The question now was where to focus first: Kiriya or Mantra?
Ashan contemplated deeply, his fingers tracing the edge of the book he had just returned, the ghost of its weight still pressed into his palm. The candle in his hut had burned down to a stub hours ago, but he sat in darkness, letting the question turn over in his mind, examining it from every angle.
I lack any instant-kill techniques. The thought surfaced, cold and clear.
To synergize with my siddhi, it needs to be a ranged ability.
The answer was in plain sight.
[Combat Bolt]. He let the decision settle, felt its weight. I'll focus on it first, then shift to [Elemental Bolt] once I've made progress.
Book in hand, he headed for the Academic Center library before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. The Gonner Gezzer wasn't reading his explicit material today; he seemed to be in a trance, silently sipping from a cup that steamed in the cool morning air. His eyes were fixed on something in the middle distance, and when Ashan dropped the book on the counter without his usual quip, the old man did not even blink.
Ashan departed immediately, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed louder than it should have been in the morning quiet.
He went straight to the training facilities. The building loomed before him, its windows dark, its doors open. The old man at the counter barely looked up as Ashan paid his fee, his hand moving in a gesture that was more habit than consciousness. Ashan took his place among the other members chanting mantras, the air thick with the vile, overlapping syllables of Ashurain.
He began casting [Combat Bolt].
A dark-azure bolt of energy shot from his hand, striking a wooden target with a crack that echoed off the stone walls. He practiced in focused, half-hour intervals, each session a study in repetition and refinement. Between each interval, he took short breaks to enter a state of sadhana and restore his depleted urja, letting the energy seep back into his channels like water finding its level.
After one such rest, he stood and headed for the upper floor. A sign directed him: left for the Prana Urja chamber, right for the Atmic Urja chamber. He had already paid the steep fee for half an hour in each—twelve bronze coins that had left his pouch feeling dangerously light.
He entered an empty Atmic Urja chamber.
The door slid open at the scan of his identification badge, revealing a small, airtight room with sturdy walls that seemed to press close from all sides. The moment he stepped inside, his nose was assailed by the scent of various herbs—sharp, medicinal, ancient—and the thick, swirling density of ambient urja that clung to the air like mist on still water.
He immediately entered a state of sadhana, drawing the external Atmic Urja into his chakra. The energy flowed into him, not gentle, not easy, but present—a river he could shape, if not control. He felt the delicate balance between his Prana and Atmic energies begin to shift and strain, the equilibrium he had worked so hard to maintain threatening to shatter.
This is why I avoided this before. He let the thought surface, cold and clear. Using one chamber forces me to use the other to maintain equilibrium, and my pockets can't sustain the cost.
The time limit arrived all too quickly. A chime sounded, soft but insistent, and the flow of urja ceased. Ashan emerged feeling a profound imbalance in his being, his body stiff and unresponsive, his mind fogged with the sudden absence of energy that had been flowing freely moments before.
He hurried into the Prana Urja chamber next door, where the air was similarly thick with herb-scented energy, though the smell was different here—earthier, deeper, the smell of things that grew in darkness and reached toward light. Wasting no time, he sank back into sadhana, guiding the Prana into his chakra to restore balance.
He took deep, measured breaths, feeling the energy course through him. His Muladhara chakra began to take a more tangible form, shining as the colliding energies wrapped it in a dark-golden shroud of sin that pulsed with each heartbeat, each breath, each moment of focus.
It will take far more than this to reach the Arohan rank. He let the thought settle, heavy as stone in his chest.
He exited the chamber and the training facility, making his obligatory stop at the temple of the Lord of Greed. The air there was as it ever was—thick, profane, thrumming with a presence that was not quite presence, a weight that was not quite weight. He performed the Hollow Offering, his hands moving in the familiar pattern, his voice joining the chant that rose and fell like waves against a distant shore.
Then, it was to the restaurant for the same meal: five flatbreads and a bowl of curry, two bronze coins, no more, no less.
As night fell, he strolled through the base, his steps slow, his eyes moving across the familiar buildings, the familiar faces, the familiar rhythm of a place that had become home without his permission. The mission board caught his eye; the Vyper-hunting mission was gone, replaced by postings for longer voyages, more dangerous hunts, rewards that would have been beyond his reach even if he had been willing to leave.
He couldn't rely on Chaturanga as his only income forever. The game hall was a crutch, not a path.
He drifted towards the market area, which was more vibrant than the empty roads at this hour. Members had laid out carpets displaying their wares, illuminated by the yellow glow of lamps hanging from pillars that cast long shadows across the packed earth. The market offered daily necessities: weapons, herbs, and even—
Isn't that the same type of paper Shikshak Yaren used?
He stopped before a stall where thin, brownish sheets were stacked in neat piles, their surfaces blank, their edges rough. The one that became a fireball?
He browsed the stalls as the market began to wind down, members rolling up their carpets for the night, their voices fading into the darkness. He bought nothing. He could afford nothing.
With the market closing, Ashan returned to the training facilities.
The building was empty now, the sounds of practice replaced by the heavy silence of a place waiting for the morning. A single lamp burned at the counter, its light pooling around the old man who sat there, his head drooping, his breath slow and even.
"Who's there?!" The shout was drowsy, irritated, the shout of a man who had been woken from a sleep he had not meant to take.
"It's me." Ashan held out his identification badge and the required coins, his voice low, unhurried.
"Pretty odd time you've chosen!" the man grumbled, but his hand moved automatically, accepting the coins, waving Ashan toward the training floor. He dropped his head back onto the counter before Ashan had taken three steps, and was asleep before he had taken five.
Ashan lit a lamp near the target station, its light pooling around him, pushing back the darkness. The wooden puppet stood where it had always stood, its painted face frozen in an expression of patient endurance.
Now I can use my siddhi freely.
[Viksana: Analyse]
His eyes transformed into swirling whirlpools of grayish-white, the color deepening, intensifying, until the world beyond them was reduced to shadow and form, presence and absence, the flow of energy that moved through all things.
𝔇𝔞𝔷𝔥𝔦𝔯 𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔷 𝔳𝔞𝔩𝔤𝔞𝔯 𝔰𝔲𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥!
[Combat Bolt]
He uttered the foul words of Ashurain, and his siddhi fed him information. It dissected everything—the subtle shift in resonance with each syllable, the precise moment Atmic Urja shaped itself into the form of a bolt, the trajectory, the impact, the dissipation. A stream of data flooded his mind as he continued to cast the mantra, each repetition adding to the map he was building, each failure showing him something he had not seen before.
Well. He let the thought surface, cold and satisfied. This isn't putting too much strain on me.
He cast again. And again. And again.
The lamp burned low. The shadows deepened. And in the silence of the empty training hall, a boy stood alone with his power, learning to see the shape of things that others could not even name.