The grey-white spirals swirled into whirlpools, deepening, widening, becoming the thing that had been waiting for this moment and was now, at last, ready to be used. The darkness that had filled the room was not darkness anymore. It was possibility.
Ashan did not wait. Did not hesitate. Did not give the unknown the courtesy of a first move.
Eight seconds. He let the number settle. After three years of continuous use, of increasing mastery, the future lay bare before his grey-white eyes for eight full seconds.
But seeing the future did not guarantee victory.
Fast. A dark shadow. His body moved before his mind caught up. Lunging.
He sidestepped.
[Life Sense].
Vision sharpened. The room that had been darkness became a map of presence and absence. Every shadow was a shape, every surface was a surface.
Where?
A faint hum answered. Something slithered. Something brushed his cheek.
Drip.
Blood trickled down, warm against his skin.
The strikes began. From every shadow, from every angle—quick, decisive, deadly. Ashan dodged using micro-bursts of [Foresee], each evasion bought with precious seconds of precognition.
I can't keep up.
[Elemental Bolt: Prithvi].
Dark-brown energy coalesced in his palm, but instead of releasing as a beam, he sculpted it. Three years of practice manifested in an instant. The bolt became a rough, dark spike, then split into three, shooting wide around the room.
Jnata rank. Not easy. Not hard. Just... practice.
A hostile presence flared.
[Elemental Bolt: Prithvi].
Rumble. A rough dark wall rose between him and the threat.
Crack. It broke. One moment. Splintered into nothing.
Ashan's hand changed. Flesh darkened, scaled, elongated—serpentine transformation racing up his arm.
[Totem Beast Transformation].
The scaled hand shot forward, grasping.
[Serpent Grasp].
One hold. One squeeze. That was all he needed.
Empty air. The enemy slithered through his grip like smoke.
He twisted mid-motion, already adapting.
[Broken Stone Fist].
Dark-blue hues blazed along serpentine scales. The strike came with precision, with intent—the intent to penetrate.
Two forces collided.
BAM.
Ashan felt himself launched backward. He hit the ground, rolled, came up fighting.
That strength. Not Bodnir. Arohan.
Who? Rajyam? Order?
If Rajyam—[Conceal] and flee. If Order—especially House of Greed—[Conceal] is suicide.
He tried to rise. His body refused. The weight of a predator's gaze pinned him in place. One move. One breath. One heartbeat. Death.
"Enough." The voice was low. Old. Authoritative. "We've seen enough."
Wait. I know that voice.
Ashan forced his battered body upright. Vigilance still screamed in every nerve.
Click. Light bloomed. A single candle. Gold serpent masks gleamed in the flickering glow.
House of Greed. Good. I didn't use [Conceal].
Ashan's hand rose in formal salute.
"Praise the Lord of Greed."
"Praise the Lord of Greed."
"Praise the Lord of Greed."
One of the masked figures removed their golden serpent. Familiar features emerged. Acarya Errick.
"Arashen Ashan." The Acarya's voice held approval. "Your performance was quite good."
"Thank you for your praise, Acarya." Ashan bowed.
"Tch. Good for a weakling." Another mask came off—a woman, dark-fair-skinned, short brown hair, eyes that glared.
Why the hostility? Is it that time of the—no. She's Sharir. She can control that.
"He's Bodnir-ranked." Errick's correction was mild. "Against an Arohan? The spar was more than adequate."
"So much for being a Siddha." The woman's glare did not waver.
Pardon me for not being born stronger, my lady.
Ashan kept his head down. Said nothing. The woman studied him—the bowed head, the silent acceptance, the complete lack of reaction.
Interesting. Even after that much provocation, he doesn't bite. I was hoping he'd talk back. Give me an excuse to... acquire some of his wealth. What a disappointment.
"Arashen Ashan. Rise." Errick's voice carried weight. Ashan straightened.
"Kumar Taevor's assessment of your value was entirely correct. Your deeds here have spread throughout the Order. All seven houses know your name."
"All seven?" Ashan's voice held carefully measured embarrassment.
"All seven." The woman's snicker was dark. "The House of Lust was particularly... amused. Your invention addressed their most persistent inefficiency. They've been mass-producing ever since." A pause. "The enhanced versions? The charm-crafted ones? Those they couldn't replicate. Do you know why?"
Ashan shook his head. Carefully.
"Apparently, your teacher Yaren made a rather memorable expression when asked to scribble on... that particular surface." Her laughter was quiet, cruel, delighted.
Ashan's face twitched. I hope he doesn't kill me.
"The more accurate reason," Errick interjected, "is that they're not allowed to replicate them. Our House holds sole authority. A pact was signed. All House Leaders agreed."
The woman's snickering continued. "So yes. You have permission to produce the enhanced versions. Improve them. Monopolize them. Not everyone wants to use their craft for such... absurd applications. But it's generated considerable revenue."
Then the fear is gone. Technology theft—prevented by a single pact.
Power. Beautiful. Horrifying.
Knock. Knock. "Captain! You there?" Toric's voice. Slurred. Drunk. Celebratory. "We're starting the celebration! You're missing out!"
Ashan's glance flicked to his guests—brief, apologetic, controlled. "I'm busy. Don't disturb me." "Your loss, Captain! We'll drink your share!"
Footsteps retreated. Silence returned.
Errick's expression shifted. The pleasantries were over. "Now. The task at hand."
Ashan waited. Maybe... maybe this is it. The gift. For completing Kumar's mission.