"What is your assessment of our Siddha?"
Kumar Taevor's voice was lazy, unhurried, the voice of a man who had never needed to rush. He reclined against soft, colored cushions, his posture that of a cat who had found the perfect spot of sun and was not about to move from it.
Elder Jinish sat to his left in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, sipping tea from an intricately designed cup that gleamed in the candlelight. Shikshak Yaren stood before them, his head respectfully bowed, his hands tucked into his sleeves.
"If I were to describe him in a few words..." Yaren's voice was measured, deliberate. "I would call him a 'rough diamond.' One that requires significant polishing."
"A rough diamond." Kumar Taevor's voice sharpened with intrigue. "Elaborate."
Yaren straightened slightly, choosing his words with care. "He possesses firm dedication to his sadhana, sparing no time for frivolities. He has a quick, almost instinctual understanding of power's nature and the dynamics of social structures. He does not whine or complain—whether about menial tasks or his squalid living conditions." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had slowed, sharpened. "The desire to learn burns within him."
Elder Jinish's brown eyes narrowed. He set his teacup down with a soft click that seemed to echo in the silence.
A smirk bloomed on Kumar Taevor's face, followed by a light, humorless laugh. "A Raja must think beyond his own will and that of his followers... he must not lose his identity, but redefine it." He shook his head slowly, as if savoring something both unexpected and valuable. "What a peculiar, and dangerously ambitious, view of power."
Shikshak Yaren's tone grew grave. "That is precisely what makes his threat potential high. The root of it all is his absolute will to pursue Amartva." He paused, letting the word settle. "And his siddhi—if mastered—will make him a living repository of information. A walking secret-keeper."
Kumar Taevor shifted, sitting straighter against his cushions. The room was filled with the cloying scent of expensive incense, the walls adorned with tapestries that seemed to shift in the candlelight, their patterns deceptive, their meanings multiple.
"To gaze directly into the Karmajala-Loka without suffering backlash..." The Kumar's voice was a blend of amusement and avarice. "That is a novelty." He let the words hang. "The question remains: how do we ensure he remains within our House, and that we make the fullest use of his... capabilities?"
"If I may be bold." Shikshak Yaren's voice was quiet, but it carried. "I believe the most suitable role for him is in the shadows, behind the Lord—that is, behind you, my Kumar. He is not a creature for the public eye. He would serve exceptionally well leading a hidden force dedicated to information, assassination, and espionage."
Elder Jinish's cold, elderly voice cut through the air. "Has he achieved Bodh in his siddhi?"
Shikshak Yaren shook his head. "No, Elder Jinish."
A disappointed hum was Elder Jinish's only reply. He lifted his teacup again, the gesture slow, deliberate, and took another sip.
"Espionage..." Kumar Taevor's fingers drummed once on the arm of his chair. "You are right. His first mission was always intended to test his aptitude for information networking." He outlined the mission's parameters, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather.
Shikshak Yaren's face darkened. "But, Kumar—the risk is—"
A single, slight glance from Kumar Taevor silenced him. The Kumar did not raise his voice. He did not change his posture. He simply looked, and Yaren's head bowed deeper.
"It is your task to ensure he is ready. If he cannot complete this, then what use is his status as a Siddha to us?"
"Yes, my Kumar!" The words came quickly, urgently, the words of a man who understood that there were some doors you did not open.
Kumar Taevor's voice darkened, losing its earlier leisure. "Now that all Houses have begun cultivating Samyama Marga Sadhakas—the path once reserved for ruling families—our advantage is that ours also possesses a siddhi. We must move quickly. The other Houses are already aware of his existence."
"I will ensure he is capable." Yaren's voice was firm, certain, the voice of a man who had been given a task and would see it done.
"Praise the Lord of Greed!"
"Praise the Lord of Greed!"
"Praise the Lord of Greed!"
With the final salutation, Shikshak Yaren bowed and departed, his footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor.
Once alone, Elder Jinish set down his teacup. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, almost gentle. "What will tether him to us?"
Kumar Taevor's answer was measured, the answer of a strategist weighing his tools, his assets, his options. "He is still human. The road to immortality is long and paved with divergences. He will need money, resources, knowledge..." He paused, and something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been amusement or might have been the first stirrings of something colder. "And when he ceases to need what we can freely give, we will create new needs. No asset of this potential is ever truly free."
Ashan's grinding phase continued unabated.
His life had narrowed to two focuses: the relentless practice of his kiriyas and mantras, and the strategic battleground of Chaturanga. The days bled into each other, each one a copy of the last, each one bringing him closer to something he could not yet name.
His fame as a rising star in the game halls grew steadily. He stood before a large board that served as a leaderboard, his eyes finding his entry:
[Ashan]
[Organization Rank: Arashen]
[Matches Played: 100]
[Matches Won: 51]
[Matches Lost: 49]
Fifty-one wins, forty-nine losses. He let the numbers settle, turn over, reveal their shape.
A strangely nostalgic ratio.
He thought hard, trying to place the faint memory from his previous world, but nothing concrete surfaced. Only a ghost of recognition, a whisper of something that had been important once and was important no longer.
The sun began its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Today is the last day with the book on Bodh. One final read.
He first made his obligatory visit to the temple. The air was as it ever was—thick, profane, and devoid of any conventional holiness, yet thrumming with its own blasphemous sacredness. He performed "The Hollow Offering" before the divine emblem of the Lord of Greed, which glowed with its perpetual dark golden shine, the serpent coiled around the rat, both sets of eyes fixed on the gleaming coin that held the weight of all desire.
After paying his respects, he returned to his hut, still maintaining his regimen of a single meal per day. He lit the candles, their yellow-orange light pushing back the darkness, and opened the book for one last, deep study. The pages crackled as he turned them, the smell of age rising up to meet him, and in the silence of his small, humble dwelling, he let the knowledge settle into the spaces he had made for it.
Outside, the moon rose, and the stars emerged, and the world continued on its indifferent course. But inside, a boy sat with a book in his hands, preparing for something that none of them could see.