The dust from the shattered door settled, coating the floor in a fine grey powder. In the ringing silence, three pairs of eyes were fixed on Amrit, each reflecting a different shade of disbelief.
King Vikram, a ruler accustomed to holding all the cards, was staring at a hand he didn't recognize. His Spirit Sea, a vast reservoir of power, was sensing Amrit's aura not as a son, but as a rival force of nature—a newborn volcano, quiet on the surface but boiling with unimaginable power beneath.
Bhim, the stoic second prince, had his usual impassive expression, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the haft of his massive axe. His warrior's instincts were screaming at him. The brother he had always dismissed as being weaker than a kitten now possessed a presence as solid and unmovable as a mountain.
And Arjun… the Crown Prince was trembling. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor, born not of fear, but of a sacred belief being desecrated before his very eyes. For fifteen years, he had defined himself by his talent, his hard work, his superiority. Amrit's very existence was a negation of his entire life's effort. Rage, hot and volcanic, began to bubble up from the pit of his stomach.
"Impossible," Arjun hissed, his voice tight with fury. "This is a trick. Some demonic art! Father, he has defiled the spiritual vein with a forbidden technique! He must be purged!"
The King did not even glance at his firstborn. His gaze remained locked on Amrit, a cold, calculating light entering his eyes. Pragmatism was wrestling with shock, and pragmatism was winning. A forbidden art? A demonic pact? It didn't matter. Power was power, and this… this was an unprecedented level of it.
"I asked you a question, Amrit," the King's voice was low and dangerous. "How did you do this?"
Amrit met his father's gaze without flinching. The lie he had prepared in the library now had to be sold. "The enlightenment I spoke of… it was more profound than I knew. It did not just heal my meridians; it shattered the dam within me. When I sat to cultivate, I simply followed the path of least resistance. The energy of the spiritual vein… it was not taken. It was welcomed. My body craved it."
He projected an air of serene, almost detached confusion, as if he himself were a mere vessel for a miracle he didn't fully comprehend. It was the perfect smokescreen.
"Lies!" Arjun roared, finally losing control. He took a step forward, his own powerful aura flaring. "Fifteen years of effort! That is what it took me to reach the peak of Body Tempering! You have been in this chamber for less than an hour! You insult my very existence with your deception!"
The King raised a hand, and Arjun froze, choked by his father's silent command. The King looked from his furious firstborn to his unnervingly calm third son. He knew cultivation. He knew its rules, its labours, its heartbreaks. What Amrit described was an impossibility. But the evidence was right before him.
"An aura is not a weapon," the King said, his voice flat. "Power must be controlled. Arjun is right about one thing. Such strength, appearing from nowhere, means nothing if it cannot be wielded. Show me."
It wasn't a request. It was a command and a challenge.
Arjun's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Yes, Father. Let him show us. Let me test the limits of this 'miracle.' In the training yard. A spar." His eyes bored into Amrit, gleaming with malice. "I will expose this fraud for what he is."
This was what Arjun wanted: a physical confrontation where his years of honed combat skill would surely overwhelm Amrit's raw, untested power. He would beat him, humiliate him, and restore the natural order.
To everyone's surprise, Amrit simply nodded. "I accept."
The short walk to the central training yard was thick with tension. News of the confrontation had spread, and from a distance, palace guards and servants watched with bated breath. The King and Bhim stood on the sidelines, their expressions grim. This was no longer just a family squabble; it was a fundamental challenge to the kingdom's hierarchy.
Arjun stood in the center of the yard, drawing the sleek, master-crafted sword from his back. The blade hummed as he channeled his Prana into it, its edge glowing with a faint silver light. "I will be merciful, little brother," he sneered, though his eyes promised the opposite. "I will only break a few bones. It's a feeling you should be used to."
Amrit stood opposite him, empty-handed. He had no weapon. He had no training. He had never been in a real fight in this life. All he had was a calm mind and a floating blue box that promised infinite possibilities.
System, he thought, his heart beating a steady, calm rhythm. This is new territory. What can you do for me in a fight?
There was no immediate text, no easy answer. The system was passive. It reacted to his intent.
Arjun didn't wait. With a roar, he launched himself forward. He didn't use a basic attack; he unleashed one of his signature techniques, the "Silver Serpent's Dance." His body became a blur, his sword striking from three different angles almost simultaneously, leaving shimmering after-images in the air. It was a complex and deadly assault designed to overwhelm an opponent's senses.
To Amrit, who had never faced a real cultivator's attack, the assault was terrifyingly fast. Instinct screamed at him to panic, to close his eyes.
But he didn't. He focused his intent with crystalline clarity. Observe. Understand. Evade.
[Combat-Related Action: Analyze High-Speed Attack Pattern.]
[Crit Chance detected… High due to Host's clear intent and calm mental state.]
[…Triggering a 500x Crit!]
The world slowed down.
It wasn't that Arjun was moving slower. It was that Amrit's perception was moving faster. The 500x multiplier hadn't been applied to his body, but to his mind, his senses, his predictive capabilities.
He saw everything. The shift of Arjun's weight onto his left foot. The subtle tensing of the muscles in his sword arm. The three trajectories of the blade, not as a confusing blur, but as three clear, distinct lines of silver light. He saw the flaws in the technique—a slight over-extension here, a momentary defensive gap there. In the nanosecond it took for his brain to process this, the system had already formulated the perfect response.
It wasn't a block. It wasn't a parry. It was a single, precise step to the left.
As Arjun's three strikes sliced through the air where Amrit had been a moment before, Amrit was already standing beside him, untouched. The movement was so economical, so ridiculously simple, that it looked less like a dodge and more like he had never been in the path of the attack to begin with.
The yard fell silent.
Arjun stumbled to a halt, his attack having met nothing but air. He spun around, his face a mask of disbelief. "How…?"
The King's eyes widened. That wasn't a technique. That was… insight. The kind of preternatural instinct that only battle-hardened grandmasters developed after a hundred years of life-and-death combat.
"Your movements are flashy, brother," Amrit said, his voice level. "But you waste too much energy."
The comment, spoken with the authority of a seasoned master, was like pouring oil on a fire. "You dare critique me?" Arjun screamed, his pride shattered. He abandoned all finesse and charged again, his sword now a simple, powerful cleave aimed at Amrit's neck. Brute force.
Amrit stood his ground. This time, his intent was different. Analyze the weapon. Find its weakness.
[Action: Structural Analysis of an object in motion.]
[Crit Chance detected…]
[…Triggering a 100x Crit!]
Again, his perception shifted. He no longer saw a sword. He saw its molecular structure, the fine lines of folded steel, the flow of Prana through the metal. He saw its center of balance, its points of resonance, and one specific, minuscule point on the flat of the blade where a precise impact would send a destabilizing vibration through the entire weapon.
He didn't dodge. As the sword descended, he raised his right hand, his fingers curled slightly, his palm open. He channeled a tiny wisp of his pure Prana into his palm—not enough to shatter the blade, but just enough to deliver a sharp, focused impact.
His palm met the flat of the sword. It didn't look like a block; it looked like he was gently stopping it.
Clang!
The sound was not the dull thud of flesh meeting steel, but a high-pitched, resonant chime, as if a master smith had struck a perfectly forged bell.
The 100x Crit-infused impact sent a violent, harmonic shockwave up the blade. Arjun's hand, which was gripping the hilt with all his might, went numb. His fingers were forced open against his will. The sword, his prized weapon and symbol of his status, was ripped from his grasp. It flew end over end through the air, spinning like a pinwheel, before embedding itself, hilt-deep, into the hard-packed earth of the training yard twenty feet away.
Silence.
Absolute, profound, soul-shaking silence.
Arjun stood frozen, his empty hand still raised, his face utterly blank with shock. He hadn't been beaten. He had been… disarmed. Effortlessly. Casually. It was a level of humiliation so total that raw fury could not even begin to comprehend it.
Bhim's axe slipped from his loosened grip and clattered onto the stone ground. He stared at Amrit with something akin to religious awe.
King Vikram took an involuntary step back, his mind finally, truly accepting the horrifying, exhilarating truth. His son was not a miracle. He was not a demon. He was something else entirely. Something that did not play by the rules of this world.
Amrit lowered his hand, his expression unchanged. He had not moved from his spot. He had not taken a scratch. He had not even broken a sweat.
"The spar is over, I believe," he said quietly.
He turned and walked away, leaving his family standing in the wreckage of their own worldview. He walked past the stunned guards, through the silent palace, and back to the quiet solitude of his chambers.
Closing the door behind him, he finally let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His heart was hammering in his chest, not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated adrenaline. The feeling of the system working in tandem with his mind, the perfect flow of information and action, was intoxicating.
He sat on his bed, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the storm in his mind. He finally allowed himself to properly investigate the power that had upended his life.
System. Show me my status.
A cool blue panel, more detailed than before, materialized in his mind.
[Host Status]
Name: Amrit
Realm: Body Tempering (Stage 9 - Peak)
Foundation: Perfect (Result of 10,000x Crit on Cultivation. Prana Purity is 100x the norm for this realm. Meridians are flawless.)
Techniques:
Lotus Breathing Compendium (9 Stages): Transcendent Mastery (Result of 1,000x Crit on Comprehension. Understanding surpasses the original author.)
[Infinite Crit System] Summary:
Core Function: Applies a random, multiplicative [Crit] to Host's intended actions.Discovered Applications:Physiological Restoration: (e.g., Healing Meridians)Cultivation Amplification: (e.g., Prana Absorption)Comprehension Enhancement: (e.g., Studying Texts)Perceptual Acceleration: (e.g., Analyzing Attacks)Structural Analysis: (e.g., Finding Weaknesses)
System Note: The potential applications of [Crit] are limited only by the Host's intent and imagination. The more fundamental the concept you apply it to, the more profound the result.
Amrit stared at the last line. Limited only by the Host's intent and imagination.
He hadn't just been given a cheat code. He had been given the developer console for reality itself. He could apply a "crit" to a punch, a breath, a thought. What if he applied it to a more abstract concept? Could he apply a [Crit] to… luck? To persuasion? To the growth of a plant? To the speed of time itself?
A slow smile spread across his face. The fever he carried wasn't just ambition. It was the dawning realization of true, boundless freedom.
His father, his brothers, the kingdom, the gods… they were all playing chess.
He was the one who could rewrite the rules of the board. And the game had only just begun.