Ashan remained immersed in the deep, philosophical dissection of the [Combat Bolt] mantra.
The faint, distorted sound evolved, becoming something else entirely—a bizarre hum that vibrated not just in his ear, but along the pathways to his very mind. No, deeper than that. His Chit Sagar. His sea of consciousness. The place where thought became form, where intention took shape, where the architecture of his being was written in currents and tides he was only beginning to understand.
He could feel it.
Waves, born from the turmoil of his searching, rose high and crashed against the shores of his small, mental island. The "weather" within his Chit Sagar was deteriorating—if such a metaphysical landscape could even be said to have weather. The sky above the island had darkened, bruised, shot through with veins of light that were not quite light. The sea that surrounded it churned, whitecaps forming and breaking, foam spreading across the surface like something reaching.
Thin, hairline cracks began to spiderweb across the island's foundation. They spread from the shore inward, branching, dividing, multiplying—a geography of damage that mapped the strain he had been placing on himself.
Wait! The thought was sharp, immediate, cutting through the fog of concentration. Wait! Why is my Chit Sagar getting damaged? Is my mind being stretched too thin?
Not wanting to risk catastrophic damage to the very core of his awareness, he forcibly pulled himself out of the sadhana state. The transition was not gentle. It was a tearing, a breaking, a wrenching free of something that had been rooted too deep.
His eyes snapped open.
He massaged the bridge of his nose, his gabella, pressing hard against the bone, trying to push back the pressure that was building behind his eyes. His chest heaved up and down as if he'd run a great distance, as if he had been fighting, fleeing, dying. He touched his forehead, feeling the intense, residual heat that radiated from his skin like a fever that had no source.
His lips curled upwards in a wry, exhausted smile. "Now I feel like a right potato PC that can't run high-end games." The words were nonsense here, in this world, but they grounded him, reminded him of something that was not this moment, not this struggle, not this slow, grinding war against his own limits.
He stood up, his limbs stiff, and crossed to the clay pitcher in the corner. The water inside was tepid, flat, the taste of it faintly of clay. He drank a mouthful, then another, feeling it cool the heat in his chest, his throat, the spaces behind his eyes.
Have to refill that later.
His gaze drifted to the window, and he froze.
Where had the sun gone? When he had closed his eyes, light had been streaming through the glass, painting the floor in stripes of gold and shadow. Now there was only darkness, the pale light of a moon that was already beginning its descent toward dawn.
Was I in sadhana for a whole day? He let the realization settle, felt its weight. How fast time flies. Is this the feeling of detachment from time on the path to immortality?
He clenched his hands, feeling the blood return to his fingers, feeling the strength that was still there, waiting, ready. A surge of grim satisfaction moved through him, cold and bright.
"Not bad."
He sat cross-legged once more, settling into the posture that had become as familiar as breathing.
I've made progress, albeit a little. He let the thought surface, examined it, let it go. If Bodh truly begins with hearing, then this might be its edge—not its core. He paused, turning the idea over. And if I wander too recklessly among these thoughts, I can get backlash. Currently, I'm trying for Bodh in a mantra. If I tried for Bodh in a Kiriya, the backlash might target my body directly.
His face contorted at the thought, a grimace that was half pain, half dark amusement.
What a horrifying prospect.
He didn't re-enter sadhana immediately. Instead, he adjusted his state of mind, letting his breath slow, letting the turbulent waters of his Chit Sagar settle into something approaching stillness. He had pushed too hard, too fast, and the cracks in his foundation were a warning he could not afford to ignore.
He tried to calmly analyze the fragmented details he'd gleaned with his siddhi, and as he did, his awareness drifted, slipped, found itself elsewhere.
....
"No... No... No, it's not here!"
The voice was desperate, a frantic mantra of disappointment that echoed off walls that were not walls, through spaces that were not spaces. Countless books and scrolls were strewn around the figure like fallen leaves, their pages open, their secrets exposed and found wanting. Towering rows of bookshelves loomed in the vast, silent hall, their shadows pooling on the floor, their contents waiting to be read, to be understood, to be enough.
The only sound was the furious, relentless turning of pages.
Ballio's eyes were ghostly red, the whites shot through with burst vessels, underlined by dark, bruise-like rings that spoke of days without sleep, nights without rest. His hair was disheveled, his robes rumpled, his hands shaking with the effort of turning one more page, one more, one more.
He looked half-mad.
"Why isn't it here?" His voice cracked, rose, fell. "This archive is supposed to contain all the knowledge of the world!" The words were a ragged mix of desperation and aggravation, the words of a man who had been searching for something and had not found it, who was beginning to suspect that he never would.
Footsteps echoed on the stone floor, measured and heavy, each one a verdict, each one a door closing. Ballio, head down, continued to stare hard at the pages as if he could force the secret to appear by will alone, as if desire alone could conjure what had never been there.
The person stopped behind him and grunted—a low sound of profound irritation, of patience worn thin.
Ballio's body shook with a start. He scrambled to his feet, his hands dropping the book, his head bowing. "Praise the Lord of Gluttony!" The words came out too fast, too high, the words of a man who had been caught somewhere he should not be.
The man before him had aged, sharp features, his face a map of years and authority. He spoke with weary irritation, the irritation of someone who had said the same thing too many times, who was tired of repeating himself.
"You are still here." It was not a question. "Even after being told repeatedly, there is no way to bring back the dead."
"But—"
"No buts!" The man's voice sharpened, cutting through the dusty air like a blade through silk. "Stop wasting the archive's time and your own. Return to your duties, or we will have no choice but to revoke your access."
He turned and left, his footsteps fading, his presence receding, until there was only Ballio, alone in the silence of the archive, surrounded by books that held everything and nothing.
Ballio clenched his hands so hard the old paper cuts on his fingers reopened. Blood welled and began to drip, staining the parchment below, spreading across the words that had promised so much and delivered so little.
Aren't the gods supposed to be all-powerful? The questions screamed in his mind, but he didn't dare voice them. Can they not do anything? Isn't the Lord of Gluttony one of the Seven Asuras? Aren't the Asuras comparable to the Devas themselves?
He took a long, shuddering breath, forcing the storm inside him to still.
"I know what I have to do." The whisper was barely audible, but the words were firm, certain, the words of a man who had found his path and would not be turned from it. His eyes gained a new, feverish light, the light of obsession, of devotion, of something that had crossed a line and could not go back.
Cloe... just you wait.
As Cloe's face appeared in his mind's eye, it was instantly, violently replaced by Ashan's calm, calculating gaze.
Ballio's face grimaced, his hands tightening on the book that held nothing he needed.
Ashan... did he ever truly think of us as friends? Or even as allies? Better to ask, do any of the seven of us think of each other as anything more than temporary allies?
....
Clank! Clank!
The sound of metal ringing against metal echoed in a sharp, rhythmic duel, each impact a punctuation mark, each parry a sentence in a conversation that needed no words.
Hmph!
The fighter ducked beneath a horizontal cut and delivered a solid, punishing kick to his opponent's gut. The air left the man's lungs in a rush, his body folding, his guard dropping for just a moment—a moment that was all that was needed.
Kuck!
Roderic cursed under his breath, the air driven from his lungs, his vision swimming. He didn't get a moment to recover. His opponent, relentless, lunged again, the blade a blur, the motion fluid, practiced, the motion of a man who had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
They fought in a vast, open training hall under a bright, clear sky that seemed to go on forever. All around them, dozens of other sparring matches unfolded simultaneously—a symphony of clashing blades, shouted techniques, bursts of mantra energy that lit the air in flashes of color and heat. The members of the House of Pride held nothing back. To hold back was to lose. To lose was to be less than you could be. And in the House of Pride, to be less was the only unforgivable sin.
Roderic braced, parrying a heavy blow with his sword, his boots scraping against the stone as he held his ground. His arms screamed. His shoulders burned. His opponent shifted, a low sweep aiming for his legs, and Roderic jumped, evading by a hair's breadth, feeling the wind of the blade's passage against his calves.
He used the momentum to snap a punch straight into the other's exposed face.
Kack!
Got you!
In the split-second of disorientation, he disarmed his opponent, spun the blade, and brought its edge to rest against the man's neck. The steel was cold, steady, final.
The match ended. Roderic stepped back, breathing heavily, sweat stinging his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest like a thing that wanted to escape.
Well, that was exhausting. He let the thought surface, let it carry him through the motions of lowering his blade, of stepping away, of letting the next fighters take their places. I can't wait to beat the shit out of Dris for this. And Ashan, too.
He turned toward the side of the hall where the water was kept, his steps measured, his breath still coming too fast.
Time for another round.
....
Back in his hut, Ashan closed his eyes and entered the sadhana state once more.
The cracks in his Chit Sagar had not healed, but they had stopped spreading. The waters had calmed, the sky had cleared, and in the silence of his small, humble dwelling, he let himself sink back into the work.
This time, he pushed forward with a focused determination that cut through the fatigue, the fear, the voice that whispered that he was reaching too far, too fast, too soon. He was close to something. He could feel it. And he would not stop until he found it.
The mantra echoed in his mind, and somewhere in the darkness, something stirred.