution and regret as he studied the boy standing before him. In two short years, Bhoumik had grown into something powerful, something dangerous. Even at the tender age of twelve, his cultivation had far surpassed any child the village had ever seen. Seventh level of the Martial Mortal Realm—it was unheard of. And it frightened the village elders to their core.
"Your progress… it's impressive, but you must be careful, boy," the old man said, his voice tinged with warning. "There's more to cultivation than just power. The higher you rise, the colder your heart will become. You must remember to hold onto your humanity."
Bhoumik remained silent, his expression unmoving, but inside, something twisted. Humanity? He had never been given the chance to have any.
"I don't need it," Bhoumik said at last, his voice cold, void of emotion. "Humanity is a weakness. Power is all that matters."
The village head's frown deepened, his concern etched into every line of his face. "You'll find that power without purpose is an empty thing. Don't let it consume you, Bhoumik."
Bhoumik stared at him, his gaze unyielding, before turning his attention back to the misty horizon. "There's nothing left to consume. The world has already taken everything from me."
Without another word, Bhoumik turned on his heel and disappeared back into the shadows, leaving the village head standing alone in the rain-soaked night. The old man watched him go, his heart heavy with unease. Bhoumik was growing stronger, but with every step forward in his cultivation, he seemed to be slipping further away from the boy he once was.
The old man knew it wouldn't be long before Bhoumik left the village for good. And when that day came, the world would have to face whatever monster they had created.
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