The room soon filled with the thunderous rhythm of Toric's snoring—a sound like distant artillery, or perhaps a very large animal dying slowly in the room next door. The walls seemed to vibrate with each exhalation, the floorboards trembling, the dust motes dancing in the moonlight that still filtered through the grimy window.
Damn. Ashan lay on the goat‑skin bed, pressing his palms against his temples, feeling the pulse of blood beneath his fingers, the heat radiating from his skin like a fever with no source. My head is throbbing, and this bastard's snoring isn't helping.
The flesh beneath his fingers felt tender, overheated, as if his skull had been lightly broiled from within, as if the energy used to dive into Toric's memories had left its mark on the very structure of his thoughts.
Using [Memory Drive] extracts a heavier toll than I anticipated. Mind and body both.
Toric's memories still flickered across his inner vision—fragments of sensation, environment, emotion—lingering like afterimages of a bright flame seared into his retina. He could still feel the salt spray of that long‑ago storm, the cold of it against his skin, the weight of the water that had tried to pull him under. He could still hear the thunder that had accompanied Toric's desperate awakening, the crack of lightning, the scream of wind, the slow, terrible realization that the man clinging to the spar should have been dead and was not.
This is valuable, though. It deepens my understanding of how rogue sadhakas come to be. Surviving traumatic experience—that's the common thread. Not training, not guidance, not lineage. Just... not dying when you should.
His eyes ignited, grey‑white whirlpools spinning to life in the darkness.
[Viksana: Analyse].
[Life Sense].
He scanned Toric's sleeping form, mapping the terrain of his prana flow, the channels through which his power moved, the places where it faltered and failed.
Unrefined. Chaotic. Blockages everywhere. In some portions of Toric's body, prana simply does not flow at all. And his muladhara chakra—the root, the foundation—is barely visible, a ghost of what it should be. No sign it was ever properly awakened.
He never underwent sadhana. Not once. His strength exceeds a normal human's, certainly, but that's the ceiling. Without foundation, without structure, he'll never rise higher.
His lips curved—not with sympathy, not with pity. Organizations provide what rogues can never obtain. System. Methodology. The difference between a stumbled‑upon spark and a cultivated flame.
A thought surfaced, unbidden: Why do the Dharmik and Adharmic orders permit rogue sadhakas to exist at all? Why not hunt them down, conscript them, exterminate them?
The image of Rokan's corrupted form flickered through his memory—the twisted face, the loss of control, the inevitable consumption.
Ah. Without guidance, without proper vidyas, corruption is not a possibility—it's a destination. For Dharmik orders, rogues are potential problems but rarely existential threats. For Adharmik orders... they're resources. Tools to be used, exploited, and discarded when they inevitably break.
His gaze settled on Toric's sleeping form. Which makes you perfectly positioned. I'll help you grow stronger, Toric. I'll clear those blockages, refine that flow. And when you're at your peak—when you're most valuable—you'll be perfectly exploited.
The smile lingered, cold and satisfied.
By me.
"Why... why feel cold..." Toric mumbled in his sleep, pulling the goat hide tighter, curling into himself. "So cold..."
....
Morning brought light, noise, and the smell of cooking food that rose from the common room below.
"This one's not bad at all!" Toric slammed his empty ale cup onto the table. "Better than the swill we served on my ship, and that's saying something!"
Ashan ate in silence, methodically working through a plate of bread and curry. The bread was dense, the curry thin. Average. Edible. Not worth commentary.
Around them, the tavern's morning crowd conducted business with the particular intensity of men who had been up all night and were only now thinking about sleep. Merchants negotiated terms, laborers fortified for the day ahead, off‑duty pirates compared scars and lies.
"Two bronze coins for a full day and night—bed and board!" Toric shook his head in wonder. "That's value. That's real value. My old crews would spend twice that on just the idea of breakfast."
Ashan extended his hand across the table, palm up, fingers spread. Flat. Absolute.
Toric blinked. "You want something? They've got this spiced mead that'll put hair on—"
"One bronze coin." Ashan's voice was flat, non‑negotiable.
Toric's expression froze. "But Captain. We barely—"
"One of your men cost me my pendant." The words were ice wrapped in silk. "The one Yaren gave me. Lost to the sea because of your crew's hospitality."
Toric opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. With the slowness of a man approaching the gallows, his hand crept into his pocket and emerged clutching a single bronze coin, which he placed on the table with visible anguish.
Ashan's hand snapped forward, claiming it. Let's see how Rajyam currency compares to the Order's system.
He weighed the coin in his palm. Heavier than Order bronze—not by much, but noticeably. He flipped it, studying the designs: obverse, a sun ascending from a mountain valley; reverse, an intricate pattern of twelve rays forming a perfect geometric sunburst.
"Captain..." Toric's voice was hesitant. "Is this your first time seeing Suryazar Rajyam bronze?"
Ashan ignored the question. "Do all Rajyams maintain separate currency systems?"
Toric chuckled, shaking his head. "No, Captain. Only two Rajyam currencies circulate across the continent—Suryazar and Sitayana. Suryazar's is the dominant one, though. Most trade uses their coin." He paused. "There was... an attempt, I think. Janandhani Rajyam tried to introduce their own currency maybe... twenty years back? Thirty? Suryazar and Sitayana opposed it—strongly. The compromise was that Janandhani could mine coins, but they had to bear the crest of either Suryazar or Sitayana. So effectively... same result."
"So Suryazar and Sitayana are allied, then."
Toric laughed—a genuine, surprised bark. "Apologies, Captain. It's just... your question..." He coughed, poorly concealing his amusement. "Sitayana is in the south, Captain. Far south. They've got no real connection to northern affairs. Their relationship with Suryazar is... neutral. On the surface. Below that?" He shrugged. "Who knows?"
"And the other Rajyams?"
Toric settled into his role as impromptu lecturer. "Janandhani is the meeting ground—friendly ties with everyone. Sitayana trades with them, the northern powers trade through them. They're the neutral zone." His voice dropped. "Suryazar and Vanasthala, though? Those two hate each other. Real hate—the kind that breeds skirmishes, raids, assassination attempts. They started the first all‑out war between Rajyams—the Fifty Years War. Some call it the Saffron and Emerald War."
Old Dhren mentioned that, in passing. A war that consumed a generation. Many Dharmik sadhakas would have died in that conflict.
He flipped the coin absently, watching it spin in the morning light.
Toric pushed his empty plate aside. "So, Captain. What now?"
Ashan caught the coin, closed his fist around it. "Prediction."
His eyes ignited—grey‑white whirlpools spinning to life in the crowded, noisy common room.
No one noticed. No one ever noticed until it was too late.