Shattering the Celestial Loom

The request hung in the air of the silent arena, more shocking than any sword strike had been. A sixty-year-old Spirit Sea Sword Master, a living legend of the kingdom, asking a fifteen-year-old boy to be his teacher. It was a reversal of the natural order so profound that it bordered on sacrilege.

Amrit was taken aback for a moment. He had expected shock, perhaps even suspicion or fear. He had not expected this level of pure, unadulterated humility from a man of Jian's stature. It spoke volumes about the old master's character. He was a true seeker of the Way, willing to discard a lifetime of pride in the face of a greater truth.

"Master Jian, you honor me, but I cannot be your teacher," Amrit said respectfully, helping the old man straighten up. "I have had a unique insight, nothing more. We can, perhaps, discuss the Way of the Sword as equals."

Jian looked at him, a deep, complex emotion swirling in his single eye—gratitude, awe, and an unshakable resolve. He understood the face-saving gesture Amrit was offering him. "As you say, Your Highness. A discussion." But in his heart, he knew he would forever see this boy as a guide to a higher realm of swordsmanship.

Their impromptu session had drawn a new, unseen audience. From the shadows of the palace, the King's elite Shadow Guards watched, their minds reeling. Their orders were to observe the third prince. They had just witnessed him effortlessly dominate both the Crown Prince and the Royal Sword Master in pure skill. Their reports back to the King that evening would be filled with words like 'incomprehensible,' 'flawless,' and 'unnatural.' The King's scrutiny was yielding answers that only deepened the mystery, coiling the tension within the palace even tighter.

As the days turned into a week, a strange new routine settled over the royal court. Prince Arjun had vanished into true seclusion, his courtyard silent and empty, his furious energy now turned inward. Prince Bhim was often seen visiting the Sword Pavilion, not to practice his axe, but to silently watch Amrit, his expression a mixture of deep thought and hesitant admiration. Sword Master Jian began to hold regular "discussions" with Amrit in the forgotten courtyard, sessions where the old master would demonstrate a lifetime of battle-hardened techniques, and Amrit would deconstruct them with a few simple, conceptually perfect words, often leaving Jian speechless and lost in contemplation for hours.

Amrit, for his part, was a model of disciplined focus. His mornings were spent honing his combat style, fusing his movement and swordplay into a seamless, deadly art. His afternoons were spent in the Royal Library, not just reading, but absorbing.

With the power of his system, he became a voracious consumer of knowledge.

[Action: Reading 'The Geography of Viraatkshetra'.]

[…Triggering a 50x Crit!]

In minutes, a complete, three-dimensional map of the continent, including its political boundaries, major trade routes, and hidden spiritual veins, was imprinted onto his mind.

[Action: Studying 'An Alchemist's Primer'.]

[…Triggering a 100x Crit!]

He instantly gained the foundational knowledge of a master alchemist, understanding the properties of a thousand herbs and the principles of pill concoction.

He devoured texts on strategy, history, monster lore, and court etiquette. He was not just building a warrior; he was building a king, filling the gaps left by a lifetime of neglected education. He was becoming a polymath at a terrifying rate, his expertise growing broader and deeper with every passing hour.

His evenings were reserved for quiet cultivation, a methodical process of exploring the boundless Divine Ocean within him. He did not seek another breakthrough; he simply familiarized himself with its tides, strengthening his soul and refining his control.

To the outside world, he was an enigma—a quiet, polite, and terrifyingly talented young man. He asked for little, demanded nothing, yet his very presence was rearranging the power dynamics of the palace.

But in a place of power, light always casts a shadow. Not every reaction to his rise was as direct as Arjun's rage or as respectful as Jian's humility. Some reactions were more subtle. More venomous.

The viper struck on the eighth day.

Amrit was in his chambers, reviewing a complex text on ancient formations. The young servant girl, whose name he had learned was Anya, brought him his evening meal. She was a timid girl of about fourteen, who had served his wing of the palace for years. Since his "recovery," her fear of him had slowly been replaced by a kind of hero-worship. She saw him as a figure from a fairy tale, a cursed prince who had awakened with divine power.

"Your Highness, your meal," she said, her voice soft as she placed the tray on his table. It was a simple but nutritious meal fit for a cultivator—steamed spirit rice, braised lion-boar meat, and a vegetable soup designed to aid Prana circulation.

"Thank you, Anya," Amrit said, giving her a small smile.

She blushed and bobbed a curtsy before scurrying out of the room. Amrit turned his attention to the food. He was about to pick up his chopsticks when he paused.

Something was wrong.

His Spirit Sea perception, always active, detected a minute dissonance. It was not in the taste or the smell. The food itself was clean. The dishware was clean. But on the underside of the lacquered tray, clinging to the wood, was a tiny, almost imperceptible trace of something else.

He focused his senses, his mind's eye zooming in on the residue. It was a fine, crystalline powder, nearly colorless and odorless. His system, cross-referencing this information with the alchemical knowledge he had absorbed, provided an instant, chilling identification.

[Substance Detected: Soul-Devouring Orchid Pollen.]

[Nature: A slow-acting, spiritual poison. Odorless, tasteless, and undetectable by normal Prana-based senses. Does not harm the physical body.]

[Effect: Once ingested, the pollen attaches to the victim's soul. Over a period of weeks, it slowly drains the spiritual energy, causing lethargy, confusion, and the gradual erosion of the Spirit Sea. The victim's cultivation regresses, their mind clouds, and they eventually fall into a coma before their soul dissipates entirely.]

[Antidote: Extremely rare. Requires the heart of a Sun-Crested Griffin, brewed within 24 hours of the final stage.]

Amrit's blood ran cold.

This was not a common poison. This was an assassin's tool of the highest order—insidious, patient, and utterly lethal to a Spirit Sea cultivator. It was designed to make a cultivator's miraculous rise seem like a temporary fluke, their subsequent decline a return to normalcy, until it was far too late. It was a weapon of pure, sophisticated malice.

His first thought was of Arjun. But this didn't feel like his brother's style. Arjun was direct, fiery, and consumed by rage. He would use a sword or a fast-acting poison. This was subtle, patient, cowardly. This was the work of a different kind of snake.

Who had access to his food? The royal kitchens were a possibility, but security there was tight. The most direct link was the one who delivered it. Anya.

But the girl worshiped him. She would never knowingly harm him. Which meant she was an unwitting pawn. Someone had tampered with the tray between the kitchen and his room. Or perhaps, the poison had been applied to the tray long before, waiting for the right moment.

Amrit's mind raced through the possibilities. Who in the palace would have access to such a rare poison and the subtlety to use it? Who would benefit from his slow, inexplicable decline?

His thoughts landed on a face he had largely ignored. A face that was always smiling, always polite, always present in the King's shadow. Grand Steward Kavi. A man who managed the palace's internal affairs with quiet efficiency, a man who had the trust of the King, and a man whose own son had been a candidate for the Sky-Piercing Academy until Amrit's rise had effectively pushed him out of contention. His motive was there. His access was there.

But motive was not proof.

Amrit looked at the poisoned tray. He could expose it, cause an uproar, and force an investigation. But the viper would simply retreat into the shadows, and the culprit, especially a man as careful as Kavi, would have covered his tracks. It would be his word against a trusted steward's.

No. A direct confrontation was a fool's game. A viper was best dealt with not by shouting at it, but by luring it out of its hole and cutting off its head.

A cold, dangerous smile touched Amrit's lips. They thought he was a cultivator, a swordsman. They did not understand that his greatest weapon was not his sword or his fists, but the god-like analytical engine in his mind. They wanted to play a game of shadows and poison. He would play it with them.

He stood up and walked to the door, opening it. "Anya!" he called out.

The young servant girl, who was waiting down the hall, came running. "Yes, Your Highness?"

Amrit gestured to the untouched tray of food. "I'm not hungry tonight. You've been working hard. Please, take this and share it with the other servants in your station. Don't let it go to waste."

The girl's eyes widened with joy and gratitude. To be gifted food from a prince's table was a great honor. "Oh, thank you, Your Highness! Thank you!" she said, bowing repeatedly before carefully picking up the tray and hurrying away, her heart filled with adoration for her kind and generous prince.

Amrit watched her go, his expression serene. He knew the poison wouldn't harm the servants. It was a spiritual poison that only activated in the presence of a powerful, cultivated soul, like a predator that only hunted great beasts. To the common person, it was harmless dust.

He closed the door, the smile vanishing from his face, replaced by a look of glacial calm. The viper had made its move. It would now be watching, waiting for the first signs of his decline.

He would give them a show. He would feign lethargy. He would stumble in his practice. He would let the rumors of his "fluke" resurgence begin to circulate. He would play the part of the dying fire.

And while the viper grew comfortable, believing its poison was working, he would be hunting. He would use his senses, his system, his mind, to find the proof he needed. He would unravel the conspiracy thread by thread.

The palace was not just a home. It was a snake pit. And Amrit had just learned that to survive, he couldn't just be a dragon. He had to be the cleverest serpent of them all.