Ashan continued imitating the gibberish sound.
The syllables were wrong in his mouth, the shapes alien, the rhythms unfamiliar—but something was shifting.
His sea of consciousness didn't suffer any major damage, but occasionally, new waves would rise and strike the small island, testing its resilience. Each wave was a question, each retreat a partial answer.
I feel it. He let the thought surface, let it carry him deeper.
I'm getting closer.
The sound was becoming less discordant.
The alien accent that had made the words incomprehensible was smoothing into something he could almost—but not quite—grasp.
The syllables were still strange, still foreign, but they were no longer nonsense. They were a language he was learning to hear, a door he was learning to open.
Chirp! Chirp!
The morning chorus of birds announced their dive under the dawn sky.
Night was gone; morning had come.
Light streamed through the window of his hut, painting the walls in shades of gold and amber, and somewhere in the distance, the bells of the temple were beginning to ring, calling the faithful to prayer.
Ashan remained deep in his sadhana state.
His throat was parched, dry as sand, the membranes raw from hours of uninterrupted utterance.
Yet he continued to spew the profane syllables without pause, his voice a hoarse whisper that was barely audible even in the silence of his small dwelling.
His brows were furrowed, his face contorted, every line of his body a study in concentration.
Something is happening.
The gibberish sound echoing in his Chit Sagar swelled in volume.
What had been a whisper became a murmur, then a roar, violently disturbing the delicate balance he had maintained until now.
The waves that had been testing the shores of his mental island became tsunamis, crashing against the foundations, threatening to sweep away everything he had built.
What the hell?
He fought to calm the newly raging waves of his mind, to hold the island steady, to keep the cracks that had already formed from spreading, from splitting, from swallowing him whole.
Hiss! Hiss!
Like the faint, final hiss of a dying serpent, the sound echoed one last time, uttering the gibberish words with a strange clarity—each syllable distinct, each sound a shape, each shape a meaning—before falling silent.
The waves stilled. The waters calmed. The cracks in his Chit Sagar did not heal, but they did not spread.
Is it over? He let the thought surface, let it drift through the silence.
Just like that?
Ashan opened his eyes.
The morning light was bright, harsh, the light of a sun that had already climbed halfway to its zenith.
He stood, his limbs stiff, his joints popping, and examined his body.
Aside from the cold sweat plastering his robes to his skin, there was no obvious change.
No new power thrumming in his veins.
No sudden understanding that rearranged the world.
He touched his throat, felt the rawness there, the ache that went all the way down to his chest.
And my poor throat.
He coughed, a raw, scraping sound that hurt to produce and hurt to stop.
I am dying of thirst.
He made his way to the restaurant, his steps slow, his body still heavy with the residue of hours spent in the depths of his own mind.
The streets were busy now, members moving between buildings, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythms of a place that had become routine, ordinary, almost home.
After intense Bodh practice, I need to recharge.
He ordered his regular dish—flatbread and curry, two bronze coins, the same meal he had eaten every day for weeks.
The restaurant was its usual rowdy self, filled with members airing their problems and gossiping about others, their voices overlapping, their laughter sharp, their complaints familiar.
He ate in silence, letting the food settle in his stomach, letting the warmth of it spread through his chest.
One conversation snagged his attention.
"I'm not lying!" The voice was loud, insistent, cutting through the din.
"There has been a report of a skeleton moving in the southern continent!" The speaker was a young man, his face flushed, his hands gesturing wildly.
Around him, the other patrons had stopped their own conversations to listen, their curiosity piqued.
Skeletons moving. Ashan dipped flatbread in curry, chewed, swallowed.
Maybe they're having a corpse party. He let the thought surface, darkly amused.
Let them chill.
He finished his meal, left the coins on the table, and headed for the training building.
Time to test the results.
He took his position before a training dummy, the wooden figure that had absorbed so many of his strikes, so many of his failures.
The hall was empty at this hour, the other members either at the temple or still eating, and the silence was absolute.
He raised his right hand, palm open, fingers spread. He did not think about what he was doing.
He did not label, did not categorize, did not impose meaning on what was about to happen. He simply focused, let the energy rise, and cast.
[Combat Bolt]
The time taken to mutter the mantra was now considerably reduced.
The words that had once stretched across seconds now compressed into a single breath, a single syllable, a single moment.
The dark azure bolt of light that formed in his palm was different—morphing, shifting, condensing into something denser, something that buzzed with a new intensity for a split second before streaking toward its target.
What speed!
It struck the dummy and drilled a clean, smoking hole straight through the center, the edges of the wound blackened, the wood around it cracked and splintered.
The bolt continued on, striking the wall behind, leaving a scorch mark that would take days to fade.
The strength has increased, too.
Ashan stood still for a long moment, his hand still raised, his breath still held.
His thoughts churned, turned, rearranged themselves.
So, what did I understand? He let the question surface, let it settle.
Whether it's muttering, casting, or any other approach, the true crux is realising the mantra's nature.
To not put labels on it, to not cage it with preconceptions... that's what I grasped.
He cast it several more times, each bolt faster, stronger, more precise than the last.
He could feel the [Combat Bolt] mantra innately now—not as a thing separate from him, not as a tool he was using, but as something that was part of him, that had always been part of him, that he was only now learning to recognize.
There was a slight, intuitive sense that he could alter its trajectory, bend it around obstacles, shape it to his will.
But I can't actually change it yet. He let the thought settle, let it ground him. Maybe that's for the next rank. I need to solidify this understanding first.
After a few more confirming tests, he stopped and made his way to Shikshak Yaren's building.
The streets were emptier now, the morning rush having given way to the quiet of the early afternoon.
The sun was high, the shadows short, and the air was warm with the promise of the heat that would come later.
I didn't go to him yesterday. He let the thought surface, examined it, let it go. I feel a little apprehensive.
He stopped before the door, his hand hesitating on the latch.
"Come in!" A voice called from within—Yaren's voice, but it held a different weight.
There was something in it that had not been there before, something that made Ashan's stomach tighten.
That tone.
He obeyed, pushing the door open, stepping inside.
Shikshak Yaren was seated on a mat, his posture relaxed, his hands resting on his knees.
And seated across from him, reclining against a pile of cushions with the easy confidence of someone who had never needed to prove anything to anyone, was the young lord of the House.
Kumar Taevor.
Ashan's scalp tingled. The memory surfaced, unbidden—the punch that had sent him flying, the casual ease with which it had been delivered, the way the Kumar had looked at him afterward, like a collector examining a new acquisition.
I still remember his punch to my gut.
He didn't allow himself to stand shocked for long. His body moved before his mind had fully caught up, bowing, his voice finding the words that were expected of him.
"Praise the Lord of Greed!"
Kumar Taevor offered a light, unnerving smile.
"My expectations of you were not misplaced." His voice was soft, almost lazy, but there was something beneath it, something that might have been satisfaction or might have been the first stirrings of something else.
"Congratulations on achieving the Sravana rank. Even if it is for a Bodnir-rank mantra, you achieved it in less time than most."
Shikshak Yaren spoke after him, his tone analytical, detached. "For an average Sadhaka, achieving first Bodh in a Bodnir-rank technique is noted to take months or years."
He paused, and his pale yellow eyes flickered toward Ashan, assessing, measuring.
"But he is a Siddha. His siddhi has obviously aided him greatly."
He fell silent.
What is going on here? Ashan kept his face still, his breathing even, his thoughts moving behind his eyes like shadows in deep water.
It's no surprise they know about my progress, but the way they're speaking as if I'm not even here... It's starting to creep me out.
Kumar Taevor's gaze settled fully on Ashan. It was not a heavy gaze, not a threatening one, but under it, Ashan felt laid bare, suffocated, as if a great serpent were coiling around his spirit, constricting gently, testing how much pressure it would take to break him.
The Kumar spoke again, amusement coloring his words. "To mark your success, I wish to give you a gift."
Ashan tensed internally, though his face remained neutral, his posture unchanged.
A gift. He let the thought surface, cold and clear. Nothing is free. That's true anywhere, but it's a law of nature in this world.
"I learned you practised with a sword in the hidden caves." The Kumar's voice was casual, almost dismissive.
"But a sword may not be the optimal weapon for you. Not with your particular siddhi."
Shine!
A blinding light erupted from his hand—white, searing, impossible to look at. "Catch it!"
He tossed the object toward Ashan, the motion lazy, unhurried, the motion of a man who had thrown a thousand things and never missed.
That's too sudden—
The object flew at him with shocking speed, faster than his eyes could track, faster than his body could react.
His hand shot out to grab it, a reflex, nothing more, and the impact was like being hit by a ship's mast.
The force of it knocked him back several stumbling steps, his boots scraping against the floor, his arm screaming with the effort of holding on.
He fought to regain his balance, his body twisting, his feet finding purchase.
The pain was immediate, sharp, hot—a lance of fire that shot through his right shoulder and down his arm, that made his vision swim, that stole the breath from his lungs.
Ah. He let the thought surface, flat, almost resigned.
My shoulder is dislocated now.
He held the object—a blade, he could see now, a blade of dark metal that gleamed in the dim light—in his left hand, his right arm hanging useless at his side.
I hate him.