Ashan flipped through the pages of the book, his eyes glowing with the familiar swirling grayish-white hues of his siddhi. The text laid out the concept of Bodh in a manner that was almost disappointingly orderly, expanding on the conceptual ranks Shikshak Yaren had mentioned.
Sravana Rank (Hearer):
Achieved most commonly by Bodnir-ranked Sadhakas. At this stage, the practitioner "hears" the inner form of a kiriya, mantra, or siddhi for the first time—becoming aware of its fundamental signature rather than its outward effect.
Jnata Rank (Knower):
Associated with Arohan-ranked Sadhakas. The practitioner internalizes the structure of the technique, applying it with clarity and consistency instead of instinct alone.
Bodha Rank (Realization):
Most often reached by Atalya-ranked Sadhakas. At this level, the practitioner no longer focuses on execution. They perceive the essence behind the form—the why beneath the how.
Ashan read the passage twice.
A margin note, written in cramped, angular script, added clarification:
Conceptual rank is not strictly bound to Sadhana rank. A Bodnir Sadhaka may, in theory, reach Jnata. However, achieving a conceptual rank more than two stages above one's Sadhana rank is considered implausible. Even when two Sadhakas share the same conceptual rank, the depth of realization will differ.
The book ended the classification there.
No steps. No formula. No guaranteed path.
Only scattered anecdotes—accounts of Sadhakas who claimed Bodh had come to them during battle, starvation, isolation, grief, obsession. None of them agreed on how. Most contradicted each other outright.
One passage stood out:
To achieve Bodh, one must feel the technique within their being, allow it to pass through without obstruction, and cease the urge to impose control.
Let it pass through? Ashan's brow furrowed. What does that even mean?
He closed the book with a quiet sigh, the sound swallowed by the silence of the hut. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls like half-formed thoughts.
In short, it felt like a grind—not because it demanded effort, but because nothing in it promised results.
He flipped to the final section.
The Second Category of Bodh
The text stated that Bodh was broadly divided into two forms.
The first was Conceptual Bodh, applying to individual kiriyas, mantras, or siddhis.
The second was Loka Bodh.
Ashan's expression sharpened as he read on.
Beyond the six commonly acknowledged Lokas, two additional metaphysical realms were referenced—rarely discussed outside academic or sectarian texts.
Astra-Loka:
A transcendental realm preserving the essence, history, and will of all weapons ever forged or imagined. It was described as being structured around three eternal pillars: Asi (the sword), Sula (the spear), and Dhanush (the bow).
Sastra-Loka:
A boundless scripture-space where every mantra, sutra, spell, and divine utterance echoed eternally. It was divided according to three eternal Sabdas: Nada (primordial vibration), Vak (spoken word), and Manas (mental invocation).
The explanation ended abruptly.
No guidance. No prerequisites. No examples.
Only a single line beneath the section:
Bodh achieved within a Loka applies universally to all relevant techniques.
Ashan closed the book again, his fingers lingering on the worn leather cover. The weight of it seemed heavier now, as if the knowledge trapped within had grown denser, more demanding.
No mention of how to reach them. He let the thought settle, cold and familiar. As expected.
"I'll need to rise in rank to access more complete records," he muttered, the words falling into the silence like stones into still water. "For now… focus."
He turned inward.
The familiar panel surfaced before his vision as his siddhi responded to intent, the translucent letters burning behind his eyes like embers stirred to life.
[Information Panel]
Anumapah Siddhi: Vikṣaṇa
Description: The user becomes the Gazer, capable of perceiving essence, fate, and temporal flow.
Abilities:
[Analyse] — Rapid discernment of information from any living or non-living target.
[Memory Drive] — Access and experience memories through physical contact.
[Conceal] — Shrouds the user from perceptive detection.
[Foresee] — Gazes five seconds into the immediate future.
[Scrying] — Affinity with fate and divination; provides sporadic, uncontrollable glimpses of possible outcomes.
Ashan stared at the panel longer than usual. The words blurred, reformed, held their shape. Five abilities, each one a door he had opened, each one a path he was still learning to walk.
A thought surfaced—unwelcome, sharp, and dangerous.
If I turn [Analyse] inward… onto the siddhi itself…
Understanding the ability using the ability.
A loop.
A paradox.
The kind of thing that broke minds in the stories, the kind of thing that sensible men left alone.
He let the thought hover at the edge of his awareness, neither embracing it nor pushing it away. It was there. It would wait.
Morning light crept through the small window of his hut, pale and tentative, as if unsure whether it was welcome.
Ashan rose, his limbs stiff from a night spent in one position, and pushed the window open. The breeze that slipped through was cool, carrying the scent of earth and salt, cutting through the stale air that had settled in the room overnight.
He stretched—slowly, deliberately, letting the tension drain from his muscles, his joints, the space between his shoulders where the weight of the past days had accumulated. Then he settled into a steady rhythm of breath, the familiar cadence that had become as natural as his heartbeat.
He entered Sādhana.
His eyes became whirlpools of grayish-white, the color deepening, intensifying, until the world beyond them was reduced to shadow and form, presence and absence.
[Vikṣaṇa: Analyse]
He directed the gaze inward.
Not at his body. Not at his mind. At the siddhi itself—at the mechanism that made the gaze possible, at the root of the power that had been growing within him since the moment he had opened his eyes in that cave.
Information exploded across his perception.
It was not words, not images, not anything he could name. It was pure data, raw and unfiltered, pouring into him faster than he could process, faster than he could even recognize. Structures without language. Patterns without hierarchy. A vast, tangled web of meaning that refused to resolve into anything he could grasp.
He struggled to hold it, to impose order, to find the shape beneath the chaos.
The strain mounted rapidly. His temples throbbed. The pressure behind his eyes built until it was a physical weight, pressing outward, threatening to crack the bone.
Something warm touched his lip.
He reached up instinctively, his fingers coming away wet.
Blood.
A thin line of crimson slipped from his nostril, tracing a path down his upper lip, his chin, splattering onto the floorboards in a slow, rhythmic drip. His robe was stained now, the dark fabric drinking the red. His head throbbed, heat radiating behind his eyes like metal pushed past tolerance, like something that would not cool.
He cut the siddhi immediately, the gray-white whirlpools dissolving into the darkness behind his lids. The world steadied slowly, the walls of the hut returning to their proper places, the shadows settling into their proper shapes.
He clutched his forehead, feeling the pulse of blood beneath his skin, the slow retreat of the heat.
"...That was stupid," he muttered, the words hoarse, scraped from a throat that felt raw.
He spent several minutes in calming Sādhana, letting his breath find its rhythm, letting the turbulence in his mind settle into something approaching stillness. The pain receded, not quickly, not easily, but it receded.
When the heat finally faded, clarity followed—sharp, cold, undeniable.
So this isn't something I can dissect. He let the realization settle, heavy in his chest. Not yet.
He exhaled slowly, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to carry something out of him that had been there too long.
"I'll start with one kiriya. Or one mantra." He spoke the words aloud, giving them weight, making them real. "Depth first."
The book lay beside him, unopened, its secrets still waiting. The morning light had shifted, grown brighter, harsher. He could hear the sounds of the base waking outside—footsteps, voices, the distant clatter of the market setting up for another day of trade and deception.
He did not move to join them. He sat in the silence of his small, humble dwelling, the weight of the book beside him and the weight of his own ambition pressing against his thoughts.
The path stretched before him, long and uncertain. But he was on it. That was what mattered. That was all that had ever mattered.