Hushed whispers rippled through the gathering like wind through dry grass.
"It's Acarya Errick!"
"His sermons are long. We'd better get settled."
The rows of members settled onto the brownish carpets, the Serpent Faction arranging themselves on the right, the Rat Faction on the left. Ashan found a place among his serpent-kin, near the middle of the rows—close enough to see, far enough to observe without being observed in return.
Acarya Errick sat, flipping through the pages of his old, weathered book. The sound was soft, paper sliding against paper, but in the thick, dark aura that clung to the temple, it echoed like stones dropped into deep water.
"The Lobha Granth is the scripture of accumulation." His voice filled the space, resonant, certain.
"The words it holds were spoken by our Lord."
Ashan squinted at the book in the old man's hands.
The leather binding looked unnervingly like serpent skin—scales pressed flat, their patterns still visible in the candlelight.
The pages were thick, creamy vellum, the kind that came from creatures that had once walked and breathed and been.
"The Lord said everything operates on a principle of perpetual transaction." Errick's voice was measured, yet thrummed with vigor and utmost reverence. "Nothing is truly created or destroyed; it is only transferred. To be without wealth—be it material, spiritual, or knowledge—is to be a debtor to existence itself. The ultimate sin is poverty; the ultimate virtue is shrewd acquisition. The Lord of Greed is not a monster of wanton consumption, but a divine accountant, the ultimate holder of all debt and the final repository of all value."
Ashan listened, as did all around him. He felt the words settle into the spaces between his ribs, heavy as stones.
Acarya Errick turned another page. The crackle of old parchment was the only sound in the temple's vast silence.
"Verse 1:3 — The First Debt."
He read slowly, deliberately, letting each word land like a hammer blow:
"From the first breath, thou art indebted.
The air is a loan, the mother's milk a fee.
Life itself is the primary credit, issued from the Unfilled Vault.
To die poor is to default on this fundamental debt.
Therefore, acquire. Hoard. Repay with interest."
The preaching continued—a dissection of the Lord's grim wisdom, verse by verse, line by line. Errick's voice rose and fell, shaping the ancient words into something that felt less like scripture and more like a map of the world Ashan had found himself in.
When he finally closed the book, the sound was soft, final.
"That is all for today." Acarya Errick stood, tucking the volume back into his robes with hands that did not tremble. He bowed to the divine emblem, and the congregation moved with him, a single body bending toward the light.
"Praise the Lord!"
"Praise the Lord!" the congregation echoed, and Ashan's voice was among them, rising with the rest.
As the crowd began to file out, Ashan moved with them, his feet finding the stairs, his hands tucked into his sleeves against the cold that seemed to have seeped into his bones.
Well. He let the thought settle, examined it from every angle. That was cult-like in the extreme.
He paused at the bottom of the staircase, letting the crowd flow around him like water around a stone.
But if nature allows Asuras and Devas, then surely mortals can ascend to their level. Isn't sadhana the path to amartva? Becoming a god-like being is the first step.
A chuckle escaped him, soft, private.
If anyone knew I contemplated reaching the same level as the Lord of Greed, they'd call me a blasphemous heretic.
He studied the faces around him as they passed—zeal, reverence, trust, and beneath it all, something that looked almost like hope.
I wonder why higher-dimensional beings need mortals. He turned the question over, let it catch the light. Spreading their faith must confer some benefit. In this world, "God" and "higher-dimensional being" are synonymous. It would be a profound disappointment if a god's power depended on its believers. What is the advantage of godhood if it hinges on the fickle faith of mortals?
He shook the thoughts away.
First, I must focus on mastering my siddhi.
He descended the staircase and took a road leading to where senior sadhakas taught. The path was wide, well-maintained, lined with stones that had been set in place decades ago. He arrived at the eastern side of the temple, where a gate stood under a board that read, in faded letters: Academic Center.
Rows of buildings stood inside the compound—some small, some large, all arranged with the precise geometry of a place designed by someone who believed in order. Ashan entered and turned left to a small building marked simply Office.
He pushed the door open.
A middle-aged man was asleep in a chair, his head tipped back, his mouth slightly open. A circular table before him was littered with papers and scrolls, their edges curling, their surfaces covered in handwriting that grew smaller and more cramped toward the bottom of each page. The room was a single floor, but in one corner was another door, half-hidden behind a stack of books.
Does this person live here? Ashan studied the space, the signs of habitation that went beyond mere occupation. Is this working from home, or living at work?
He approached and knocked lightly on the table.
The man furrowed his brows, his arms flailing awkwardly as he stirred. He yawned—a cavernous, open-mouthed yawn that left a line of drool glistening on his chin. "Who is it?"
"I am new. I wanted to understand how the system works here."
"New..." The man blinked, his voice shifting, becoming slightly more alert. He straightened in his chair, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Show me your identification badge."
Ashan produced the badge from his robe.
The man examined it, holding it close to his face, then farther away, then close again. "Arashen Ashan. You have an assigned teacher slot." He handed it back, his movements already slowing, his eyes already growing heavy. "Go to the ninth numbered building."
Before Ashan could ask another question, the man slumped back into his chair. "It's hibernation time," he whispered, and his eyes closed.
Ashan stared at him for a long moment.
If the House of Greed has this level of indolence, he thought, turning toward the door, what horrors of laziness must the House of Sloth contain?
He paused with his hand on the latch.
Perhaps the Kumar arranged this.
He exited and walked on, taking in the neatly arranged buildings, the paths that connected them, the quiet order of a place designed to produce something. In the distance, a large training ground buzzed with members practicing under the instruction of senior sadhakas—their voices rising and falling, their bodies moving in patterns that seemed almost choreographed.
He found the ninth building.
It was a hut, but larger than his dwelling—the walls straighter, the thatch thicker, the door solid where his was warped. The path leading to it was clear of weeds, the step worn smooth by feet that had come before.
An improvement.
He passed through the gate and entered.
The sight that greeted him made his scalp tingle.
The floor was a chaotic mosaic of scraps: paper, wood, stone, unidentifiable meat, and patches of brownish skin that might have come from something that once breathed. A pungent smell hung in the air—the iron tang of blood mixed with something else, something foul that coated the back of the throat. Dark-red and brown fluid stains smeared the ground, the walls, the corners, in patterns that might have been random or might have been the residue of some deliberate act.
A large table was strewn with bizarre instruments—curved knives, glass tubes, metal implements whose purpose Ashan could not guess. The only recognizable objects were candles, their wax melted into stalagmites, and a needle-like tool that lay beside a pot of ink the color of dried blood.
A man stood with his back to Ashan, hunched over a piece of parched paper, his hand moving in quick, sharp strokes. He was dressed in the layered robes of the Serpent Faction, but they were stained, torn, marked with the same dark fluids that covered everything else in the room.
Ashan opened his mouth to speak.
The man stopped abruptly. Without turning, without pause, he threw the paper over his shoulder.
The sheet shone with orange light. In the space between one breath and the next, it erupted into flames—bright, hungry, alive.
Ashan's eyes swirled into grayish-white.
And in the flickering firelight, a voice spoke from the heart of the flames:
"Late."
The paper burned to ash before it hit the ground, and the man turned, his pale yellow eyes fixed on Ashan with an expression that might have been anticipation or might have been the first stirrings of hunger.
"Praise the Lord of Greed," he said, and his voice was soft, and his voice was terrible, and somewhere in the darkness at the back of Ashan's mind, the gray-white whirlpools began to spin faster.
The lesson was about to begin.