The humid air of the Prasat Vidyadhara examination hall hung heavy, thick with the scent of damp paper and nervous sweat. Outside, the vast banyan tree that cradled the training sanctuary sighed in a lazy breeze, its colossal aerial roots dangling like petrified serpents. Inside, Takhon was asleep. His head rested precariously on a stack of unblemished parchment, an ink-stained, intricately carved cylinder of wood – usually serving as a makeshift table leg – propped against his knee. The soft glow of the sun, filtering through the high, open arches of the hall, warmed his face, making the faint scar tracing his left brow seem almost benign. He’d barely stirred when Ajarn Somchai, a man whose patience was as thin as his wispy beard, had called the exam to order, nor when the scraping of quills had begun. Let them scrawl their theories on lotus-root alchemy or the geomancy of monsoon currents. Takhon preferred the geomancy of a good nap. Whispers, like tiny, agitated dragonflies, flitted around the hall. “Look at him. The Incompetent of the Cloud Peak.” “Still sleeping through the Root-Testing? No wonder his core channels are withered.” He’d heard it all before. His energy meridians, supposedly twisted and useless since birth, were the pavilion's favorite cautionary tale. He was an outcast, an embarrassment the venerable elders tolerated only because of some forgotten pact involving his family. Suddenly, the whispers solidified, taking on a sharper edge. A shadow fell over his desk. Phan, the Young Master of the Naga-crest Pavilion, stood over him, a sneer twisting his pampered features. Phan’s robes, woven with shimmering emerald scales, caught the light, and a faint, sweet aroma of rare orchid incense wafted from him. Unlike Takhon, Phan was a cultivator of impeccable lineage, his aptitudes as pure as newly fallen rain. He thrived on public displays of his own superiority, and Takhon, the sect's most pathetic student, was a perfect prop. “Still dreaming of a spirit-pill, Takhon?” Phan’s voice was a low, taunting drawl, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Perhaps if you woke up, you might find a use for that lump of wood you call a table leg.” He gestured with an imperious hand. “A broken dog like you has no business even sitting for the Root-Testing. You’re polluting the air with your lack of ambition.” Takhon’s eyelids fluttered, a slow, grudging ascent. He blinked once, twice, at Phan’s sneering face. He really just wanted to go back to sleep. He knew what was coming. Phan loved to ‘accidentally’ knock Takhon’s meagre belongings to the floor, or ‘mistakenly’ spill ink on his exam papers. It was a familiar dance of petty cruelty. This time, Phan raised his hand, not to a flimsy ledger, but to Takhon’s actual desk. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of gathered essence coiled around Phan’s palm – a subtle, yet unmistakable display of his cultivated power. He wasn’t just going to knock it. He was going to *shatter* it, sending splinters and Takhon’s slumbering form crashing to the floor. The humiliation would be absolute, a spectacle for the assembled hall. A few gasps rippled through the nearby disciples. Kiet, a nervous boy with anxious eyes who often brought Takhon scraps of food, flinched, his hand flying to his mouth. Even Ajarn Somchai, usually oblivious, glanced up, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Phan’s palm struck the desk with a sharp, resounding crack. It wasn’t a tap; it was a focused blow, meant to pulverize. Takhon, finally roused by the impact, groaned softly. His head lifted, and he watched, his mind still hazy, as the desk vibrated violently. But the desk didn't shatter. Instead, a blinding flash of emerald light erupted from the grimy wooden talisman propped against Takhon’s knee. It pulsed once, radiating a raw, primordially fierce power that rattled the floorboards. The energy Phan had poured into his strike, rather than breaking the desk, was absorbed by the carved wood, and then, with a deafening *CRACK*, violently repelled. The force of the rebound was astonishing. Phan, caught completely off guard, cried out, a high-pitched yelp of surprise and pain. He was flung backward across the hall, skidding several feet on the polished stone floor before crashing into a stack of arcane texts, sending them toppling in a cascade of rustling pages. His emerald robes were dishevelled, his perfectly styled hair askew, and a dark, angry bruise was already blossoming on his palm. The monastic hall went utterly silent. Not a quill scratched. Not a breath stirred. Every gaze locked in quiet shock on Takhon, then on the smoking, still glowing timber, and finally on the humiliated Phan, groaning amidst a heap of parchment. Takhon rubbed his eyes. He looked at the smoking wood, then at the sprawling Phan. “Did… did something just happen?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He picked up the cylinder, examining it with a bewildered frown. It looked exactly as it always did: a grimy, carved piece of wood, useful only for propping up wobbly furniture. Later, as the sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the Suvarnabhumi Archipelagos, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, Takhon retreated to his tiny, dilapidated hut at the very edge of the temple grounds. The hut, leaning precariously as if weary of existence, smelled faintly of mildew and forgotten herbs. He kicked off his worn sandals and collapsed onto his straw-filled cot, its frame creaking under his weight. One of the cot’s legs had splintered months ago, making it notoriously unstable. “Bloody useless thing,” he muttered, reaching for the carved timber he’d retrieved from the exam hall. “At least you can hold up a bed, you wobbly brute.” He wedged the relic beneath the splintered cot leg, nudging it into place with his foot. The moment the wood settled, a faint, metallic *clink* echoed from deep within the grain. Then, a raspy, brassy voice erupted from the timber. “*Ugh, you filthy, indolent sack of wet rice! Must you always use me for such base, ignoble purposes? And by the Naga’s sacred scales, you reek of unwashed sloth! Have you no dignity? No spark of ambition? You're a blight upon the very concept of potential!*” Takhon froze, his foot still pressed against the scroll. He stared at the piece of wood. “Did… did you just talk?” “*Of course I talked, you half-witted barnacle! Who else would dare sully their sacred lips with such an insultingly mundane conversation? I am Chom, primordial spirit of the Whispering Banyan, bound to this cursed scroll for three millennia by a vengeful monk with a penchant for bad puns! And you, you pathetic excuse for a cultivator, have finally jarred me awake!*” The voice, which somehow managed to sound both regal and like a drunken merchant, was accompanied by a faint, shimmering green light emanating from the scroll’s carvings. Takhon blinked slowly. Chom. A spirit. In his table leg. He had a sudden, terrifying thought. “Wait. Does this mean I need to… do something? Like, perform a ritual? Or find you a new host? Because if it involves anything more strenuous than a brisk walk, I’m afraid I’m rather busy with my… secluded contemplation.” Chom let out a sound like a rusty hinge scraping against stone. “*Contemplation? You call drooling on your exam papers contemplation? Listen closely, you walking disaster of laziness. That withered state you parade around like a badge of honour? It’s a lie. A divine seal, placed upon you at birth to suppress an unimaginable power. And that seal, my drowsy friend, is cracking.*” Takhon’s brow furrowed. “Cracking? What does that mean?” “*It means, you thick-headed lump of lard, that you are not crippled. You are a ticking bomb. In exactly 300 days, that divine seal will violently detonate. And when it does, it won’t just destroy you. It will obliterate this banyan mountain, this whole training hall, and everyone you hold dear. Unless, of course, you manage to reach the immortal plane before then.*” The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. Cold sweat broke along Takhon's collarbone as his stomach seized. Protect Sirin’s smile, he’d always vowed. But how could he protect anyone when he was… this?

The Wobbly Leg of Destiny