Ashan emerged from his sadhana before the sun claimed its throne in the sky.
The room was still dark, the window a black rectangle against the deeper black of the pre-dawn. He stretched his limbs, feeling the quiet pops and cracks roll through his joints—a familiar morning ritual, the body waking before the mind fully caught up.
He closed his eyes. Life Sense first—a pulse of awareness that spread outward from his core, touching the walls, the floor, the empty air beyond. Then Soul Sense, deeper, more subtle, reaching for the presence of living things.
Nobody.
Good.
He rose in one fluid motion, his bare feet finding the cold earth floor. For a moment, he stood still, letting his breath settle into the rhythm that had become as natural as his heartbeat. Then—movement.
Prana coursed through his channels as he fell into the first stance, his body carving the familiar patterns into the morning air. The wisp of energy followed the paths he traced, a ghost of light that clung to his limbs and faded as quickly as it came.
[Broken Stone Fist]
He inhaled, drawing power from the earth through the soles of his feet. It rose—through his ankles, his calves, his hips—coiling, gathering, waiting. He channeled it to his hip, let it build, then unleashed it through his fist with a half-exhale that cracked the silence like a whip.
A short, sharp inhale. Elbow strike. Another half-exhale.
He finished the sequence with a driving knee, a full, explosive breath tearing from his lungs. The air in front of him rippled with the force of it, and somewhere in the darkness, dust stirred from the rafters and drifted down like grey snow.
He repeated the forms for half an hour, losing himself in the rhythm, in the flow of energy through channels that had once been blocked and were now open. Each repetition was a prayer, each strike a meditation.
When he finally stopped, his breath came in a visible plume—white in the cold morning air—and a final "Huff!" signaled the end.
The sun was high now, its light harsh through the window. He had lost time. He often did.
Exiting the hut, he surveyed his surroundings.
To the left, the land fell away in a cliff, offering a view of the port below. Ships crowded the water, their masts a forest of bare wood against the blue. On the docks, a thick crowd of figures in layered robes swarmed like ants on a carcass. Their shouts and cries rose on the morning breeze—orders, curses, laughter—a dissonant hymn to the sky.
Ashan gave it one cursory glance and turned away.
He walked on, the weight of the pouch in his robe a constant, diminishing reminder of his poverty. The path led deeper into the base's heart, past buildings he catalogued without appearing to look: a smithy, a stable, a building with bars on the windows and guards at the door. Each one told him something about the place, about the people who lived here, about the kind of order that ruled this island.
Soon, he stood before a restaurant-like building. A plain, unadorned board hung above the door, the word RESTAURANT carved into it in block letters that had faded to grey.
He moved through the door.
A few curious gazes landed on him, lingered for a moment, then slid away. He ignored them, finding an unoccupied table near the back where he could watch the room without being watched in return. The air was thick with the fragrance of sizzling oils and spices, and somewhere in the kitchen, something was being fried in fat that had been used a hundred times before.
On the table, a brown paper listed the dishes and their prices. He read it carefully, his ears tuning into the surrounding chatter.
"Damn! I can't wait to get out of that shithole."
"Then work harder. Renting a house in the inner area costs a hefty sum."
So everyone starts with the shabby hut. Ashan's lips curved, the revelation both bitter and comforting. At least I'm not being singled out. Not yet.
He settled on his breakfast: simple flatbread with curry. Two bronze coins.
A waiter came—a young man with hollow cheeks and eyes that had seen too much. Ashan handed over the coins with a faint, internal wince.
My money...
His eyes flickered with a faint hue of grayish-white, just for a moment, just enough to taste the surface of the waiter's life.
Everyone here is a sadhaka. The observation settled in his chest like a cold stone. Waiter, chef, all. They do these odd jobs to survive. The cost of living, of training... a vicious cycle.
The waiter returned with five flatbreads and a bowl of curry—thin, yellow, flecked with something green that might have been herb or might have been weed. Ashan tore a piece, dipped it, and began to eat.
"We meet again!"
The voice was excited, too loud, too familiar.
Ashan glanced up. The same middle-aged man from the mission board stood beside his table, smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes. Without invitation, he slid into the seat opposite.
"I forgot to introduce myself." He extended a hand that Ashan did not take. "Rokan. Rat Faction."
"Ashan. Serpent Faction." The minimal reply. Nothing more.
He returned to his meal while Rokan watched him, the silence stretching between them like a wire pulled taut.
"So, how are you finding the place? When I first arrived..." The man blathered on about nothing and everything—the training grounds, the library, the best taverns for cheap drink. His words were water, flowing without direction, filling the space Ashan refused to fill.
Ashan finished his food in silence.
This fucker. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching Rokan over the rim of his empty bowl. He's trying to recruit me for a mission. I've already grasped the system. I should feign some interest. The Kumar doesn't know I can pluck secrets from a man's soul just by looking.
"How does the system work here?" he finally asked.
Rokan's smile widened, showing rusty brown teeth. He leaned back, pulled a coin from his pocket, and flipped it into the air. It spun—once, twice, three times—catching the light before he snatched it and presented it to Ashan like a magician revealing a trick.
"Money!" He let the word hang, let it fill the space between them. "Everything runs on it. A better room? Money. Better food? Money. New kiriyas and mantras? Money. Guidance from a senior? Money. "
"And how does one acquire money?"
"Good question!" Rokan shook his head in mock approval. "You saw the mission board. Missions are commissioned by the House, or sometimes by senior sadhakas."
"Senior sadhakas?" Ashan tilted his head, feigning puzzlement.
Arohan-ranked, he thought. The ones who sit above, who decide who rises and who falls.
"They teach, guide, and occasionally hand out missions." Rokan leaned closer, his eyes locking with Ashan's, his voice dropping to something approaching intimacy. "So, what do you say? Join me. It's a simple transport mission. Good rewards, I told you."
Ashan ignored the question, let it hang in the air like smoke. "Where do these missions take place? And what types are there?"
Rokan's smile dimmed, but he answered. "On-base and off-base. We have good naval transport." His fingers drummed the table. "The types vary—rakshasa hunting, herb collecting, acquiring intel, and so on." His patience was thinning, the mask slipping. "Made up your mind?"
Ashan shook his head slowly, deliberately. "Kumar Taevor instructed me to explore the base first. He will arrange something for me personally."
The name acted like a physical blow.
Rokan stiffened. His face went blank for a second—just a second—before the smile snapped back into place, but it was a different smile now. Hollow. Forced. The smile of a man who had stepped on something sharp and was pretending it hadn't happened.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "Hahaha! Why didn't you say so before?"
He practically fled the restaurant, his shoulders hunched, his steps too quick, too eager to be anywhere else.
Damn it! Ashan watched him go, watched the way the other patrons glanced after him, the way their whispers followed. As if Kumar Taevor has time for the likes of him!
He stood and exited as well.
The morning sun was bright now, casting hard shadows across the road. He paused, letting his eyes adjust, letting his thoughts settle.
New mantras. New kiriyas. Mastering them. Gaining knowledge...
He retrieved the badge from his pocket, consulted the shimmering map. The points of light pulsed faintly—training facilities, library, mission board, his own small hut at the edge of everything.
A single glance was all it took.
The answer is clear.
He tucked the badge away and began to walk. The road led him past the restaurant, past the mission board with its crowd of desperate faces, past a building where someone was practicing mantras with a voice that cracked on the foul syllables of Ashurian.
He came to a stop in front of one of the training facilities.
The building was large, functional, built of stone and timber that had seen years of use. Through the open door, he could see figures moving in the dim light, hear the thud of fists against wood, the sharp cries of exertion. The air that drifted out smelled of sweat and sawdust and something else—the faint, metallic tang of prana expended and spent.
He stood there for a long moment, watching, calculating.
This is where it begins, he thought. This is where I learn what I need to survive.
He stepped forward, and the shadows swallowed him whole.
Inside, the world was noise and motion and the steady, grinding work of becoming something more than human. And somewhere in the darkness at the back of his mind, the grey-white whirlpools stirred—watching, waiting, learning the price of a single bronze coin in a world that measured everything in blood.
The first loss, he knew, was always the hardest.
But it was also the first step. And on the road to immortality, every step mattered.