Chapter 46: Night of Choices, Dawn of Trials
If you'd told my grandfather—born before the Cataclysm—that his future grandson would be gnawing on the thigh of a five-meter-tall monster bird, surrounded by a neon-lit crowd in a monster-themed fried chicken joint, he wouldn't have believed you. Yet here we were, bellies grumbling in unison, sitting at a crowded, rowdy table in MFC—Monstrous Fried Chicken. In some ways, it was one of the few "old" brands that survived the mana-fueled rebirth of India—if you could call what we ate now "chicken."
Father says when his father described the original, it was simple, a little greasy, sometimes dry. Now the "chicken" came from a beast that, before frying, was twice as tall as a rickshaw and drooled acid. But after breading and the right mana-enhanced fryers, the result was the juiciest, most flavorful meat you could find, and—thanks to monster proliferation—cheaper than even the old factory-farmed sort.
Tonight wasn't just about a meal, though. It was about escaping. About winning, proving something, and laughing together. Above the door, a battered holo-sign glowed with promise:
"MFC Challenge! Eat 20,000 calories in 20 minutes, and WIN a month of free fried chicken!"
You couldn't ask for a better offer for my newly-homeless, technically-unemployed friend.
Ross was halfway through his fourth bucket, jaw grinding; oil and monster blood sauce glinting on his chin. Each strip he managed to ram down was another surge of single-minded determination. Around us, the place was alive with electric clatter—hunters in battered gear, families huddled at corner booths, a few students with half-fried uniforms trying (and failing) to out-eat the challenge timer on the wall. It was a haven in the post-cataclysm night, all scents of spice, faint traces of disinfectant, and something primal underneath—mana, sweat, and fried protein.
I grinned at Anaya as Ross stuffed another drumstick into his mouth. "So, you're reconsidering your romantic prospects now, aren't you?" I teased.
She raised an eyebrow, not breaking eye contact as Ross struggled to swallow. "Please. If this place served bottomless biryani, you'd be the one getting your photo on the wall."
Guilty as charged. Offer free biryani to an Indian, even post-Cataclysm, and most of us would lay down our lives for that rice.
It took Ross just under twenty minutes, two nearly-disastrous trips to the restroom, and the loudest, most reluctant applause from the staff before he finally finished. The prize—a battered but beautifully holographed card promising free meals for a month—was handed over with grave solemnity, as if the MFC manager himself had lost an ancestral fortune.
Outside, the city night swallowed us—clear, air sharp from the post-monsoon chill, the sky a tangle of unfamiliar stars now seen through gaps where old pollution used to hang. Neon ads flickered across high-rises, vying with mana-lit banners and the drifting sparks of hoverscooters for attention.
We made our way to my parked car—a steel-blue sedan bought on hunter subsidy, the only luxury I let myself keep. "Learn the value of struggle," Dad had told me when I pestered him for help affording it. He probably meant it as a lesson, but sometimes I think he just liked to see me earn my scars.
Anaya climbed in back and recounted her day's training, but beneath her steady tone I caught the pride in Ross, the steady comfort she brought. I dropped her at Central Plaza, where lights glimmered on the surface of the new canals. She pressed a hand gently to Ross's shoulder before heading off, her silhouette swallowed by songlights and street vendors.
On the quiet drive back, Ross slumped beside me, hand still clutching the precious card, as if it was a shield.
"Do the Aditya idiots know how to sabotage a trial dungeon?" I asked quietly, as we slowed onto our block.
He snorted. "They think they do. My cousins will probably try—it's a throne worth killing for, apparently. But I know more guild secrets than they'll ever manage. Let 'em try. I need to stand on my own two feet."
There was a silence, not uncomfortable but heavy, haunted by too much recent history.
I broke it. "I'm attempting my trial tomorrow."
Ross blinked, genuinely surprised. "Picked so soon? Not waiting for some big cosmic sign?"
I shook my head. "Sometimes, you just… know."
He grinned, then grew serious. "Don't let the system chew you up, Vijay. Come back alive."
We parted at the curb; I watched him wander off toward his rented room, proud and alone, yet a little lighter than before.
I entered my house to the kind of silence that settles only after storms—no bratty cousin drama, no business calls, no kitchen debates over masala blends. It felt strangely somber, but peaceful—a city house that had survived too many centuries to mourn lost noise.
My legs carried me up the stairs before my mind realized what I was doing. My grandfather always said, "When you have to decide what kind of man you'll become, your feet will take you to your father's door." My heart agreed, even if my head still spun with doubt.
I paused outside his study. The door, ancient teak inlaid with fading brass, gleamed in the half-light. I hesitated, then knocked, steadying my breath.
A beat, and then Dad's voice—a rumble, warmth hidden under fatigue. "Come."
His study was a strange blend: old family ledgers, a battered government-issue laptop, low Indian stools, European-style bookshelves stuffed with scrolls and broadsheets, an entire corner set aside for a miniature temple—idols and lamps, every deity arranged with fierce reverence. The air was thick with frankincense and printer toner.
He didn't look up from his typing, but waved me over. I sat, fidgeted, let my gaze drift over the shrine. Dad's back was rigid—he only looked up when his document finished saving.
I finally said it: "I'm thinking of taking my rank-up trial tomorrow."
A slow, sly smile crept onto his lips. "You're faster than your brother, at least. Want my help choosing?"
I nodded, then shook my head. "I think I know what I want."
He studied me. "Then why are you here?"
The question sank in. I wasn't sure—maybe I wanted reassurance, or just to feel close to something immutable before setting off into the abyss.
"I… just felt like I needed to be here," I admitted, halfway out of my seat. "Maybe I wanted to know I wasn't being stupid. Or just to see what you thought before I set myself on fire again."
Dad's expression softened—just a crack, but in our house, that was like pulling back the clouds to reveal the sun. "You'll never be stupid for chasing what matters. If your trial is what I suspect, you have a chance—a real one. Maybe not much more than half, but enough." He leaned back, folding his arms. "Sometimes the only way forward is through uncertainty. Remember, it's significance and intent that draw the best trials. Trust that."
"Thanks, Dad." Simple words, but carrying everything I couldn't say.
He nodded, but as I left, a warmth lingered—a father's blessing, never spoken aloud but always present.
Upstairs, in the privacy of my room, I stood before my old mirror and pulled my shirt off, steeling myself for what came next.
There were nine small seal circles etched along each collarbone, arranged in perfect arcs, luminous with faint mana traces. These seals represented the chains binding my heritage and the legacy of the Indian pantheon. Their faint glow whispered of power still locked away.
Dominating the center of my chest was the large master seal—an intricate, shifting mandala of intertwining patterns, alive with restless energy.
Each time I broke a seal, the circle in the center of my chest flared with intense light and reshaped itself into a new symbol, representing the skill I'd acquired. The first transformed into a stylized Eye of Alignment, granting me the ability to perceive enemy attack vectors as glowing purple-gold lines. The second seal reshaped into a glowing silhouette of a human form, symbolizing a full-body enhancement skill that dramatically boosted my strength, speed, and endurance for limited durations.
The other seals remained dormant, the outlines barely visible beneath my skin but pulsing faintly, waiting for their turn.
These tattoos weren't mere decorations. They were living sigils, a pledge and a burden, bound within my flesh by ancient ritual.
I summoned my status window—a sphere of shimmering blue light—projected before me.
Status Window – Vijay Ram
Rank: 1
Soul Weapon: Ashratal
Affinity: Fire, Storm
Constellation: None
Seals Released: 2/19
Skills:
Eye of Alignment: Real-time visualization of attack trajectories, enemy weaknesses, and mana pathways as glowing lines in the environment.
Aegis Resonance (Full Body Enhancement): Temporarily enhances all physical attributes—strength, speed, resilience, and reflexes—with an intense stamina cost, suited for burst combat.
Attributes:
Strength: 84
Agility: 80
Mana: 97
Endurance: 73
Status: Healthy (mana scarring present)
Special: Sealbreaker body (unique)
Seals Remaining: 8 (left collarbone), 8 (right collarbone), 1 (center chest, active)
Broken Seals/Skills Manifested:
Eye of Alignment (eye tattoo, chest)
Aegis Resonance (human silhouette tattoo, chest)
The window flickered, prompting me:
"Ascension Trial: Initiate? Specify target: Dungeon, Soul Weapon, Wild, Artifact, or Other."
Scanning the list of nearby certified trial objects, hovering around fifteen kilometers radius, I passed through names like:
Trial of Ashratal
Trial of Goblin's Sacrifice
Trial of Orc's Feast
Trial of Verdant Sentinel's Fruit
…and many more—each a doorway to challenge and change.
But at the very bottom, marked with shimmering gold, stood the one that called to me most fiercely:
Trial of Sealbreaker
The master seal on my chest flared hotter, sparks of ancient energy racing beneath my skin.
Tomorrow was not just another trial. It was a reckoning with legacy, power, and destiny.