"Ho! These berries are pure bliss!"
Toric drained his cup in one long swallow, the liquid burning its way down, the warmth spreading through his chest, his stomach, the places where the celebration had been building since the morning and was only now, at last, being fed. He swept his gaze across the tavern—searching, restless, curious.
"Hey, Dunstan." His voice was loud and bright. "Where's the Captain? Haven't seen him in three weeks."
Dunstan leaned against the tavern counter, ledger open in his hands, the numbers blurring in the lamplight, the ink drying, the pages turning. His eyes never left the numbers.
"Don't know details." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "He said not to disturb him."
"And you didn't think to mention this?" Toric's voice rose. "Three weeks!" His hands moved, cutting the air, tracing the shapes of things that were not there. "He could be planning something. Or doing something bizarre."
Dunstan ignored the complaint entirely.
Solna settled onto a wooden stool beside Dunstan, producing her smoking pipe with practiced ease. "Captain doesn't need drunken help with his affairs."
"You!" Toric's head whipped toward her. "What are you doing here? Middle of the day?"
"Taking a break." Smoke curled from her lips.
Toric's expression shifted—conspiratorial, greedy. He leaned close, his voice dropping. "Speaking of affairs. One of my girls mentioned a big fish caught in your net. Why not share the details? Split the gains? Fair's fair."
"No need." Solna's smoke wreathed her face. "And best you keep your nose out. Remember your role. Captain's orders."
Toric coughed, wounded. "Your loss. Just being helpful."
The door slammed open.
"WHO'S THE LEADER HERE? COME OUT AND DIE!"
A man stood framed in the doorway, his chest heaving with manufactured rage, his entourage fanned behind him, their hands on their weapons, their faces set. The tavern's patrons glanced at him. Then returned to their drinks. Sympathy flickered in their eyes—the particular pity reserved for the already dead.
The man felt it. Something off. Wrong. He could not name it.
What's happening? Why aren't they—
Solna exhaled smoke. "There. Your chance to be helpful."
Toric clicked his tongue. "Tch." "Old man. Knife."
The tavern keeper produced one instantly.
"I SAID—WHERE IS THE LEADER—"
The knife flew.
THUNK. It buried itself in the man's left eye. "AAHHH!" "Boss!"
Toric rose. At the same moment, a group of teenagers emerged from the tavern's corners—moving with purpose, with hunger. "Little ones." Toric's grin was wide and bright. "Bust their heads." "YES, MASTER!"
The brawl erupted.
Behind the chaos, Dunstan studied his ledger. "Hmm. The festival cost more than expected. But returns were solid. Many rich merchants came. Stayed."
Solna nodded, smoke trailing from her lips. "Good haul. But we've drawn attention. Too much." Her eyes narrowed. "I hope the Captain has planned for that too."
Behind them, Toric and the teens reduced the intruders to pulp. "Loot them! Raise their pathetic flesh on the mast!" "GLORY TO THE CRIMSON SERPENT PIRATES!"
.....
Outside the island's settlement, where the roads ended and the buildings ended and the thing that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen began...
No roads. No buildings. No life. Deep woods stretched toward the sky, their branches reaching, their leaves rustling, their shadows gathering in the spaces where the light did not reach. Wild grass waved in the breeze. Ancient trees stood sentinel, their roots deep, their trunks wide, their rings marking the years that had passed and the years that would pass.
And the earth trembled.
Rumble. Stones shifted underground. The ground split.
A rough slab of earth rose—four feet high, solid, imposed.
[Earth Wall].
Ashan slammed his palm against the ground. The wall completed its rise, its surface rough, its edges sharp, its presence a thing that had been waiting for this moment.
He stood bare-chested, his hair wild, unbound, whipping in the wind that had risen with the wall. Still in his growth phase—but three weeks of relentless [Svarp Vadivu] practice had begun reshaping his body. Muscle defined where once was none. Scar tissue stretched over new strength.
If I had supplements—Vital Pills, Soul Pills—how much faster would this be? But those aren't for me. I need Union Pills. Nothing less.
He moved.
[Fang Stance]. Strike. [Broken Stone Fist]. Dark-blue glow enveloped his hand as it cracked against the earthen wall. He shifted mid-flow. [Burrowed Stance]. Another strike. [Grounded Stance]. Another. The stances flowed together—not separate forms, but a conversation.
Chunks of earth fell. The wall crumbled.
He backstepped. Ashurain syllables spilled from his lips—profane, ancient, alive.
[Earth Armament]. A rough, dark spike materialized in his hand. Solid. Heavy. Hungry. Swoosh. It flew. The spike shattered the remaining wall. Earth exploded outward—chunks raining like shrapnel, trees splintering, trunks toppling. The clearing became ruin.
Ashan sat cross-legged amid the destruction. Tomorrow. The battle.
I've done what I could. Three weeks. No more time.
Before entering sadhana, he produced a bronze coin, its surface worn, its edges smooth, its weight familiar in his palm. Flicked it skyward.
Can I survive Nadrima? Can I survive Nadrima? Can I survive Nadrima?
[Viksana: Scrying]. Grey-white whirlpools spun. The Karmajala-Loka unfolded—luminous threads stretching through past, present, future. Infinite. Overwhelming.
A flash. Then nothing. The coin fell. It landed on its edge. Standing. Neither front nor back. Neither yes nor no.
Ashan's lips twitched. Divination against a higher rank. Useless. As expected.
Either I rank up—or I achieve Bodh in my siddhi.
He looked at the coin. At the clearing. At himself. I'll believe in my abilities. Even fate will have to bend.
He closed his eyes and entered sadhana.