They ran.
They didn't dare to slow or look back, forcing their bodies forward on the last, burning remnants of strength just to put distance between themselves and the killing grounds.
The howls of the Manuga faded behind them, as did the coppery stench of Ganshka blood and the feral cries of dying beasts.
Only ragged breathing remained.
Stomachs churned. Feet bled. Lungs screamed.
But fear drove them harder than exhaustion ever could.
By the time the twin suns crested the horizon, smearing the sky with pale gold and bruised orange, Ashan finally raised a hand.
"This is far enough," he said, leaning his shoulder against a tree. "Rest."
No one argued.
They collapsed where they stood—against roots, rocks, each other—without dignity or complaint.
"Ah… shit…" Dris groaned, sprawled on his back. "I've never run that much in my entire life."
No one disagreed.
They were battered. Drained. Running on fumes.
"Ashan, how—" Dris began, then stopped.
Ashan had already closed his eyes.
His posture had settled into stillness, breath regulated, hands positioned in the familiar mudra. He had entered Sādhana without a word.
Taking the cue, the others followed, sinking into meditation as best they could.
Whatever came next, they would not face it depleted.
Ashan's mind, however, found no peace.
What am I missing?
He practiced his vidyā, guiding Praṇa and Atmic with care, yet the emptiness remained.
I understand them, he thought, frustration tightening his focus. I've analyzed them both with Viksana. Every process, every sequence.
So why does it feel… incomplete?
His brows furrowed.
It wasn't simply the unresolved energy loss during chakra refinement. That was a symptom.
The problem ran deeper.
This hollowness isn't about advancing ranks. The Bodnir texts are explicit about that.
This is something else.
Since the teleportation, he had relentlessly pursued an answer—dissecting his Sharir and Atma Vidyā again and again. His siddhi, [Analyse], allowed him to reduce any system into its smallest functional components, but each use scraped his mind raw.
When I analyze the Sharir Vidya, the explanations are precise. Mechanical. Complete.
Same with the Atma Vidya.
And yet…
His eyes swirled into grayish-white whirlpools.
[Viksana: Analyse]
The activation lasted only an instant—unnoticed by the others locked in their own meditative recovery.
Sharir Vidya: Binding Coil Path
Atma Vidya: Hidden State Path
Etched diagrams, metaphysical logic, sequences of breath, mantra, and intent—everything unraveled and reassembled at inhuman speed.
Thirty minutes passed.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes like a splitting fault line.
Any longer and my head will burst.
He released the siddhi with a sharp exhale.
It's not intuition. It's certainty.
The explanations stop too cleanly. Like a book missing its final chapter.
He withdrew fully from Sadhana, forcing his mind to settle.
His gaze drifted to one of the Rat-faction survivors resting nearby.
House of Greed.
Serpent and Rat factions.
Different vidya.
Every house has two factions.
His thoughts snagged on the detail.
Why?
He shook his head.
Not now.
The two suns climbed higher. The forest remained eerily quiet.
No pursuit came.
Ashan rose and stretched. "Let's head to my hideout. We can forage on the way."
"Yes!" Dris exclaimed, clutching his stomach. "I'm dying for real meat."
The agreement followed immediately.
"How far?" Roderic asked.
"Minutes," Ashan replied, already moving.
During the jog, Imla fell into step beside him.
"So," she said coolly, "what exactly have you been doing since the teleportation?"
Ashan glanced at her. "Surviving."
She snorted softly. "Does appearing out of thin air count as survival?"
He met her gaze for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't understand it myself. Luck, maybe."
Which is true, he thought.
I don't know how Viksana unlocked it. Or why. Or its limits.
"Hm. Convenient luck," she said. "Thanks to it, we lived."
She didn't press further.
They caught a rabbit and a squirrel along the way.
No patrols. No ambushes.
"We're here," Ashan said, stopping before what appeared to be an unbroken wall of foliage.
He shifted branches aside.
"Damn!" Dris gagged instantly.
"What is that smell? Ashan, have you been fucking Ganshka in there?"
Helma and Damara glared at him.
Ashan shrugged. "It smelled like this when I found it. Eat first. Talk later."
They squeezed into the cramped cave.
Dim. Pungent. Barely shelter.
But it was hidden.
They skinned their catch.
"Eating raw has zero taste!" Dris spat.
"Watch it," Roderic snapped, stepping aside.
They ate in silence, the weight of the trial pressing down in the tight space.
"Let's exchange information," Ashan said. "I'll start."
He detailed the ocean drop, the shark-like Rakshasa, the crab-beast on the shore, and his escape—carefully omitting the mechanics of [Conceal].
"I hunted Ganshka afterwards," he finished. "Secured two vestiges."
Dris and Roderic followed—constant skirmishes, narrow escapes.
"The idiot kept dragging us into their territory," Roderic complained.
Dris shrugged. "We lived. Got vestiges."
Damara and Imla spoke next.
"The Vyaghruga," Imla said. "They capture many of us. But didn't kill any of us."
Damara waved a hand. "Hard to notice while running from talking cats."
They explained how only two of five had survived the earlier Vrkuka encounter—and how Srish had nearly finished Dris and Roderic off.
"I wasn't going to die," Dris said defensively.
Finally, Helma nudged Ballio.
"You. Explain."
He blinked. "Ah—right."
He spoke of rescuing a Vyaghruga named Cloe.
"She told us… the Manuga are slaves. All of them. Kept here by the Order."
Silence deepened.
"And," Ballio continued, swallowing, "this place isn't part of the world."
He took a breath.
"It's a pocket dimension."
The words sank into the cave like a closing gate.
No one spoke.
Forest. Beasts. Slaves. Trials.
Not a battlefield.
A cage.
The walls of their prison had finally revealed themselves.