Deep within the Forbidden Valley, night reigned supreme.
Inside a narrow cave carved into the mountain, Siddharth sat cross-legged, prana circulating smoothly through his meridians. The air around him was calm—too calm.
Then—
The cave's entrance collapsed inward.
Stone shattered as a blade of compressed prana sliced through the darkness, aimed directly at Siddharth's neck.
He moved.
Not in panic. Not in surprise.
But with certainty.
They finally sent one.
The attacker stepped fully into the cave, face hidden beneath a black hood, aura tightly suppressed yet impossible to conceal completely.
Yogi Rank.
An assassin.
No warnings were given. No words spoken.
The man struck again, his dagger flickering with lethal precision, each movement honed for silent kills. The narrow space of the cave favored him—there was nowhere to retreat.
Siddharth didn't retreat.
He stood.
And reached into his storage ring.
The temperature of the cave dropped instantly.
A humanoid figure emerged, landing soundlessly between Siddharth and the assassin.
The assassin's pupils shrank.
The pressure—
Yogi Rank.
But different.
Cold. Mechanical. Absolute.
Before the assassin could withdraw—
The puppet moved.
There was no roar of prana. No wasted energy. No hesitation.
Its hand pierced forward.
Crack.
The assassin's heart shattered inside his chest.
The man collapsed, lifeless, his dagger clattering to the ground.
The entire exchange lasted less than three breaths.
Silence returned to the cave.
Siddharth stared at the corpse for a long moment.
"So clean…" he murmured.
The puppet stood still, awaiting orders.
Only now did Siddharth fully understand.
A cultivator hesitated.
A puppet did not.
It did not fear injury. It did not miscalculate. It did not overthink.
It executed commands with perfect obedience.
"This is dangerous," Siddharth said quietly—not with fear, but with clarity.
He waved his hand.
The puppet vanished back into the storage ring.
Siddharth destroyed the corpse with a burst of prana, leaving no trace behind.
No blood. No aura. No evidence.
Far away, in Ayodhya—
The Yadav family would soon realize that one of their Yogi-ranked experts had disappeared.
No screams were heard.
No battle was witnessed.
Only a silent loss.
And Siddharth returned to cultivation, eyes calm—
As if nothing had happened at all.
The ambush left no traces behind.
By the next day, Siddharth resumed his cultivation as if nothing had happened. Yet the Forbidden Valley felt… different. The air was heavier, the prana denser, layered with something ancient and oppressive.
He moved deeper.
Far beyond the usual hunting grounds, Siddharth noticed something strange beneath his feet. The terrain was uneven—but not naturally so.
He struck the ground lightly with his fist.
Crack.
The surface stone shattered, revealing smooth, dark rock beneath—clearly man-made.
"…Ruins," Siddharth muttered.
Clearing away debris, he uncovered a stone stairway descending underground, its edges worn by time yet still intact. Strange carvings lined the walls—symbols unlike any modern script.
The moment Siddharth stepped onto the stairs—
The storage ring trembled.
He stopped instantly.
Inside the ring, the three puppets reacted.
Without being summoned, Siddharth released them.
The two Sadhak-rank puppets emerged first, followed by the Yogi-rank puppet. All three turned their heads in the same direction—toward the stairway.
They did not move forward.
They did not await orders.
They simply stood there, motionless, as if sensing something far beyond their understanding.
"…You feel it too," Siddharth said quietly.
This was abnormal.
Puppets were tools. They should not react unless commanded.
Suppressing his unease, Siddharth descended alone.
The underground chamber was vast and ancient.
Broken pillars lay scattered across the floor, engraved with murals depicting humans standing beside colossal beasts—not fighting them, not enslaving them, but commanding them as extensions of their own will.
Flame-wreathed tigers. Mountain-sized serpents. Winged beasts blotting out the sun.
This was not summoning.
This was not contract binding.
It was something far older.
At the center of the chamber stood a fractured altar. Upon it rested a broken jade tablet, split into several incomplete sections.
The moment Siddharth looked at it, his eyes burned faintly.
Information surged into his mind.
Fragmented Scripture.
Name: Beast Emperor Scripture (Incomplete).
Siddharth's breath caught.
"Beast Emperor…"
As his fingers brushed the jade, a torrent of visions assaulted him—
An age before sects. Before structured cultivation. Before beasts were treated as mere resources.
Humans stood atop armies of monsters. Not as summoners. Not as masters.
But as emperors of beasts.
The vision shattered abruptly.
Siddharth staggered back, steadying himself.
"This scripture…" he murmured. "It's incomplete—but even a fragment is dangerous."
It hinted at a path far beyond the Beast Transformation Art.
Not strengthening the self.
But ruling bloodlines.
Behind him, the three puppets suddenly knelt.
All at once.
No command had been given.
Siddharth turned sharply.
"…So you recognize this place."
They did not speak. They did not move.
Yet the air itself hummed, and faint cracks spread across the altar, as if the ruins were reacting to his presence.
Siddharth's gaze darkened.
The Forbidden Valley. The Beast Transformation Art. The puppets. And now these ruins.
This was no coincidence.
Carefully, he stored the fragmented Beast Emperor Scripture into his storage ring.
As he ascended back to the surface, the valley felt even more silent than before.
Not empty—
But watching.
And Siddharth understood one thing clearly:
He had not merely discovered ruins.
He had stepped into the remains of an ancient legacy—
one that the world had long since buried.