Arjun sat rigidly at the sleek glass conference table, the polished surface reflecting back a fractured version of himself. The sterile hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, steady and indifferent, as though mocking the storm churning inside his chest. His MBA presentation—the capstone of years of work—was supposed to be his triumph. Months of research, late nights, and relentless preparation had led to this moment.

Yet sweat slicked his palms. The weight of the executives’ gazes pressed down like iron chains. Their tailored suits and calm expectancy made him feel small, like a schoolboy caught unprepared. The piles of neatly arranged charts and data sets should have been tools, but tonight they looked more like shackles.

He inhaled, forcing his breath steady. He was ready—or so he told himself.

The blare of screeching tyres split the air.

Before his mind could process the sound, a bone-rattling impact crushed the moment flat. Metal shrieked. Glass shattered in a violent cascade. Pain flashed white—then darkness swallowed everything.

Light returned in fragments.

Arjun’s eyes fluttered open to see a ceiling of rough-hewn slats, warped and darkened by age. Faint beams of dawn crept through the cracks, scattering across the room like broken strands of gold. His body ached as though forged anew, his limbs heavier, stranger. Beneath him, the ground was no longer plush carpet but hard-packed earth, cold enough to seep through his skin.

He sat up slowly. A musky scent of damp soil and burnt wood clung to the air. His hand brushed against coarse fabric—his clothes were gone, replaced by a tunic of rough homespun cloth, frayed at the seams. His fingers bore smudges of dirt, his nails uneven, his palms calloused.

The world felt wrong. Or perhaps he felt wrong inside it.

A small sound stirred behind him.

“Brother?”

The word cut sharper than any blade.

Arjun turned, heart thundering.

A girl sat huddled near the wall, knees tucked to her chest. She could not have been more than eight years old. Tangled black hair framed a face that was pale but unyielding, her wide eyes fixed on him with equal parts fear and fragile hope.

He stared, breath caught in his throat. “Anaya,” he whispered, the name escaping like a prayer.

Her lips quivered into the faintest smile, relief softening her gaze.

Arjun’s chest tightened. In that moment, disbelief gave way to a brutal clarity. He wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t imagining her. His sister was here—alive, vulnerable, depending on him in a world he did not know.

Light flared.

An orb materialized before him, hovering at eye level. Translucent and luminous, it shimmered with an inner glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. Strange glyphs swirled across its surface, rearranging themselves in patterns both alien and mesmerizing. The faint hum it emitted resonated deep in his bones.

Words carved themselves into his mind, not spoken but understood:

Welcome to the Dominic System.

Two channels branched from the orb’s core, alternating in rhythm. One exuded a dark, oppressive weight, its glyphs etched like scars into smoke—the path of demonic cultivation. The other gleamed in sharp, orderly symbols—ledgers, contracts, an arsenal of commerce.

A thrill of power coursed through him, but with it came warning. Each option carried a cost. He could feel it in his marrow, the drain of energy lurking behind every choice.

The orb pulsed once more, then dimmed, waiting.

Arjun exhaled slowly, pushing the vision aside. The room returned—bare walls, a rickety table, the faint flicker of an oil lamp clinging to life. He reached into the pouch at his belt, fingers brushing metal. Coins clinked faintly as he counted: three hundred bronze.

The sum seemed meager, pitifully so. He tallied in silence: rent for two weeks, one hundred and forty bronze. Food for himself and Anaya, eighty more. Ink, candles, scraps of parchment—twenty. A single battered shield core, the lowest-grade talisman he could find, another twenty.

Forty coins left. That was all.

The numbers pressed on him with suffocating weight. In his old life, budgets were abstract exercises, lines on a spreadsheet. Here, they were survival. A miscalculation didn’t mean a failed grade; it meant hunger. Or worse.

From outside drifted the sounds of morning: the sharp clang of hammers on metal as stalls were erected, merchants shouting their wares in eager voices, the bleating of goats being herded down dusty lanes. The village moved with rhythm and purpose, life carrying on indifferent to his confusion.

Arjun looked at Anaya. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him. Fear lingered in her expression, but behind it burned something purer: trust.

That trust hit him harder than the crash ever had.

Resolve gathered in his chest. He could not afford recklessness. Power would come, but cautiously. For now, survival meant stability, and stability began with work. A delivery boy’s job—lowly, but safe—would place him in the market, let him learn, and earn the coin they desperately needed. It was the path of least risk, and for her sake, he would walk it.

As dusk fell, the hut dimmed to shadow. Arjun sat cross-legged on the earthen floor, the Dominic System’s orb hovering faintly before him. Its glow bathed the room in pale light, spilling over Anaya where she had curled against his side, already asleep. Her breathing was soft, steady, a small anchor in the vast uncertainty around him.

He reached out, hand hovering near the orb’s surface. Within it, the twin paths pulsed again: cultivation and commerce, danger and discipline, both blades waiting to be drawn.

His reflection shimmered back at him—eyes sharper, jaw set with quiet defiance.

“I’ll master you,” he whispered, voice low but steady. “Not for me. For her.”

The oil lamp sputtered, its flame bowing before straightening again, casting shadows that trembled across the walls like silent witnesses.

Arjun stayed awake as night deepened, the vow burning inside him brighter than the lamp. Whatever this world demanded, he would endure. Whatever it took, he would not fail.

Not this time.

The first light of dawn slipped through the thin wooden slats of the hut, spilling pale beams across the dusty floor. Arjun stirred awake, the earthen ground rough beneath him, Anaya curled against his side. Her soft, steady breathing was the only sound, a fragile reminder of innocence in a world already pressing hard against them.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face and gently nudged her shoulder. “Wake up, little one,” he whispered. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and smiled faintly before stretching her thin arms. Together, they began the rhythm of morning.

The well stood at the edge of the village, its rope creaking as they lowered a battered bucket into the cool depths. The air there smelled of damp stone and rust. Anaya balanced a small jug while Arjun carried the heavier load, the weight biting into his shoulders. From there they gathered kindling, their hands scratched by dry twigs, before returning to the hut. Breakfast was meager—flatbread warmed over embers, paired with a few wilted greens. Still, the act of eating together gave the morning a sense of order, a fragile thread in the tapestry of survival.

By the time they stepped outside again, the village had woken fully. The marketplace buzzed with energy, a vibrant current flowing through narrow lanes. The smell of baking bread drifted from an open oven, mingling with the tang of fresh fish laid out on woven mats and the acrid smoke of metalworkers shaping tools. Merchants shouted over one another, voices rising and falling in a chorus of bargains and boasts. Goats bleated as they were herded past, their hooves clattering against cobblestones.

Arjun adjusted the strap of his patched delivery satchel and wove into the crowd. His task was simple—carry goods between vendors and customers—but to him it was more than labor. It was a chance to listen, to observe, to map the unseen currents of power and trade.

He delivered bolts of cloth to a tailor, jars of honey to a baker, a sack of grain to a tavern kitchen. The work was steady, the pay small but honest. Yet with every step, his sharp eyes caught details others overlooked: the way one merchant slipped an extra coin into another’s palm, the sidelong glare exchanged between rival stallkeepers, the hushed complaints about unfair prices. The marketplace was a battlefield, but its weapons were words and silver, favors and debts.

During a brief lull, Arjun slipped beneath the shade of an awning. Sweat clung to his brow, his muscles aching from the weight of the day’s loads. From his satchel, he drew out a small crystal pendant—his tether to the Dominic System.

The surface shimmered at his touch, and the world around him dulled as the interface bloomed in his mind. Glyphs danced in careful rows, forming tables of inventory, columns of rising and falling prices. When he traced his finger over the pendant, symbols shifted, sketching crude maps of trade routes through neighboring towns. The complexity was daunting, the options dizzying, but his old instincts stirred. This was data. And data could be shaped into strategy.

A flicker of hope warmed him. The Dominic System wasn’t only a tool for cultivation—it was a ledger, a compass, a weapon in the ruthless game of commerce. If used wisely, it could turn survival into prosperity.

But his focus broke at the weight of a gaze.

Across the square stood a man in dark robes, embroidered at the hem with the insignia of a local sect. His head was shaven, his eyes sharp as knives. He lingered there, watching. For a moment, the crowd seemed to part around him, as though even the noise of the market dared not intrude.

When he finally moved closer, his steps were deliberate, measured. His voice, low but carrying, brushed Arjun’s ear like a warning.

“Beware the shadows beyond the market’s edge. Power here is never free, trader. Every coin has its cost.”

Before Arjun could reply, the man turned, vanishing into the press of bodies as swiftly as he had appeared.

Arjun stood still, heart quickening. The words were simple, yet the weight behind them undeniable. Commerce and cultivation alike were bound in unseen threads of danger. Every path he took would draw eyes, and not all of them kind.

By late afternoon, his tasks were complete. The coins he’d earned clinked faintly in his pouch—small comfort, but progress nonetheless. He left the bustle behind, walking until the marketplace noise softened into the rustle of reeds by the riverbank.

There, in the solitude of running water and birdsong, he sat and drew upon the Dominic System once more. This time, he summoned not ledgers but power.

Dark glyphs coiled through the orb’s light, rearranging themselves into a pattern that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He inhaled, focused, and let the current of energy flood through him.

It struck like ice and fire together, searing down his veins, filling his chest with something raw and untamed. His breath hitched, his vision narrowing. Every muscle trembled, torn between exhilaration and collapse. The air seemed heavier, the shadows longer, as if the world itself recoiled from the energy he pulled inside.

A warning burned in the depths of the system: Power consumes. Power demands.

Arjun forced himself to release the flow. The darkness receded, leaving him breathless, sweat dripping down his temples. His hands shook violently, his limbs hollowed by exhaustion. Yet beneath the fatigue, he felt it—the faint spark of strength now nestled within him.

Thrilling. Terrifying. Necessary.

By the time twilight stretched across the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and violet, Arjun had returned to the hut. Inside, Anaya already slept, her small frame curled under a thin blanket, her breaths slow and even.

Arjun knelt beside her, exhaustion dragging at his body but clarity burning in his mind. The day had taught him much: survival was a balance between prudence and boldness, between the patient gathering of coin and the perilous lure of power.

He clenched his fists, steadying his breath. “I’ll wield it,” he whispered, more to himself than to the room. “Both the trade and the darkness. For her, I’ll make them mine.”

The oil lamp flickered, its flame bowing low before rising again, shadows swaying like silent sentinels across the walls. Arjun watched until his eyes grew heavy, his vow etched as deeply into him as the strange power now coiled in his veins.

The hut was quiet save for the steady crackle of the oil lamp. Shadows danced along the walls, their shifting shapes wrapping Arjun in a cocoon of flickering half-light. He sat cross-legged on the earthen floor, his palms resting on his knees, breathing slow and deliberate. Before him, the Dominic System’s orb hovered, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat, symbols streaming in fluid motion across its surface.

Tonight, he would not think of the market. He would not count coins or measure dwindling supplies. Tonight, he would peer into the structure of power itself.

The System’s voice emerged within him—calm, resonant, impossible to ignore.

"The path of cultivation is divided into five realms. You now stand at the threshold of the first: the Fighter Realm."

The words carried a weight that pressed against Arjun’s chest. He leaned forward, intent, as new glyphs unfurled before his eyes.

"The Fighter Realm governs the body. Its purpose is to strengthen, refine, and harden the vessel so it may carry and channel Ūrjā—the vital energy that sustains all life. There are nine levels within this realm, each divided further into three sub-levels. To ascend each stage is to unlock new thresholds of strength, endurance, and control."

Nine levels. Twenty-seven steps. Arjun felt the enormity of it, the climb that stretched before him like a mountain shrouded in storm.

The orb brightened, and a faint warmth slid through his limbs. His breath caught as Ūrjā stirred, threading through his muscles like sparks racing along dry tinder. His body tensed, every sinew alive, pulsing with a power both alien and intoxicating.

But the sensation shifted quickly—heat giving way to strain, as if his body were both conduit and barrier. Sweat prickled his brow. His teeth clenched as his veins throbbed, resisting the flow. The pressure was sharp, merciless, and he realized with clarity what the System meant: this realm was not about wielding energy. It was about surviving it.

Most cultivators, the System explained, sought to expand their energy reserves above all else. They built vast pools of Ūrjā, striving always to outmatch their rivals in quantity.

"Your path is different," the voice intoned, low and steady. "The Pure Demonic Path does not rush to accumulate. It perfects the vessel first. Every fiber, every bone, every breath becomes harmonized with energy until the body wastes nothing. Where others exhaust themselves in minutes, you will endure. Where they leak strength, you will channel every drop."

Arjun’s breath came ragged, but a smile tugged faintly at the corner of his lips. He understood. His path was not one of abundance, but of efficiency—lean, precise, unyielding.

And in this harsh world, wasn’t that exactly what he needed?

He thought of the bronze coins hidden in his pouch, barely enough to keep them fed. He thought of merchants haggling over candles, ink, bread—resources he could never afford in endless supply. A cultivation method that consumed little, that prized refinement over excess, was not just unusual. It was a gift.

His chest ached as the Ūrjā surged again, testing him. His arms trembled, legs stiffened, lungs straining as though bound by invisible cords. He bit down against the pain and focused on his breath: inhale, slow and steady; exhale, measured and calm. Gradually, the wild rhythm inside him softened. The energy’s turbulence eased, settling into a faint hum that resonated with the beating of his heart.

Arjun opened his eyes. The room swam for a moment, then sharpened into clarity. His body was exhausted—sweat dampened his tunic, muscles quivering with fatigue—but beneath the weariness lay something new. A faint resilience, a steadiness in his core he had not felt before.

The System’s orb dimmed, as if satisfied.

"This is the beginning," it said. "The Fighter Realm demands patience. It shapes the vessel, not with leaps, but with endurance. With each level you master, your body will align more closely with Ūrjā until you no longer resist its flow—you embody it."

Arjun let the words settle in him like stone foundations. He did not yet wield great strength, nor dazzling techniques. But he had taken the first step toward shaping his body into a vessel worthy of survival.

He glanced toward the corner where Anaya lay asleep, her form curled beneath a thin blanket, her small hand clutching its edge. The faint glow of the System washed over her face, and Arjun felt the weight of his choices more keenly than ever. This realm was not just training—it was survival, for both of them.

Others might cultivate for glory, for status, for the right to look down upon weaker men. Arjun’s reason was simpler, fiercer. He would endure so she would never go hungry. He would master his body so no hand could drag her away. He would embrace the darkness of his path, if that darkness meant protection.

The oil lamp sputtered. Shadows lengthened, stretching over the walls like watchful sentinels. Arjun straightened his back, despite the ache in his muscles, and closed his eyes once more.

The Fighter Realm was vast, but he had already felt its current. He had tasted the strain, and he had not broken.

“Step by step,” he whispered to himself. “I’ll master it. For her.”

The orb pulsed once, as though in agreement, before fading into the night.

Outside, the storm clouds gathered, thunder rumbling faintly on the horizon. But inside the hut, a steadier rhythm held—the quiet, unshakable resolve of a brother who had chosen his path.