Ashan continued casting the mantra, his siddhi remaining active. The gray-white whirlpools in his eyes never stilled, spinning with a rhythm that had become almost meditative. A constant stream of information flooded his mind—the subtle shift in resonance with each syllable, the precise channeling of urja, the very architecture of the mantra itself. He dissected it piece by piece, deconstructing the spell to its fundamentals, mapping the pathways of power that had once been invisible to him.
Huff! Huff!
After two hours of continuous, focused casting, he finally stopped, panting from the mental exertion. His hands trembled. His vision swam at the edges. He touched his forehead; it was burning like a steam engine, the skin hot beneath his fingers, the pulse of blood behind his eyes a steady, insistent drum.
This is such a chore.
He lingered for a moment in the quiet hall, letting his breath slow, letting the echoes of the mantra fade from the space behind his eyes. The lamp had burned down to almost nothing, its light a pale ghost of what it had been. In the darkness beyond its reach, the training puppets stood in their silent rows, their painted faces frozen in expressions that might have been waiting or might have been watching.
He headed back to his hut, his steps slow, his mind already turning over the patterns he had seen, the structures he had begun to map.
His monotonous life had now acquired a new, all-consuming task. Ashan took no new missions, channeling all his focus into achieving Bodh in [Combat Bolt]. The Vyper caves could wait. The hunting missions could wait. The slow accumulation of bronze that kept him alive could wait.
While Chaturanga matches provided a decent income, he reduced his visits to once a week, his world narrowing to just three locations: the Training Facilities, the Temple, and the restaurant. The roads between them had become a map he could walk in his sleep, and sometimes, in the haze of exhaustion that followed hours of practice, he almost did.
His days fell into a rigid rhythm: morning practice of kiriyas and mantras, the familiar forms that kept his body sharp, his reflexes honed. Then the long walk to the restaurant, the same meal, the same two bronze coins. Then the temple, the Hollow Offering, the dark golden light of the Lord's emblem pulsing in the incense-thick air. And then, always, the training hall, the lamp, the endless repetition of the mantra that had become as familiar as his own breath.
After several days, he didn't feel a transformative change. No moment of epiphany. No sudden understanding that rearranged the world. But a subtle shift was undeniable. When he analyzed the mantra in depth, it deconstructed its syllables into flows of symbolic energy, each one a thread in a tapestry he was only beginning to see. His pronunciation grew sharper, the words falling from his lips with a precision that had not been there before. The efficiency of his urja channeling improved—not dramatically, not enough to matter in a fight, but enough to feel.
This is a pretty good result. He let the thought settle, examined it from every angle. Even without achieving Bodh yet.
But as his grinding continued, so did the drying of his pockets.
Ashan sat on the worn mattress in his hut, the pouch in his hands, tossing it into the air and catching it with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs. The leather was soft, worn, and when he pressed, he could feel the edges of the coins through the fabric—too few, too light, too easily counted.
Once again. He caught the pouch, let it rest in his palm. I'm returning to the poorhouse.
He held the pendant loosely in his right hand, the thread wrapped around his fingers, the blackish-brown surface cool against his skin. His eyes became whirlpools of grayish-white, the color deepening, intensifying, until the room beyond them was reduced to shadow and form, presence and absence.
[Viksana: Scrying]
"Can I achieve Bodh in my mantra, [Combat Bolt]?"
"Can I achieve Bodh in my mantra, [Combat Bolt]?"
"Can I achieve Bodh in my mantra, [Combat Bolt]?"
His vision shifted. For a moment, he was elsewhere—gazing upon the luminous, endless webs of fate, the threads that connected all things, that bound the past to the present to the future in an infinite, intricate weave. He saw himself in the web, a single point of light, and around him, the threads that led to futures he could not yet name.
Then his sight snapped back to reality. The pendant spun clockwise, but slowly—a steady, measured motion that spoke of possibility rather than certainty, of doors that were open but not yet crossed.
The same result as before. He let the pendant fall still, tucking it back into his robe. It's possible, but how long will it take? The slow spin isn't hopeless, but it's not imminent either. He sighed, the sound soft in the silence. Divination shows the destination, but not the path.
He cracked his neck, stood, stretched limbs that had grown stiff from sitting too long in one position.
If help is available, why not use it?
The climate had grown warmer over the past days. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, the sun reigning alone in its brilliance, its light harsh, its heat pressing down on the base like a weight that could not be lifted. Ashan walked quickly, his shadow a dark shape at his feet, his destination fixed in his mind.
He reached the Academic Center and entered Shikshak Yaren's building, opening the door slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness within.
I just hope he doesn't spam fireballs at me as a greeting.
He quickly scanned the room. "Mess" was too weak a word; it was a catastrophe. Papers lay scattered across the floor in drifts, some blank, some covered in the same cramped handwriting that filled the margins of every book in the library. A foul odor permeated the air—the smell of old blood, of chemicals that had been mixed and left to sour, of something that might have been rotting or might have been curing. The floor and walls were stained with grime and ominous, bloody-red splatters that had dried to the color of rust.
Is he trying to summon some dreadful being?
Shikshak Yaren was pacing, scribbling furiously on a piece of brownish, parched paper, his quill moving in quick, sharp strokes that seemed to carve the words into the surface rather than write them. He grunted without looking up. "Who's there?"
Ashan cleared his throat. "It's me, Shikshak Yaren. Praise the Lord of Greed!"
"Praise the Lord of Greed!" Yaren echoed, not stopping his work, not pausing, not even slowing. "Isn't it a bit early to have achieved Bodh?" A thread of sarcasm wove through his voice, sharp as a blade. "Are you some sort of genius?"
So he can joke.
Ashan kept the thought to himself, his face carefully neutral. "No, Shikshak Yaren. I'm afraid I must disappoint you. I am no genius, and I haven't achieved Bodh. But I can now pronounce the mantra's syllables fluently, and my urja efficiency is improving."
"Hmm." Yaren finally stopped his pacing, setting down the quill, turning to stare at Ashan with eyes that seemed to see through skin and bone to something deeper. "That is the initial stage." He paused, and something shifted in his expression—not softening, but sharpening. "What is your reason for approaching me?"
Ashan kept his voice polite, his request sincere. "I wish to learn the art of creating charms and talismans from you." He bowed his head deeply, letting the gesture speak for him.
Shikshak Yaren stared at him in silence for a long moment, the weight of his gaze pressing down on Ashan's shoulders like a physical thing. "Any specific reason?"
"Money!" Ashan hurriedly answered.
Silence. The word hung in the foul air between them, naked, unadorned, utterly without pretense. Ashan chanced a slight upward glance.
Shikshak Yaren's lips twitched. Then, slowly, they curled into a slight smirk—the first genuine expression of amusement Ashan had seen on his teacher's face.
Ashan bowed his head again, amending his answer, letting a note of something that might have been embarrassment color his voice. "Well, money is one goal. But I also feel that our kind, who lack explosive destructive might, require many means to defend ourselves."
"Alright." Shikshak Yaren waved a dismissive hand and turned his back, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper. "First, clean the room." He returned to his work, the quill scratching, the words forming, the world outside forgotten.
Ashan looked toward the bucket and mop in the corner, their handles worn, their heads stained with the residue of a hundred cleanings.
Here we go again.
He crossed the room, picked up the bucket, and began to work. The water was cold, the mop heavy, the stains deep. But somewhere in the back of his mind, the gray-white whirlpools stirred, watching, waiting, learning.
The price of knowledge, he had learned, was never paid in coin alone.