The Accidental Cultivator

The wind blew softly across the scorched earth.

Roshni's boots stepped over cracked soil, the ground still warm from the aftermath. Her eyes scanned the ruins of Kaliganj—the once vibrant village now reduced to blackened skeletons of homes, collapsed walls, and shattered lives.

Beside her, Prince Rudraksh remained silent, his eyes sharp, searching… trying to understand.

"He was laughing," one of the villagers whispered behind them. "Laughing in the middle of all this… then vanished like a shadow."

Roshni clenched her fists.

It didn't make sense.

No one had seen him attack.

No soldier had a single scratch from him.

And yet, the masked boy in the black cloak had become the face of this devastation in everyone's mind.

Rudraksh knelt near a fallen child, his hand hovering over the scorched earth. "Still warm. Whatever hit this place… wasn't just chakra. It was something else."

Roshni looked around. "No scorch marks on the soldiers. No wounds from weapons. They're… just knocked out. Like they fainted in fear."

The surviving villagers had only seen the aftermath. The explosion. The black mask. The blood on the ground. The boy standing at the center like he was proud of it all.

No one had seen Aryan fight.

Because he didn't.

He just appeared… and then disappeared.

But facts didn't matter now.

Perception had already poisoned the truth.

"We didn't even get his name," Rudraksh muttered. "We don't know who he was, what he wanted, or how he did this."

"I met him once," Roshni said slowly. "He called himself Rohit. But… that wasn't his real name. Just a cover. I didn't even know his face. He wore the same mask then too."

"And now," Rudraksh said grimly, "he's wanted for massacre."

They moved through the remains in silence, checking the survivors one by one. Some had chakra burns. Some were catatonic. Others kept muttering about "the boy in black."

None had answers.

None could clear Aryan's name.

Instead, the fog of suspicion only thickened with every step.

By the time they reached the center of the village—where the final blast had left a crater—they had seen enough.

Rudraksh turned to his sister, voice colder than usual. "We have to take this to the Royal Court."

Roshni nodded. "Let the sages decide what we're dealing with. But if we're right… and this wasn't just a murderer—"

She didn't finish.

Because somewhere, deep down, a small part of her still hoped he was innocent.

But hope was too fragile to stand against the ashes all around them.

And as they turned away from the ruins of Kaliganj, the wind carried the faint scent of smoke.

The smoke still lingered in the wind, curling through the ruined remains of Kaliganj like ghosts too stubborn to leave.

Princess Roshni stood at the edge of the blast zone, her arms crossed tightly. The obsidian mask from her memories haunted her every blink.

That was him.

The quiet boy from the treasury.

The polite thief with strange questions. The one who called himself Rohit.

Now, there were whispers from survivors… that the masked boy had laughed during the massacre.

That he had vanished into thin air before anyone could touch him.

"Your Highness!" a guard called from the other side of the crater. "One of the villagers just woke up. She's injured… but conscious. She says she knows him."

Roshni's heart skipped.

She turned sharply and marched across the rubble, Rudraksh following a step behind.

On a tattered cot sat an older woman, her arm bandaged, her eyes swollen from weeping. Her hair was half-burnt, her clothes torn, but her voice—when it came—was steady.

"I saw him," she whispered. "The boy… I saw him standing there, laughing."

Roshni knelt beside her. "You saw the masked one?"

The woman nodded weakly. "I know him. That's Aryan. He's my son's best friend."

Roshni stiffened. "What?"

"Aryan. From Vaikunth Dham small cliff village. That boy… he used to visit our home. He used to call me Ma. His grandfather, Ganpat, raised him alone. A kind old man. Aryan… he's not like this. But what I saw—what he became—wasn't the Aryan I knew."

Roshni's fingers dug into the edge of the cot.

Aryan.

She didn't know that name.

Not once had he said it when they met.

He lied.

He looked her in the eyes and lied.

The betrayal cut deeper than it should've.

Roshni stood up suddenly, breath unsteady. Rudraksh glanced sideways at her—concerned.

"Roshni?"

But she didn't answer.

All her thoughts, all her faith, all her instinct… it shattered.

The boy who seemed odd, clever, awkward—and harmless… had a second name.

A second life.

And now, a second face.

"He fooled me," she muttered. "He got past the guards. Entered the treasury. Lied about who he was. And now… he burns a village to ashes and runs."

Rudraksh frowned. "We still don't have proof he did it—"

"He laughed!" she snapped, louder than intended. "They said he laughed in the middle of the massacre. Who does that?!"

Her voice shook. Not with rage.

But disbelief.

Disappointment.

Rudraksh placed a hand on her shoulder. "If this Aryan is real… we'll find him."

She didn't look at him. "We won't need to."

Rudraksh raised an eyebrow.

She turned to the guard. "Send a shadow division to Vaikunth Dham cliff side village. Find the one named Ganpat—Aryan's grandfather. Bring him in. If the boy won't come to us, we'll bring someone he can't leave behind."

The guard hesitated. "Your Highness… he's just an old man."

Roshni's voice chilled. "Then he won't resist. And if Aryan's truly innocent… he'll come running to explain himself."

"And if he doesn't?" Rudraksh asked quietly.

She didn't answer.

She didn't have to.

Her silence said everything.

This wasn't just justice anymore.

This was personal.

while far in the palace of Vaikunth Dham glowed under the midday sun, but the atmosphere inside the grand court hall was anything but warm.

The golden pillars, carved with scenes of victory and dharma, now loomed like silent judges.

King Rudrayan, ruler of the Five Celestial Peaks, sat upon his throne of ivory and black steel. His face was calm, carved from years of rulership, but the storm behind his eyes was clear.

Roshni and Rudraksh stood before him, their cloaks dusty from travel, and their expressions heavy with the weight of what they'd seen.

"He lied to me," Roshni said, her voice tight but steady. "Said his name was Rohit. Entered the treasury without alert. And now... the same masked boy is seen in Kaliganj, laughing over a field of corpses."

Rudraksh followed, tone grave. "We cannot say with certainty he caused the destruction. But the signs—his appearance, his disappearance, the witness confirming his identity… all point toward this boy. Aryan."

The King remained silent for a long time. Then, he let out a quiet breath. "So we do not yet know the motive… only that he is dangerous."

Roshni added, "He had powerful equipment. An obsidian mask. A cloak infused with shadow chakra. He escaped before we could stop him."

"And we suspect his grandfather is harboring him," Rudraksh concluded.

The King finally leaned forward. "Then bring the grandfather here. If the boy won't speak, perhaps his blood will."

Just as those words left his mouth—

The chamber doors creaked open.

Two guards stepped in, dragging a man between them.

Old. Slouched. Beard unkempt. Smelling of cheap rice liquor and forest soil. His arms were bound with chakra-threaded rope that shimmered faintly under sunlight.

Ganpat.

Aryan's grandfather.

Still blinking from sleep, still reeking of alcohol, and clearly confused.

He was tossed forward onto the palace floor like a sack of wheat. His knees hit the cold marble with a hollow thud.

One guard barked, "This is him, Your Majesty. Ganpat, grandfather of the fugitive Aryan. Locals say he lives alone in Vaikunth Dham. The boy visited him often."

The second added coldly, "He refused to speak when we asked where the boy was. Claimed to know nothing. We believe he's covering for him."

Ganpat looked around, dazed. His old eyes blinked at the vast chamber, at the nobles staring down at him like he was filth.

He opened his mouth, lips dry, voice croaking: "Eh? Aryan? My boy? I don't—he wouldn't—he's a good lad—he'd never do no—"

The words came out tangled. Slurred.

The room heard nothing but the desperate, drunken stammering of an old man trying to protect someone no longer here.

To them, it sounded like denial.

Excuses.

Cowardice.

Roshni clenched her jaw. She couldn't even look at him.

Rudraksh folded his arms. The pieces were fitting together. Or so they thought.

King Rudrayan raised a hand.

"Enough," he said, his voice cold and measured. "Place him in the holding cell. Let the court decide his fate."

Ganpat's frail body was dragged across the marble floor, his protests breaking against walls of indifference. The old man stumbled, chains clinking, but no one looked at him with mercy.

Roshni's fists curled at her sides. Her thoughts were a storm—betrayal, confusion, and something else she couldn't name. She had trusted that boy. And now…

"Roshni."

The King's voice cut through her haze.

She looked up sharply. "Father?"

"You leave tonight," he said firmly. "For Nalanda. The Martial Tournament will not wait for your grief, or your anger. You will go as planned and represent Vaikunth Dham. Do you understand?"

Her lips parted, but no words came. Only a stiff nod.

"As you command," she whispered.

King Rudrayan's gaze lingered on her for a moment—measuring something in her eyes—before he turned away.

"Go prepare," he ordered. "The world outside will not stop moving, even when blood spills at our gates."

Roshni bowed her head, hiding the turmoil behind her calm mask, and walked out of the chamber. Her steps echoed across the hall like the ticking of a clock—each one taking her farther from the palace, closer to Nalanda… and closer to the boy who had shattered her trust.

Behind her, the royal court doors slammed shut.

And in the silence that followed, Ganpat's muffled voice echoed faintly through the corridors.

"…Aryan… my boy…"