MY HIDDEN TALENT IS FORBIDDEN BY THE HEAVENS-Chapter 155: WHAT DO YOU DESIRE
Chapter 155 — WHAT DO YOU DESIRE
Rain.
Cold.
Persistent.
The alley reformed fully around them.
The pale plane was gone.
The vines were gone.
Only the memory.
And the man.
Five-year-old Long Hao stood in the rain, wrist still tingling from the effortless flip that had slammed him to the ground moments earlier.
He should have been terrified.
Any other child would have cried.
Begged.
Run.
But he didn’t.
He stared up at the man through wet strands of hair clinging to his face.
The man studied him back.
Not with pity.
Not with cruelty.
With interest.
Measured interest.
"Stand," the man said calmly.
The boy obeyed.
Not because he trusted him.
Because he calculated.
Running now meant certain death.
Standing meant possibility.
He stood.
Small.
Filthy.
Hungry.
The man lowered the umbrella slightly so that rain began soaking his own shoulders.
He didn’t seem to care.
He crouched just enough so their eyes met on level.
"What do you desire?"
The question was not casual.
It wasn’t rhetorical.
It carried weight.
Not what do you want to eat.
Not where are your parents.
Not why did you steal.
Desire.
The word lingered in the damp air.
The boy swallowed.
His stomach growled faintly.
Food.
Warmth.
Safety.
He could say any of those.
They were real.
They were immediate.
But his eyes flickered beyond the man’s shoulder.
To the mouth of the alley.
To the city beyond.
He had watched that city for years from gutters and rooftops.
Watched rich men walk confidently.
Watched guards push beggars aside.
Watched gangs claim corners.
Watched people kneel.
Watched people bow.
It wasn’t food he lacked most.
It was position.
He looked back at the man.
And spoke.
"Power."
The word didn’t tremble.
It didn’t stutter.
It landed clean.
Rain fell harder.
The man blinked once.
Then—
Laughed.
Not mockingly.
Not loudly.
A deep, satisfied sound.
"Well," the man said, straightening slowly.
"That’s a dangerous answer."
The boy didn’t look away.
"Good."
The man’s smirk returned.
He reached forward again.
But this time—
Not to grab.
To offer.
"Come."
The boy hesitated for exactly one second.
Then stepped forward.
The man turned and began walking out of the alley.
The boy followed.
But something was different.
He wasn’t choosing his steps.
He wasn’t fully controlling them.
His body moved smoothly.
Too smoothly.
As if invisible threads guided him forward.
He could not stop.
He didn’t want to.
But he realized—
If he tried—
He couldn’t.
The rain softened as they exited the slums.
The city opened before them.
Narrow alleyways widened into cobbled streets.
The smell of rot faded into spices and charcoal.
The marketplace bustled despite the rain.
Merchants shouted from beneath fabric canopies.
Vendors displayed fruits in bright stacks.
Red apples.
Golden pears.
Bundles of herbs tied with twine.
Steam rose from iron pots filled with stew.
Children ran between stalls laughing.
A butcher’s blade struck meat rhythmically against a wooden block.
Coins clinked.
Carts rolled past.
Life moved loudly here.
And no one looked at the boy.
No one noticed the mud on his legs.
The hunger in his eyes.
The man walked calmly through the chaos, people parting instinctively without understanding why.
There was no visible authority.
No guards.
No insignia.
But space formed around him regardless.
The boy walked behind.
Silent.
Unblinking.
The market lights flickered against puddles on stone.
Lanterns reflected gold in rainwater.
The boy glanced at everything.
Memorizing.
Cataloguing.
Paths.
Exits.
Patterns.
He did not stumble.
He did not slow.
His small legs kept pace.
The man never once looked back.
And yet—
The boy never fell behind.
They left the market district.
The roads became cleaner.
Wider.
Homes grew taller.
Stone structures replaced wood.
Windows gleamed.
Iron gates lined certain properties.
The city noise faded gradually.
The air grew colder.
They approached the outskirts.
Past the wealthy quarters.
Past the outer residential blocks.
Toward something more remote.
The ground began to incline.
A hill rose beyond the city’s edge.
No signage.
No indication of what lay beyond.
Just an unassuming stone path carved into the hillside.
The man ascended without pause.
The boy followed.
Rain stopped as if obeying a boundary.
The sky cleared faintly above the hill.
At the summit—
Stone.
Massive.
Carved directly from the mountain itself.
A stronghold.
Not built upon the rock.
But grown from it.
The outer walls were jagged yet precise, like a fortress sculpted rather than constructed.
Dark grey stone towers rose at irregular intervals.
No banners.
No heraldry.
No visible guards.
And yet—
The place breathed vigilance.
Narrow slits lined the walls—arrow ports.
High above, faint silhouettes moved briefly behind parapets.
Invisible watchers.
The gates were iron.
Thick.
Heavy.
Scarred from years of impact.
The man approached without slowing.
The gates opened.
Not creaking.
Not grinding.
Silently.
The boy stepped inside.
And the world shifted.
The courtyard was vast.
Stone tiles laid in perfect geometry.
Training grounds to the left—weapon racks aligned in rows.
Practice dummies riddled with blade marks.
A water basin at the center reflecting the grey sky above.
To the right—arched corridors leading into deeper chambers.
Torches lined the walls.
Flames steady despite the open air.
The architecture felt ancient.
Timeless.
Cold.
There was no decoration.
No excess.
Everything had purpose.
Everything had edge.
The gates closed behind them with a low final thud.
The sound echoed.
Sealed.
The boy felt it in his chest.
He had crossed something.
There was no alley now.
No slums.
No market.
No escape.
The man stopped at the center of the courtyard.
Turned slowly. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎
The boy halted three steps behind him.
The invisible pull ceased.
Now he could move freely.
But he didn’t.
He waited.
The man studied him again.
Longer this time.
"Look around," he said.
The boy did.
He saw older youths practicing with blades in silent synchronization.
No laughter.
No wasted movement.
He saw a girl no older than ten flip a dagger from hand to hand before slicing a hanging rope clean in one motion.
He saw a boy with bandaged knuckles punching a stone pillar repeatedly without sound.
He saw discipline.
He saw control.
He saw power being forged.
"You said you wanted power," the man said quietly.
The boy nodded once.
"Power is not given."
The man walked slowly toward a stone platform raised slightly above the courtyard.
"It is built."
He gestured to the surroundings.
"This is where it begins."
The boy’s small fists clenched.
His hunger had not vanished.
But something else burned brighter now.
Desire.
Not for bread.
Not for shelter.
For dominance.
The man stepped onto the platform.
"From this moment," he said, voice carrying easily across the courtyard, "you are no longer a gutter rat."
The other trainees glanced briefly.
Just once.
Then returned to training.
"You are raw material."
The boy did not flinch.
"Raw material can be shaped."
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"Or discarded."
The wind brushed lightly across the courtyard.
The boy swallowed.
"I won’t be discarded."
The man smiled faintly.
"That is what I want to hear."
He stepped down.
Stood directly in front of the child.
"From today onward," he said softly, "you will learn how to disappear."
"How to strike."
"How to observe."
"How to endure."
He leaned slightly closer.
"And one day... you may even learn how to rule."
The boy’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Not from fear.
From clarity.
This was the path.
Not chosen by kindness.
Not granted by fate.
Seized.
The man extended his hand one final time.
"Welcome."
The boy looked at the hand.
Then at the stronghold.
Then back at the man.
And placed his small, dirty hand into it.
The grip closed.
Firm.
Final.
"Good kid."
The courtyard felt colder suddenly.
As if something ancient had just marked him.
The gates remained sealed.
The rain did not return.
And somewhere far beyond the mountain—
Something watched.
[Chapter ENDS]
