The first thing Aaryan felt was pain.

It wasn’t sharp or unbearable, just a dull, ever-present ache woven into his muscles—a gift from last night’s training. His body protested as he shifted, every movement a reminder that he had pushed too hard, again.

He lay there for a moment, eyes half-lidded, debating the merits of just staying in bed forever.

Then he exhaled. Today was Resource Distribution.

That meant food. That meant strength. That meant people were going to try and take what was his.

And he had no intention of letting that happen.

With a groan, he dragged himself upright. His legs felt like stone, his ribs were sore from where a staff had clipped him, and he was fairly certain there was a bruise forming somewhere on his back. He splashed some water on his face, shook off the stiffness, and stepped outside.

The sect was already alive with activity, but Aaryan barely paid attention as he made his way toward the Resource Distribution Hall. The path was familiar now, the air thick with quiet tension. This wasn’t just about receiving resources—it was a battlefield before the real fight even began.

Just like last time, disciples had gathered, some chatting, others eyeing potential targets. It was all the same.

Then, like clockwork, Dharun arrived.

The senior disciple’s presence had the same effect as before—the murmuring quieted, the restless energy in the air shifting to wary anticipation. He didn’t waste time with words. The moment the first name was called, the process began.

One by one, disciples stepped forward, received their allotted resources, and moved back. Some left quickly, eager to escape the chaos that would follow. Others lingered, their gazes locked onto those they intended to rob.

Aaryan stepped forward when his name was called, taking his sachet with the same measured calm as before.

Dharun barely spared him a glance before moving on. To him, Aaryan was just another disciple.

The last name was called. The final sachet was handed out.

And then, without a word, Dharun left.

And just like that, the fight began.

The first disciple lunged forward, a wide, telegraphed swing aimed for Aaryan’s head.

Slow. Predictable. Weak.

Aaryan stepped inside the attack, too fast for the opponent to react.

His hand snaked out, catching the disciple’s wrist.

Then, with a vicious twist—CRACK.

A scream tore through the air as the attacker’s wrist bent at an unnatural angle. He collapsed, clutching his arm, his voice raw with pain.

The second disciple faltered. Fear.

Aaryan’s gaze snapped to him.

Hesitation. A fatal mistake.

Before the disciple could retreat, Aaryan closed the distance in a blink. His elbow drove straight into the man’s sternum.

A sickening thud.

The impact sent the disciple reeling—his eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent scream. He gasped, his lungs refusing to pull in air. Then—he dropped.

Two down.

The third disciple staggered back. Fear radiated from his wide eyes, sweat beading on his forehead. His grip on his sachet tightened.

Aaryan tilted his head.

“Go on,” he said softly. “Run.”

For a moment, the disciple seemed frozen between pride and survival.

Then, he turned and bolted.

The crowd shuddered.

This wasn’t just some strong disciple defending his resources.

This was brutality.

Aaryan didn’t just win—he made them regret ever thinking of attacking him.

He knelt, collecting the fallen sachets.

Three down. More to go.

More challengers came.

Some alone, others in pairs.

They thought numbers would help.

They were wrong.

The first disciple lunged—a diagonal slash, reckless, full of power but no control.

Aaryan stepped inside his guard, fast—too fast.

His fist hammered into the disciple’s elbow. A wet pop. A scream.

The sword clattered uselessly to the ground.

One down.

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The second and third came together, flanking him.

Smart. But not smart enough.

One tried to grab him—bad move.

Aaryan seized his arm, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the ground. Teeth cracked. Blood splattered. The disciple groaned, barely conscious.

The other hesitated. A second too long.

Aaryan pivoted, sweeping his leg out in a vicious arc. A solid impact to the knee.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The snap echoed across the terrace.

Two more down.

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The fights stacked up. So did the sachets.

Six.

Aaryan wasn’t just defending his resources anymore.

He was making an example.

The crowd had noticed.

The murmurs weren’t about who would challenge him next.

They were about who would dare.

Blood dripped from a shallow cut on his arm. A dull bruise throbbed along his ribs from a mistimed dodge. Superficial wounds. Nothing serious.

Then came someone different.

This one didn’t rush in blindly. He studied Aaryan, circling, waiting.

A feint—a sharp step forward. Aaryan didn’t bite.

Another step, a probing strike. Testing. Feeling him out.

Aaryan met him in kind. No wasted movement, no openings given. A silent battle of patience.

The fight stretched on. Unlike the others, this one didn’t panic after a missed strike. He adjusted, adapted.

Aaryan could respect that.

But respect didn’t mean mercy.

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A flicker of movement.

Aaryan shifted, baiting him in. The moment his opponent lunged, Serpent Bind lashed out.

A misstep. A stumble.

That was all it took.

Aaryan struck.

A vicious elbow to the ribs. A sharp crack. The disciple gasped, staggering back, clutching his side.

He looked like he wanted to continue.

But he knew.

He had lost.

Aaryan reached down, picking up his seventh sachet.

Aaryan exhaled, brushing dust off his sleeves. The crowd that had once seen him as a minor inconvenience now watched. The weak no longer dared to approach, and the strong had begun to take notice.

Aaryan’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. His ribs ached with every inhale, and his fingers trembled—just slightly—as he flexed them.

He could feel the stiffness setting in, his muscles burning from the relentless pace. Blood seeped from a gash on his arm, but he barely registered it over the throbbing in his ribs.

That’s when real trouble arrived.

Three of them. Two at the third level of Anima, one at the fourth.

They weren’t opportunists. They weren’t reckless. They were here to take.

“Hand them over,” one sneered. “Or we’ll take them off you.”

Aaryan exhaled, rolling his neck. His body ached, his limbs were stiff. He had fought too many battles already.

“You guys should really come up with something original,” he muttered.

The first one lunged.

Aaryan caught him mid-motion, hooking his arm in a modified Serpent Bind. His opponent had strength, but Aaryan had leverage. A sharp twist, a shift in balance—

A dull crack.

The disciple crashed down, his wrist bent at an ugly angle. A scream followed.

Aaryan barely had time to breathe before the second was on him.

A sharp kick.

Aaryan raised his arms to block, but the impact felt different this time—his arms, leaden with fatigue, absorbed the blow poorly. His stance wavered, his balance faltering, and for the first time, doubt crept in.

Enough time for the third to strike.

Aaryan barely twisted in time. The impact hit his ribs like a hammer.

He gritted his teeth. His breath was short, pained. But he retaliated immediately.

A vicious elbow to the second disciple’s ribs. He heard a wheeze, a gasp. But it wasn’t enough.

Because the fourth-level disciple was already moving again.

This wasn’t like before.

Aaryan wasn’t dictating the fight. He was in it.

Aaryan dodged—barely. His vision blurred for half a second, his reaction slower than before.

Pain exploded through his shoulder as a fist connected, knocking him back a step. His breath hitched, ribs screaming in protest. He was fast—but not fast enough anymore. His body wasn’t keeping up with his instincts.

The fourth-level disciple was relentless, forcing Aaryan back. He dodged, countered, absorbed the impact when he couldn’t avoid it. But he was slower now, fatigue creeping in.

He took a hit to his shoulder—hard enough to make his arm go numb.

Another to his side—pain lancing through bruised ribs.

His fingers curled into a tight fist, his knuckles white. He could feel his own exhaustion trying to drag him down, but he refused to let it. Not yet. Not here.

The second attacker—still gasping for air—moved again. Too slow.

Aaryan grabbed him by the collar and drove his knee into his ribs—once, twice, three times—until something cracked. The disciple let out a choked gasp before crumpling, unmoving.

A sharp yelp. Then silence.

The last one standing hesitated.

Aaryan looked at him, face half-shadowed, breathing steady despite the blood trickling down his lip.

He tilted his head. “Still want them?”

The man froze.

Then he turned and ran.

The crowd erupted.

Aaryan stood, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His arms felt like dead weight, his legs unsteady beneath him.

Sweat trickled down his back, his vision swimming at the edges. If another fight came right now…

No. He couldn’t think like that. He wasn’t done yet.

But things were not over yet.

After some time another group arrived.

Five of them.

Older, stronger, and smirking like they had already won.

The leader cracked his knuckles, his smirk widening. “You’ve had a good run,” he said, voice casual. “How about we make this easy? Just hand over the sachets, and we’ll make this painless.”

Aaryan rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly. “Painless for who? You?”

The leader’s smirk twitched.

“You know,” Aaryan continued, gesturing lazily at his bruises, “I respect the confidence. But let’s break this down, shall we?” He pointed at them. “Five of you, one of me.” He pointed at himself. “I’m already injured, exhausted, and—let’s be honest—probably one punch away from passing out.”

Some of them chuckled.

Aaryan smiled. “But here’s the problem: I don’t pass out quietly.”

The laughter faded.

“See, if you fight me, I will go down. But…” He raised a finger. “One of you definitely goes down before I lose.” A second finger. “One of you probably gets injured bad enough to need someone to carry you home.” A third finger. “And the rest? You’ll be so battered that even weaker disciples might decide you’re an easy target.”

The leader’s smirk twitched. His lackeys exchanged glances.

Aaryan tilted his head. “I mean, I won’t be around to see it, but I imagine it’d be hilarious watching some half-starved first-level disciple suddenly jump you guys for scraps.” He sighed dramatically. “Tragic, really.”

One of the lackeys actually took a step back.

The leader scowled. “Tch. You talk too much.”

Aaryan grinned. “That’s my best trait.”

Another lackey muttered, “Boss, he’s kinda making sense…”

Aaryan gasped. “Oh? A rational decision? Rare in these parts.”

Aaryan smiled. “So, tell me—are you really planning to risk getting ambushed over all my sachets, or are you smart enough to take a better deal?”

The leader narrowed his eyes. “What kind of deal?”

Aaryan shrugged. “I give you some of my sachets. Enough to make this worth your time. You walk away with a win, and I walk away in one piece. Everyone wins. No one gets stabbed in the back.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Seventy percent.”

Aaryan scoffed. “What do I look like, a charity?”

The leader smirked. “Alright. Sixty.”

Aaryan scoffed. “Fifty.”

The leader’s eye twitched. “Fifty-five.”

Aaryan put a hand over his heart, mock-affronted. “I thought we were friends.”

The leader sighed. “Fine. Forty percent.”

Aaryan gave him a slow, thoughtful nod. Then he smiled. "Deal."

He handed over 30 percent of his sachets.

The leader blinked. “Wait. That’s not what we—”

Aaryan clapped him on the shoulder. "Pleasure doing business."

The leader opened his mouth to argue—then looked around. Too many people were watching. He exhaled through his nose and stomped off.

The leader looked like he wanted to strangle him.

Aaryan stretched, looking pleased. “See? Look how reasonable we all are. This could’ve been a bloodbath, but instead, we’re making smart business decisions.”

One of the lackeys muttered under his breath, “I feel like we just got robbed.”

Another nodded. “We definitely got robbed.”

But they still walked away.

Aaryan watched them go.

The crowd stared.

And from a distance, Dharun watched too.

He had seen plenty of disciples fight for their resources. But this… this was different.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be impressed.

That kid is either a genius, a lunatic, or both.

Probably both.

Someone whispered, “Did he just negotiate his way out of getting beaten?”

Another disciple muttered, “I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.”

Aaryan cracked his knuckles. Six sachets left. A loss, but a calculated one.

He stretched, satisfied. “Welp. Time for breakfast.”

The crowd parted for him.

Then—

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU EVEN EAT?!”

Aaryan turned.

Jayan, still bruised from their last fight, was gaping at him in sheer exasperation.

Aaryan winked. “High-quality protein.”

Jayan clutched his head. “I—I can’t—HOW DID YOU JUST NEGOTIATE MID-BATTLE? WHO DOES THAT?!”

Aaryan sighed dramatically. “Jayan, my friend, some people fight with strength. Others fight with skill. I—” he gestured vaguely, “—prefer to fight with intelligence.”

Jayan threw his arms in the air. “BULLSHIT! THAT WAS A SCAM, NOT INTELLIGENCE!”

Someone in the crowd muttered, “I mean… it worked.”

Another disciple whispered, “Honestly, at this point, I think he’s a scam artist disguised as a martial artist.”

Aaryan put a hand on his heart. “I prefer the term ‘strategic negotiator.’”

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Aaryan, victorious, walked away like it was just another day.

Dharun sighed. That kid is going to give someone a heart attack.