The Invincible Young Master

The princess's voice cut through the quiet moment, her tone steady and defiant.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't believe in any of it. I refuse to. Fate and karma are excuses the weak use to explain why they can't change their lives. Everything can be bent with enough power."

The old man looked at her, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, but he did not argue. Instead, he shrugged and murmured, "To each their own."

Leaning back, he let the conversation settle into a lull, as if letting her words sink into the air.

Listening to their conversation, Zarak could see the princess was more than just a royal with titles and luxuries. Her tone carried ambition, a drive to shape her own destiny rather than submit to some unchangeable fate.

He could sense that her spirit would not be confined by abstract concepts like fate. Each word she spoke was sharp, unyielding.

As the carriage rolled on, silence filled the space. Only the sound of air swooshing cut through the quiet, lulling them into a sort of contemplative calm.

Then, after some time, Zarak leaned forward, breaking the silence.

"Princess," he said, "if you can't use the imperial army to go after those dark-robed attackers, why not place a bounty on their heads?"

She looked at him, curiosity sparking in her gaze. "A bounty?"

"Yes," Zarak replied,

He recalled things he had seen during his travels. There were guilds in each city, and there were bounty hunters and mercenaries who took on these types of jobs.

If one offered a reward, something substantial, one could draw out people skilled enough to deal with the task.

The princess's expression turned thoughtful as she considered his suggestion. Slowly, a small smile tugged at her lips.

"That's… an interesting idea," she admitted. "A bounty could bring the right kind of people. It might even be enough to lure out skilled fighters who know how to handle them."

They continued chatting as the carriage sped along the road. Zarak's questions about the capital seemed endless, and the princess answered each one with care, her words painting vivid pictures of the grand city, its towering walls, bustling marketplaces, magnificent temples, and the intricately constructed paths leading to hidden places only the locals knew about.

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The conversation flowed easily between them, each sharing glimpses of their knowledge and curiosity, though Zarak could tell the princess chose her words with care, like she was guarding secrets.

He respected that restraint; she had an air about her that suggested wisdom beyond her years, a quality he found strangely comforting.

Finally, the carriage slowed to a halt, and a guard's voice called from outside, "Madame Emissary, we've arrived at the designated location."

The princess turned to Zarak and the old man, a gentle smile softening her face.

"It's time for us to part ways," she said, her tone formal but carrying a warmth that suggested gratitude.

Zarak nodded and stood up, preparing to leave the carriage. But before he could step out, the princess spoke again.

"Do you need any financial aid?" she asked, her eyes sincere. Princess knew since Zarak came from the mountains, he might not have anything on him. Giving him some aid might make it easier to navigate the capital.

Zarak shook his head, smiling politely. "Thank you, Princess, but my master entrusted me with his savings before I left. I can access them from the bank anytime."

The princess nodded, a flicker of respect in her gaze. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small medallion etched with a delicate lotus symbol.

"You've helped me," she said, holding it out to him. "Consider this a token of my gratitude. It may come in handy one day."

Zarak took the medallion, feeling its cool surface against his fingers. He studied the intricate lotus symbol for a moment, then tucked it safely into his sleeve. "Thank you, Princess."

Outside the carriage, Zarak took a deep breath, taking in the sight of their surroundings.

They had stopped near the edge of a thick forest, and in the distance, he could see the towering walls of the capital stretching high, a formidable barrier against the horizon.

The city appeared like a fortress, its stone walls gleaming faintly under the setting sun.

The emissary stepped forward, her voice carrying a tone of instruction as she pointed toward a narrow trail leading off to the east.

"For security reasons, the princess will proceed through a concealed path. It will ensure her safety within the capital walls." She gestured down the trail, marking the direction Zarak should take on his own journey.

With a final nod, the princess and her entourage turned onto the hidden path, disappearing among the trees, leaving Zarak and the old man standing at the edge of the forest.

He adjusted his attire, casting one last look at the receding carriage, before setting his sights on the distant gates of the capital, the medallion from the princess tucked securely in his sleeve.

As he moved toward the capital, Zarak took a steadying breath, gathering his thoughts.

The princess had left a strong impression on him, a leader with conviction, refusing to bow to fate or the limits others might set for her.

He admired that strength, that refusal to accept the constraints of destiny. Her spirit echoed in his own thoughts, strengthening his resolve to keep moving forward.

"Looks like it's just us again," he murmured to the old man, who was now pacing slowly by his side, seeming lost in his thoughts.

But the old man didn't answer.

Curious, Zarak turned to see the old man hunched over a sheet of paper, his pen moving swiftly across it. The words forming on the page caught his eye:

Part I - After his doomed fate was changed, he walked a path different from what he was destined to, and all was uncertain. To continue his search for that one, he journeyed toward the capital. In a fated encounter, the holy disciple Zarak saved the princess from her assailants, and they forged a bond of karma together.

Reading over his shoulder, Zarak raised an eyebrow. "What is this about?"

The old man glanced up with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Did you forget? I write my own stories."

"So," Zarak said, folding his arms, "I'm part of your story now?"

The old man chuckled, slipping the pen and paper back into his bag.

"Perhaps you're interesting enough to be written into my book." With a wry smile, he closed his bag, patting it as if sealing away a secret.

Zarak laughed lightly, shaking his head as they continued walking toward the city wall, side by side.

…

Meanwhile, far from the peaceful road leading to the capital, a different scene unfolded in a dimly lit chamber.

Shadows twisted around a single flickering candle, casting an eerie glow on the stone walls lined with ancient symbols and arcane carvings.

The symbols, barely visible in the faint light, spiraled across the floor and walls in intricate patterns, each one filled with otherworldly energy.

Suddenly, the carvings pulsed to life, their glow shifting from a dull shimmer to a sharp, fiery radiance.

A cloaked figure appeared from thin air, collapsing onto the cold stone floor beside the candle.

Blood trickled from his mouth, pooling in dark streaks on the ground.

For a moment, he lay motionless, as still as a corpse, until, impossibly, his eyes snapped open.

The blood that had pooled beneath him began to retreat, like time was reversing itself, slipping back into his veins.

The figure rose slowly, pressing a hand to his chest as if checking for a heartbeat.

His eyes darted around the chamber, fear flashing across his face before he managed to calm his breathing.

"Master," he muttered, his voice barely audible, echoing softly in the empty chamber. "What… what was that skill?"

Though the room was empty, a voice resonated in his mind, deep and commanding, heard by him alone.

"That is a secret art from the immortal realm—the lost art of the Soul Reaper King."

The cloaked figure clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing under his hood. "But why couldn't I sense it coming?"

A pause, and then the voice continued, calm and steady.

"It's not a physical attack, nor does it rely on spiritual energy. It strikes at the soul itself."

The figure's face darkened, a flicker of dread tightening his expression. "If it attacks the soul directly, how can anyone hope to fight against it?"

"There are limits,"

the voice replied.

"This technique cannot harm a soul stronger than the caster's. It also fails against those with soul-protecting artifacts. It only affected you because you've only fused half of your soul with the dark one. Once the fusion is complete, such attacks will have no effect on you."

The figure's gaze turned cold, a dark, intense resolve burning in his eyes. "Zarak… don't let me see you again."

With that, the carvings on the floor lit up once more, bathing the chamber in an intense, spectral glow.

Then, in a sudden flash, the cloaked figure vanished, leaving the room in near darkness. The candle flickered weakly, its flame reduced to a faint, lingering glow as the symbols faded into silence once again.