Night draped itself over the Alostrio estate like a silken shroud. The chatter of servants had faded, the echoes of clashing blades from the training grounds had long gone silent, and the candlelit corridors now breathed only with shadows. The world slumbered.
But within that stillness, one soul refused to rest.
Ryner lay in his crib, his body the fragile shell of an infant, yet behind those half-lidded eyes, his consciousness wandered far deeper than any mortal dream. Within the abyss of his inner world, a figure emerged. He was tall, elegant, and impossibly refined—his posture straight as an unyielding blade, his movements flowing like poetry. His every step carried an aura that demanded reverence. His name was one that echoed in the marrow of fate itself:
**Lucas CROWN Fontaine.**
A man who had once bent empires to his will with nothing but charm and pressure. A man so steeped in grace that even the heavens begrudgingly acknowledged his authority. The true embodiment of the Crown lineage's nobility.
"Ryner," Lucas spoke, his tone a soft murmur, yet it reverberated through the void with the weight of inevitability. "Do you know what sets you apart from the rabble who call themselves cultivators?"
Ryner's infant lips did not move, but within the sanctity of his consciousness, his voice was steady. "They divide their strength. They cut themselves into pieces. Mana, aura, life force—they separate what should be whole."
Lucas's eyes glimmered with approval. He flicked his wrist, and from the emptiness of the void, a single thread of golden light unfurled. It shimmered and bent, twisting into a lattice of runes so intricate that their geometry seemed to mock logic itself. With each movement, the patterns grew denser, weaving like destiny's own loom.
"Exactly. They are like beggars fighting over crumbs at the banquet of existence. They chase mastery in fragments, forgetting that division is weakness. But you…" He extended his hand, the golden runes pulsing like a second heartbeat. "…you are a Crown. Your bloodline rejects division. Your destiny does not permit it."
Ryner watched, transfixed. "Then what path do you offer me?"
Lucas's smile was faint, aristocratic, untouchable. "The **Destiny Vessel Sutra**. A cultivation technique that abandons all separation. Where others treat the body as a cage, you will turn it into a **vessel**. A vessel for mana. A vessel for aura. A vessel for life force itself. All at once. No longer fragments, but a unity. A totality."
Ryner's breath hitched, though his infant chest barely rose. "One body holding all forces?"
Lucas's head inclined gracefully. "Yes. The body becomes the spell, the sword, and the eternal flame of life. You will not channel power—you will *become* power. Know this, child: your path will begin in shadows. You will grow slower than others, for the vessel must be forged with patience. But when it blooms…" His voice sharpened, carrying the elegance of inevitability. "…not even the heavens will dare restrain you."
With a single motion, Lucas pressed his hand forward. The golden lattice dissolved into motes of light, flowing into Ryner's soul. At once, his inner world trembled. Runes burned across the surface of his spirit, etching themselves into his being. His consciousness reeled, his soul convulsed, and the weight of a thousand destinies pressed into his fragile frame.
His baby body twitched in the crib, his tiny fists curling as veins glowed faintly beneath his skin. Multicolored radiance seeped through him—threads of blue, red, and gold coiling like serpents through his vessels.
The **Destiny Vessel Sutra** had taken root.
---
That night, Ryner began his cultivation in earnest.
He inhaled—softly, shallowly, like any other infant might. But within, the act carried an entirely different meaning. Air was no longer air. Each breath drew in the world's essence: mana from the drifting stars, aura from the restless earth, life force from the very pulse of existence itself.
They did not come as streams. They did not come as fragments. They came as a flood.
His body convulsed. Mana surged into his blood, crackling like lightning through his veins. Aura hammered against his bones, forging them in invisible fire. Life force swelled against his cells, threatening to burst them apart. For a moment, his fragile frame seemed ready to collapse, to shatter under the weight of what he dared to contain.
*Pain. Too much. This vessel… it's breaking.*
Every nerve seared. Every breath burned. His heart thundered with the ferocity of a war drum, pounding against the cage of his chest. His vision blurred within his own consciousness, the void shaking with instability.
But Ryner did not yield.
*I died once already. Poison rotted my core, betrayal destroyed my path. I will not fail again. I will not crawl. I will climb.*
He clenched his will, holding the storm within his infant body. Slowly—agonizingly—the flood began to settle. Instead of tearing him apart, the forces began to meld. Mana threaded into blood. Aura fused with bone. Life force seeped into muscle and cell. Each element reinforced the other, knitting together in harmony rather than discord.
The pain dulled, replaced by an overwhelming pressure—heavy, but steady. His body trembled like a bowstring drawn to its limit, yet did not snap.
When the first cycle ended, Ryner's body collapsed back into the softness of his crib. His skin was clammy, drenched in sweat. His breaths came ragged and shallow. Yet beneath that exhaustion, a faint glow radiated from within him, unseen by mortal eyes.
He was no longer ordinary.
---
In the void of his inner world, Lucas's figure watched with composed serenity. His voice echoed, cool and elegant.
"Well done, Ryner. The first step is always the hardest. Do not be deceived by the slowness of your growth. A river carves stone not in moments, but through persistence. And you are not a river—you are a Crown. Your vessel will not bend to heaven's decree. Continue this path, and soon you will not wield power. You will **become power.**"
Ryner's lips curved into the faintest of smirks, a shadow of the man he once was, though on the surface it was hidden by the guise of infantile twitching.
*This time, I will not crawl in the mud. This time, I will climb the heavens.*
---
### **Days Turn Into Weeks**
The following nights unfolded with repetition, discipline hidden beneath innocence. While others slept, Ryner cultivated. Each breath pulled in the trifecta of essence, each cycle stretched the capacity of his body. Slowly, his vessel expanded, adapting to the impossible task of unity.
The pain never faded. Each session left him trembling, his bones aching, his muscles sore. But with every completed cycle, his strength grew. His once fragile body grew more resilient, his skin firmer, his senses keener. By the end of the first month, his eyes—though still baby-soft—carried a clarity unnatural for his age.
Alia, his mother, noticed only fragments. "You're growing so fast, Ryner," she whispered with tender joy, rocking him to sleep. She mistook his sharp gazes as curiosity, his unusual steadiness as simple vigor. She never suspected the storms brewing beneath his skin.
Others, however, occasionally glanced twice. A maid muttered that the child seemed too quiet, too aware. The third wife sneered that Alia's son looked at people as though he judged them. Hannas, Ryner's father, remained indifferent, dismissing such whispers as nonsense.
Good. That was exactly how Ryner wanted it.
*Let them think me harmless. Let them think me slow. The longer they dismiss me, the sharper my blade will be when it pierces their throats.*
---
### **The Sutra's Burden**
Yet the path of the Destiny Vessel Sutra was not without peril.
Some nights, the energy he drew in threatened to tear him apart. Mana flared uncontrollably, scorching his nerves. Aura clashed within his bones, grinding marrow against marrow. Life force swelled too rapidly, nearly suffocating him from within. More than once, his body convulsed so violently that Alia rushed to his crib, panicked that her child was fevered.
Each time, Ryner buried the pain, forcing his body to stabilize before she could suspect the truth. He would soften his cries, slacken his limbs, and pretend to be nothing more than an ordinary child. Only when she left did he resume, teeth gritted in silent determination.
*If this vessel breaks, I die again. But if it holds… I ascend.*
---
### **Whispers in the Void**
Occasionally, Lucas would return. His visits were never frequent, for even within Ryner's consciousness, the man carried the air of scarcity—like a sovereign whose presence was a privilege.
He offered advice in fragments, riddles wrapped in elegance.
"Remember, Ryner. The vessel is not merely your body. It is your will. Should your spirit fracture, no amount of power will sustain you."
Or: "Patience is a Crown's sharpest blade. Strike too early, and you blunt your edge before it tastes blood."
Each time, Ryner absorbed the words, etching them into his heart. Though Lucas offered no affection, his guidance was undeniable—refined, precise, and unforgiving. In him, Ryner saw not a mentor, but a mirror of the man he sought to become: untouchable, inevitable.
---
### **The Crown's Vessel**
One night, months into his secret cultivation, Ryner completed his thirtieth cycle. His body shuddered, his veins glowing brighter than ever before. The three forces—mana, aura, and life force—merged seamlessly, flowing together like rivers into an ocean. His heart pulsed with a rhythm not of mortality, but of destiny itself.
In that moment, Ryner understood.
He was no longer merely practicing a technique. He was embodying it. His body was no longer flesh alone—it was spell, it was sword, it was flame. His very being had become the vessel.
From his crib, he released a breath. It carried no sound, no visible force. Yet in the void of his inner world, Lucas's voice resonated once more.
"Well done, Ryner. The Crown's Vessel has been born."
Ryner opened his infant eyes. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips.
*This time… I won't crawl in the mud. This time, I'll climb the heavens.*
---
**(Chapter End)**