Amrit's smile was a foreign thing on his face. For fifteen years, his expressions had been a limited palette of weary resignation, quiet pain, and the polite, vacant look of a prince who knew he was a disappointment. This new smile—sharp, intelligent, and lit by a fire that had no business being in the eyes of the frail third prince—was the most shocking thing Vaidya Bhaskar had seen all day, even more so than the miracle of his recovery.
"A miracle?" Amrit repeated, his voice clear and steady, devoid of the rasp that had been its constant companion. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool, polished stone of the floor. The sensation was electric. He had not stood unaided in months. The simple act felt like a victory. "Perhaps. Or perhaps, Physician, when one stares into the abyss long enough, one learns a thing or two."
Vaidya Bhaskar blinked, struggling to process the cryptic words. The boy before him was Amrit in form, but the presence he exuded was entirely different. The timid, inward-looking prince had vanished, replaced by someone with a core of tempered steel. "Your Highness, I don't understand. Your meridians… I have studied them my entire life. They were like shattered glass. Now… now they possess an integrity I have only read about in ancient texts describing the Sages. The Prana in your dantian is small, but it is purer than the King's! How?"
Amrit knew this was the first test. His secret was his life. The [Infinite Crit System] was a power so reality-defying that revealing it would likely get him dissected by a curious god or declared a demon in disguise. He needed a plausible, if miraculous, narrative.
He took a deep breath, feeling the air circulate through his body, a perfect, frictionless loop. He looked at the physician, his gaze steady. "I was dying, Vaidya. I felt the last spark of my divine fire guttering out. In that moment, something… broke. All the pain, all the despair of the last fifteen years, it coalesced. I let go of my fight to live, and instead focused entirely on a single breath, just as the Lotus Compendium teaches. I poured my entire will, my entire existence, into that one action." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "It seems the world answered."
It was the truth, twisted just enough to be palatable. A near-death epiphany. A moment of enlightenment born from absolute despair. It was rare, unheard of even, but it existed within the realm of this world's mysticism. It was a far more believable explanation than a floating blue text box in his mind.
Vaidya Bhaskar's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding—and awe—dawning within them. "A moment of Wu… of profound insight? To achieve enlightenment on the precipice of death… Your Highness, that is the stuff of legends!" The physician's professional skepticism crumbled under the weight of a potential spiritual epic. He bowed deeply, his voice thick with emotion. "This old servant congratulates His Highness on his rebirth! The heavens have not abandoned Kshirapura!"
Amrit gave a slight nod, accepting the man's interpretation. "Keep this between us for now, Vaidya. Let the court think it was your unparalleled skill in medicine that saved me. A sudden miracle will attract too much unwanted attention."
The physician's chest puffed with pride at the thought, even as he recognized the prince's wisdom. "Of course, Your Highness. As you command."
"Now," Amrit said, his tone shifting. "Help me dress. I have been confined to this room for too long. I wish to see the sun."
The news of the third prince's recovery spread through the palace like wildfire, though it was carefully curated. The official story was that Vaidya Bhaskar, in a stroke of genius, had concocted a new divine tincture that had, against all odds, stabilized the prince's condition. Most heard the news with a passing sense of relief; a royal death was always a gloomy affair. None truly believed it would last. The frail prince had had good days before, fleeting moments of vitality that were always crushed by a subsequent decline. This was likely just another one.
Dressed in simple white silk robes, Amrit stepped out of his chambers. The hallway, once a vast and insurmountable distance, now felt small. The two guards stationed outside his door, who were usually little more than living statues to him, straightened up, their eyes widening in surprise as he emerged on his own two feet.
They bowed hastily. "Your Highness."
Amrit merely nodded, but as he did, an idea sparked in his mind. The system works on any action. What about observation? He focused his intent, his gaze falling upon the guard on the right.
A line of ethereal blue text, invisible to all but him, materialized.
[Basic Action: Observation performed.]
[Target: Palace Guard, Hiran.]
[Status: Body Tempering Realm, Third Stage. Prana flow is sluggish. Minor internal injury in the left shoulder from improper spear-thrust technique. Lifespan potential: 80 years.]
Amrit's eyes widened slightly. The sheer volume of information was staggering. He didn't just see the guard; he understood him on a fundamental level. He could perceive the flow of energy in the man's body, pinpoint his weaknesses, and even glimpse a thread of his fate. This was more than a cheat; it was a god's-eye view.
He shifted his gaze to the ornate carvings on the wall.
[Basic Action: Analysis performed.]
[Object: Sandalwood Wall Panel.]
[Quality: Master-crafted. Carved from 300-year-old Red Sandalwood. The carving depicts the 'Descent of the Sky-God Indra.' Contains a trace amount of ambient Prana.]
[Crit Chance detected…]
[…No Crit triggered.]
So it wouldn't crit every time. The system had said the probability was higher for fundamental and practiced actions. Observation was new to him. Still, the baseline information was a superpower in itself. He felt like a man who had been colorblind his entire life who could suddenly see the full spectrum of reality. The world wasn't just matter; it was a tapestry of energy, information, and potential.
He walked. Each step was a revelation. He felt the muscles in his legs contract and release, the perfect balance of his body, the gentle hum of Prana in his dantian. He walked past servants who stopped and stared, their mouths agape. They saw the sickly prince, the boy who could barely make it to the gardens without a litter, walking with a straight back and a steady gait. Their whispers followed him like the rustling of leaves.
"Is that… Prince Amrit?"
"He's walking on his own."
"He looks… different."
He ignored them. Their opinions were echoes of a past he was already leaving behind. He made his way to the eastern balcony, a place he hadn't visited in years. The morning sun was bright, casting long shadows across the grand palace courtyard below.
From this vantage point, he could see the heart of Kshirapura's royal power. Below, knights were training, their armor glinting. Their shouts were crisp, their movements powerful. He could see the flow of Prana as they executed their techniques—crude, forceful bursts of energy. A month ago, he would have felt a bitter pang of envy. Now, he only felt a detached sense of analysis. He could see the flaws in their stances, the wasted energy in their swings.
If I were to train in the sword… what would happen? A thrill ran through him at the thought. A [10,000x Crit] on a sword swing? He could probably split the sky.
But he suppressed the urge. Haste was the enemy of a solid foundation. He was weak. His pool of Prana was minuscule, even if it was pure. His body was healthy but untrained. He was a man with an ultimate weapon but the strength of a child. He needed to build himself up, brick by brick, crit by crit.
"So, the little ghost decided to leave his crypt."
The voice was sharp and laced with derision. It cut through the morning air, instantly souring the moment. Amrit didn't need to turn to know who it was. He felt a presence behind him, an aura of arrogant vitality and bubbling Prana that was both strong and, to his new senses, surprisingly coarse.
He turned slowly. Standing there was his eldest brother, Crown Prince Arjun. Arjun was everything Amrit wasn't. Tall, handsome, with the powerful build of a dedicated cultivator and the easy confidence of a man who had never known failure. He was the pride of Kshirapura, a prodigy who had reached the peak of the Body Tempering Realm at only twenty years of age. He was dressed in immaculate training gear, a fine-bladed sword strapped to his back.
Arjun's eyes swept over Amrit, a sneer playing on his lips. "I heard Vaidya worked another one of his 'miracles.' How long will this one last? A day? Two? Don't get your hopes up. A cracked vase is still a cracked vase, no matter how much you polish it."
The Amrit of yesterday would have flinched. He would have lowered his gaze, murmured an apology for being in the way, and retreated to his room.
The Amrit of today simply watched him, his mind calm as a placid lake.
[Basic Action: Observation performed.]
[Target: Arjun, Crown Prince of Kshirapura.]
[Status: Peak Body Tempering Realm. Prana flow is stable but impure, tainted by excessive use of stimulating pills. Sword intent is nascent and unfocused, valuing aggression over technique. Hidden weakness in the third rib due to a past sparring injury. Lifespan potential: 150 years, reduced by alchemical impurities.]
The information laid Arjun bare. The proud, invincible Crown Prince was, in Amrit's eyes, a collection of flaws. His power was a brute-force instrument, not a finely-honed tool.
"Brother," Amrit said, his voice even. "It is a fine morning. I am glad I could be out to see it."
Arjun's sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation. He had expected weakness, a cowering response. He had not expected this placid calm. It was like punching water. "Still playing the poet? Your health may have improved, but you are still useless. The selection for the Sky-Piercing Academy is in three months. Geniuses from a hundred kingdoms will be there. Our kingdom's honor will be represented by myself and our brother, Bhim. You will remain here, in your room, where you can't embarrass Father."
The Sky-Piercing Academy. The name resonated with Amrit. It was the premier institution in this part of the continent, a place where true power was forged. It was a path to greatness. Arjun was right; it was a place Amrit could never have dreamed of going.
Until now.
"Perhaps," Amrit said, a noncommittal reply that only served to further annoy his brother.
"Perhaps?" Arjun laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "There is no 'perhaps' for you. You are a cripple. A stain. Father keeps you around out of pity, nothing more. Remember your place."
With that final jab, Arjun brushed past him, his shoulder deliberately knocking into Amrit's. It was a casual act of bullying, something he had done countless times before. He expected Amrit to stumble, to gasp in pain.
Amrit didn't move an inch. He stood rooted to the spot, as solid as an ancient oak. The small pool of pure Prana in his dantian had instinctively circulated, reinforcing his frame in a way that Arjun, for all his power, could not comprehend. It was like a stream of water meeting a block of granite.
Arjun stopped, turning back with a look of genuine surprise. He stared at Amrit, who was still looking out at the courtyard, his expression unchanged. For the first time, Arjun felt a flicker of something other than contempt. It was confusion. The brother he knew was as fragile as glass. This person was… different. Shaking his head, he scoffed and strode away, dismissing it as a fluke.
Amrit watched him go, his calm exterior hiding a mind that was working furiously. His brother, his family… they were part of the destiny he was supposed to fulfill. The forgotten prince, scorned by his powerful siblings. To them, he was a fixed point of failure in their glorious lives.
A summons came an hour later. His Majesty, King Vikram, wished to see him in the throne room.
The throne room of Kshirapura was designed to inspire awe. Polished marble floors reflected the light from high, arched windows. Banners depicting the royal sigil—a silver lion—hung from the walls. At the far end, upon a raised dais, sat the throne of milk-white jade.
King Vikram sat upon it, a man in his middle years who carried the weight of his kingdom in the lines on his face. He was a cultivator of the Spirit Sea Realm, a powerful figure in this small kingdom, but a minor player on the world stage. He looked down at Amrit, his expression unreadable. Standing beside the throne was Arjun, his arms crossed, a smug look on his face. His other brother, the second prince Bhim—a bulky, silent youth of eighteen—stood on the other side.
"Amrit," the King's voice boomed, echoing slightly in the vast hall. "Vaidya Bhaskar informs me of a… remarkable recovery. He attributes it to his own humble efforts, but his report hints at something more."
Amrit knelt on one knee, as was custom. "Father. I am grateful for the physician's care. He has done the impossible." He kept his explanation simple, sticking to the established narrative.
The King's eyes, sharp and discerning, studied him. "Stand up. Come closer."
Amrit rose and walked forward, his steps measured. He stopped at the foot of the dais. The combined pressure of three cultivators—one in the Spirit Sea Realm, two in the Body Tempering Realm—washed over him. It was a test. They wanted to see if he would buckle.
He stood his ground, his pure Prana a silent, unbreachable shield around his spirit.
King Vikram's eyebrow twitched. "You seem… well." It was a grudging admission.
"I am, Father."
Arjun chose that moment to interject. "Father, it is a temporary fluke. A dying candle burning brightest before it is extinguished. We should not be distracted by such things. The stability of the kingdom and our reputation at the Academy are what matter."
The King silenced him with a raised hand, his gaze still locked on Amrit. "Your meridians. The physician claims they are healed. Flawlessly so. Allow me to see for myself."
Before Amrit could react, the King extended a hand. A stream of royal-blue Prana, far more potent than Arjun's, shot out and enveloped Amrit's arm. It was an invasive probe, a common way for a senior to assess a junior's cultivation.
Amrit felt the King's energy enter his body. It was powerful, immense, like a great river flowing into a small pond. But as it swept through his meridians, he felt no discomfort. His newly fortified channels were like polished crystal, perfectly accommodating the flow.
On the throne, the King's impassive mask finally cracked. His eyes went wide with shock. He felt it. The impossible purity. The flawless structure. The meridians were not just healed; they were perfect. They were the kind of legendary channels that could lead to godhood. How could they belong to his cursed, useless son?
He withdrew his Prana, his mind reeling. He saw Amrit not as a son, but as an unknown variable. A sudden, inexplicable asset. Or perhaps, a threat.
"It is true," the King said, his voice a low whisper. He looked at Amrit with a new, calculating light. The pity was gone, replaced by a complex mixture of shock, suspicion, and a dawning, dangerous ambition. "You are healed."
Amrit met his father's gaze. "Yes."
"What does this mean?" the King asked, more to himself than to anyone else.
"It means nothing, Father!" Arjun insisted, his voice rising. "He has no foundation! No training! He's fifteen! Bhim and I have been cultivating since we were five! He is a blank slate, and it is too late to write anything on it!"
"Silence, Arjun!" the King commanded. He looked down at Amrit, his mind clearly working through political and strategic calculations. "Amrit. You have the vessel. But do you have the will? Can you cultivate?"
This was the moment. The crossroads. He could retreat, promise to remain quiet, and cultivate in secret. Or he could claim his place.
"I can," Amrit said, his voice ringing with a confidence that stunned the entire room into silence.
A slow, dangerous smile crept onto the King's face. The frail prince was gone. In his place was… something else. Something that might just be useful.
"Good," the King said. "Then you will begin your training at once. The kingdom will provide you with every resource. You have three months. Let us see if this miracle of yours can produce another."
As Amrit walked out of the throne room, he could feel his brothers' glares boring into his back. Arjun's was filled with rage and jealousy. Bhim's was one of cold curiosity. His father's was one of pure calculation.
He was no longer the forgotten prince. He was now a contender, a curiosity, a tool to be sharpened. They had just given him access to the kingdom's resources: its techniques, its pills, its training grounds.
They thought they were giving him a chance to catch up.
They had no idea they had just handed the keys to the armory to a god.
First step, Amrit thought, his destination clear in his mind. The Royal Library. I need to read the full Lotus Breathing Compendium.
He had a feeling a [Crit] was just waiting to happen.