The Invincible Young Master

A/N: I have fixed the previous chapter duplication, you can go check it out.

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With the realm in chaos and its people suffering under his wrath, Heaven itself finally intervened.

An immortal monk descended from the skies, glowing with a light so pure it hurt to behold.

This monk was a being of peace, but also of incredible power, untouched by the darkness that had consumed the Reaper. His mission was clear: to purify the evil that had taken root.

Their clash was unlike anything the world had seen. Mountains were shattered, rivers boiled, and valleys turned to wastelands.

The very earth seemed to tremble as they fought, light and darkness locked in a struggle that lasted for days.

Finally, the monk prevailed, sealing away the Reaper's darkness, binding it deep within the cursed cube where it had all begun.

But the monk, for all his strength and wisdom, did not understand what he was dealing with.

In his boundless compassion, he tried to purify the cube, to rid it of its malevolence. He poured his divine energy into it, cleansing it, or so he thought.

But the cube held a power far older, darker than even he knew, a force that had been trapped for countless ages.

As he purified it, he accidentally unsealed that ancient darkness. The cube trembled, resisting his grasp, until finally, it shattered, releasing countless fragments that drifted out into the world, each carrying a piece of that dark essence.

"To this day," the old man said softly, "they say pieces of that darkness lie hidden in each of us, whispering in our weakest moments, waiting for the right time to take hold. Every time one of us listens, that dark power stirs, growing a little stronger, and there will be little bit more evil in the world."

As the last echo of the old man's words faded, the crowd sat in stunned silence, the chill of the story lingering long after it ended.

Some clutched themselves tightly, glancing around as if expecting shadows to leap from the edges of the dim street.

Others exchanged anxious, wordless glances, visibly unsettled by the tale's dark warning, as if they could feel the weight of those whispered temptations inside their own hearts.

But Zarak stood still, his gaze fixed on the old man. His eyes were distant, clouded with something beyond mere awe.

The story had struck a nerve, and he looked as if he was unraveling a thread within himself that he had not noticed before.

The old man's gaze settled on Zarak, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling knowingness.

"So, young one," he murmured, "beware the whispers in your heart. The darkness does not ask permission. It takes root quietly, in moments of weakness. Guard yourself… or it will take hold of you."

Zarak blinked, coming back to the present as the old man's words seemed to wrap themselves around his mind like a lingering mist.

He nodded, though he barely knew why. The story, the warning, something about it all felt intensely personal, as if the old man had looked straight into his soul.

At that moment, the last shoots of the incense had burned away, leaving only a faint, fading aroma in the cool evening air.

Slowly, the crowd began to stir, as though waking from a dream. Clarity returned to their faces, and murmurs of awe and unease rippled through them.

One by one, they approached the old man's box, dropping coins in it with solemn expressions.

The steady clinking of coins against metal brought a pleased smile to the old man's face, his eyes twinkling. He accepted each contribution with a quiet nod, his gratitude evident yet wordless, as if he knew the story had given each listener something far more valuable than words alone could convey.

Zarak continued to watch him, his expression unreadable. The story, the warning, and the old man's knowing gaze, all of it felt like a door opening to questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask.

As the last coin clinked in the box, the old man glanced back at him, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.

And though the crowd was dispersing, Zarak couldn't shake the feeling that the storyteller's warning was a message meant for him alone.

As the last of the crowd drifted away, Zarak stood with the old man under the soft glow of the streetlamps.

The air was cool, and the night had settled in with a calm that felt almost unnatural.

The old man, his back slightly hunched from age, bent down and picked up a small metal box.

He jiggled it, savoring the familiar clink of coins within, a sound that seemed to carry a strange sense of satisfaction.

With a quiet hum of contentment, he began counting the coins, his fingers moving with a careful rhythm.

"One... two... three…"

Zarak watched him, his curiosity rising. The old man's ritual was almost meditative, each coin falling back into the box with a soft, metallic sound.

He couldn't help but ask, unable to hold back the question that had been tugging at him. "Is it necessary to count?"

The old man looked up briefly, a faint, knowing smile still lingering on his lips. He didn't seem bothered by the interruption.

"Yes," he replied simply, his gaze returning to the task at hand. "They gave me these coins because they enjoyed the story. Each coin is a reminder to how many souls I've satisfied tonight."

Zarak considered the word.

Satisfied

.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the sky.

Darkness had settled fully now, and the moon hung high above, casting a pale, quiet light over the world below.

The lamps lining the streets threw their warm glow over the cobblestones, illuminating the tired faces of passersby as they shuffled home from their daily toil.

Zarak's eyes drifted over the scene. Parents guided sleepy children by the hand, vendors packed up their stalls, and travelers brushed the dust from their robes as they made their way to the inns. It was a life he rarely saw, and when he did, it seemed so distant from his own.

On the mountain, he had been isolated, his days consumed by rigorous training and the never-ending struggle to surpass his limits.

Every hour, every breath, had been devoted to a singular purpose: to grow stronger, to be more powerful than anyone else.

But now, he was in the world of mortals, and as he stood in the street, watching the simple, mundane lives unfold around him, something stirred within him.

There was an unfamiliar ache in his chest, a strange, uncomfortable feeling that chewed at him.

Back on the mountain, power had been his only measure, his only pursuit. He trained, not for the joy of it, not for satisfaction or peace, but to leave everyone else behind.

He had never once stopped to question why he sought strength, nor had he wondered what he would do once he had it.

He had assumed that power was the answer, that it was the end goal.

But now, in the quiet of the night, surrounded by these ordinary people, he felt a sudden sense of disconnection. Was this what he had been striving for?

The life of those who had no power, no desire to be stronger? Was he so different from the young ascendant in the story, driven by ambition to the point of obsession?

The story echoed in his mind, the tale of the boy consumed by his own desires, seduced by the devil in his heart.

The devil, the one who whispered in the hearts of the weak, urging them to reach for more.

He had always dismissed it, thought it was something that only others suffered from.

But now, standing in the street, watching life unfold so quietly around him, he wondered if that devil lived within him too. Perhaps it always had. Maybe that was why he was always so driven, always so hungry for power.

He realized that the boy in the story, the one who had fallen into ruin, was not just a cautionary story, it was also a reflection of his own struggles.

The whispers, the hunger, the need to be the strongest, Zarak felt it all.

They had been inside him, in some form or another, since he had first taken that step toward ascension.

The devil had been there from the beginning, quietly urging him to continue, pushing him to take the next step, to reach for more. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to question:

What would happen when he reached the top? What if there was nothing there but the same emptiness that had always been?

Lost in his thoughts, Zarak did not notice the old man's gaze on him until their eyes met.

The old man's eyes seemed to see through him, as if he had read the turmoil in Zarak's heart without a word spoken.

After a long pause, the storyteller spoke, his voice carrying a quiet weight.

"Remember, lad," the old man murmured, his tone soft but heavy with meaning. "Ambition can be the light that guides you or the shadow that devours you. It all depends on how tightly you hold its reins."