Ashan pushed open the heavy door and entered the training building.
The cacophony hit him like a wave—grunts of exertion, sharp cries in Ashurain, the wet thud of impacts against wood. To his left, sadhakas trained their mantras in disciplined rows, wooden puppets absorbing bolts of dark energy that crackled and sizzled with each strike. To his right, others practiced kiriyas, their bodies moving in violent, precise patterns against unyielding dummies stuffed with straw and old rags. Every face he saw was flushed with effort, every breath measured, every movement a prayer to the god of survival.
All Bodnir-ranked, he noted. None higher. None lower. This is where they keep us.
Just inside the entrance, an old man sat behind a wooden table littered with papers. His head was bowed over a piece of brown, patched parchment, a quill moving in his hand with the mechanical rhythm of long practice. He did not look up when Ashan approached.
"Three bronze coins for six hours of training," the man said, his voice flat, disinterested.
Ashan cleared his throat. "I am new. Could you explain the system?"
The old man massaged his eyes—slow circles with the heels of his palms—and looked up. His gaze was weary, the weariness of decades spent watching young faces come and go, of counting coins for men who would be dead before the year was out.
"Here." He shoved a paper across the table. "Read it yourself. If you know how to read."
He returned to his work before Ashan could respond.
No newcomer discount, I see.
Ashan took the paper and read carefully.
3 bronze coins = 6 hours of training
6 bronze coins = 9 hours of training
9 bronze coins = 12 hours of training
His eyes scanned lower.
12 bronze coins = Prana Urja infused chamber (30 min max)
12 bronze coins = Atmic Urja infused chamber (30 min max)
Note: Additional half-hours cost 12 bronze coins each.
One thought crystallized in his mind, cold and clear.
Too costly.
His eyes drifted to a staircase leading upward, lost in shadow. The infusion chambers must be up there.
I'll train for six hours, then seek out a lecture. He made the calculation quickly, efficiently. I must be prepared before the Kumar summons me.
He laid three bronze coins on the table. The old man thrust his right hand out without looking up, palm flat, expectant. After a moment of confusion, Ashan produced his identification badge. The man scribbled on it with a quill—a few quick strokes—and handed it back.
Ashan checked it. A timer glowed on its surface: 5:59:15...
He pocketed the badge and moved into the left section, where the crowd was thinner. Taking a position before a wooden puppet, he aimed his right hand and muttered the foul syllables of Ashurain.
Da3hirt etha3 valgar sutrath!
A dark azure bolt of energy shot forth, striking the puppet's center with a crack that echoed off the stone walls.
He continued his assault, switching between combat and elemental mantras. Dark-azure, dark-brown, pure dark flashes erupted from his palm, the profane language of Asuras twisting his tongue, blending with the surrounding chants. The air around him grew thick with residual energy, the taste of ozone and something older, something darker, coating the back of his throat.
He practiced for two and a half hours. When the fatigue finally set in—deep, bone-deep, the kind that told him his reserves were running low—he settled on the ground, crossed his legs, and entered a half-hour of sadhana to recover his depleted urja.
The energy returned slowly, like water seeping through cracked stone.
Revived, he moved to the right section. He selected a sword from the wall—plain steel, well-balanced, the grip worn smooth by hands that had come before—and found a stance. His breath synchronized with the flow of prana he directed into his hands, and for another two and a half hours, he drilled forms and strikes until his muscles burned and his badge began to beep.
He exited the training building. The sun was still high, the shadows still short, but the light had shifted from gold to something harsher, more demanding.
"Hey, hurry! The Acarya is preaching at the temple!"
A group of Arashen-ranked members hustled past, their voices urgent, their robes flapping as they ran toward the base's center.
Ashan lingered for a moment, watching them go.
I might as well see what this is about. He touched the badge in his pocket, felt the faint warmth of the timer that had counted down his training. The badge's rules did mandate showing respect to the Lord. No infighting, challenges permitted... typical cult governance.
He fell in with the stream of robed figures heading toward the temple.
At the center of the base stood a lone temple constructed of golden brass, silent and imposing. No other buildings dared encroach upon its space. It was raised on a square platform, reached by a long flight of stairs that seemed to ascend into the sky itself. Ashan climbed with the crowd, his legs burning from the morning's training, his breath coming harder than it should have.
Now I am truly becoming a cult follower. The thought was bitter, but beneath it was something else—something that might have been curiosity, might have been hunger.
Inside, the temple was a cavern of shadow and light. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals casting a faint, darkish pale-yellow glow that seemed to drink the darkness rather than dispel it. Blood-red and pale-yellow candles lined the walls, their flames flickering without wind, without reason.
At the front stood an altar, and upon the altar rested the divine emblem: a rat curled tightly within a serpent's spiral, both sets of eyes fixated on a single, gleaming coin.
The air was thick with incense—cloying, sweet, the scent of a hundred prayers burned and forgotten. But beneath it, Ashan could taste something else. Something heavier. Something that pressed against his skin and whispered in a language older than words.
The congregation sank to the ground in unison, their bodies flowing into 'The Hollow Offering'—the gesture of their Lord. Ashan followed, his movements automatic, his eyes fixed on the emblem.
"All hail the Lord of Greed!"
The cry rose, a quiet roar that filled the space and echoed off the brass walls. They began chanting in Ashurain, the words twisting in the air, doubling the profane atmosphere until it was a physical weight on Ashan's chest. The divine emblem pulsed with light—faint at first, then brighter, then blazing with a pale-golden radiance that seared the back of his eyes.
When the chanting subsided, an old man emerged from behind the altar.
His layered robes were of a different, more ornate design than the others Ashan had seen—dark gold thread, intricate patterns that shifted in the candlelight. The right-shoulder drape still marked him as Serpent Faction, but there was something else in the way he moved, something that spoke of authority that had nothing to do with rank.
He pushed back his hood, revealing a fall of whitish-brown hair that hung to his shoulders. His face was lined, ancient, the face of a man who had seen centuries pass and expected to see more.
"O Lord of Greed, who sits upon the Unfilled Vault,
Ruler of Wealth, whose breath is the Covetous Flame,
Grant us the Debt of the Damned, that we may hoard in your name."
His voice was soft—softer than the chants, softer than the whisper of the flames—yet it carried through the temple like a blade through silk. The congregation echoed him, their voices rising and falling in a wave of sound that seemed to lift the words toward the emblem.
The old man cleared his throat, his ancient eyes sweeping over the assembled faces. From his robes, he produced a book—old, weathered, bound in what might have been leather or might have been something else entirely. He held it up, and in the candlelight, Ashan could see the faint pattern of scales on its surface.
"Today," the Acarya intoned, and his voice was no longer soft. It was the voice of a man who had stood at the edge of eternity and looked into the abyss without flinching. "I will preach of our Lord's grace and wisdom."
He opened the book. The pages crackled like old bones. And in the darkness at the back of the temple, Ashan felt something stir—something that had been waiting for this moment, for this gathering, for the words that were about to be spoken.
The candles flickered.
The shadows deepened.
And the sermon began.