Ashan opened the old book. Basic Guide to Divination and Revelation. The cover was cracked, the spine broken in three places, and when he flipped through the pages, the smell of age rose up like dust from a tomb.
He flipped through the pages, letting his eyes move across the faded ink, the cramped handwriting in the margins, the diagrams that had been drawn and redrawn until they were almost illegible.
Aside from the details he already knew. His fingers traced the edge of a page, feeling the softness of the paper, the way it had been worn smooth by hands that had come before. The text focused almost exclusively on using Manomaya-Loka as a source. There was little to no mention of Karmajala-Loka.
"Well." He closed the book, set it on the table beside him. "I should increase my knowledge. It never hurts to know more."
The words fell into the silence of the hut, absorbed by the walls, the thatch, the darkness that pressed against the window.
He opened the book again.
The first section gave a short introduction to the Manomaya-Loka: a dimension of bizarre, paradoxical nature where spirits and other strange entities dwelled. A realm where imagination, emotion, and dreams manifested as tangible landscapes, reflecting the collective unconscious and serving as a bridge between consciousness and reality.
Imagination and bizarre things. He read the words again, let them settle. It must be worse than hell.
After the introduction, the book dove into the mechanics of divination. Ashan read for an hour, his eyes moving across the page, his mind turning over the information, fitting it into the framework he was building. When he finally looked up, his brow was furrowed.
"It is a complicated and arduous process." He spoke to the empty room, giving the words weight. "Not only does it lack any offensive or defensive utility, but it requires specific materials to conduct—materials that can channel atmic urja and have a high density of it."
He closed the book, placed it on the table, and let his thoughts settle. "And one key detail: it uses spirits as intermediaries. Whether using coins, dream visions, or any other method, it all deals with spirits that grant higher intuition."
He pondered this deeply, turning it over, examining it from every angle.
The Scrying ability of my siddhi gives me an affinity for fate and revelation, not absolute command over them. He let the realization settle in his chest, cold and heavy. So, I must learn the kinds of divination that are actually teachable.
Shikshak Yaren didn't specify a schedule, and I didn't ask. His fingers found the edge of the book, traced the worn leather. It would serve me well to return to him only after I've finished the book. He seemed busy, engrossed in his work.
And also...
He took out his pouch of coins. The leather was soft, worn, and when he tipped it, the contents spilled onto the table in a small pile of bronze that caught the candlelight. It was noticeably lighter than it had been the day before.
If I eat only one meal a day and train for six hours for the next five days—until the book is due—that will cost twenty-five bronze coins. The calculation was simple, brutal, absolute. And I have only twenty-three.
His face darkened.
Money goes hand in hand with power.
Sunlight streamed through his window, painting the floor in stripes of gold and shadow. His stomach grumbled, the sound loud in the silence.
After three days, he thought, rising, stretching, feeling the ache in his muscles from the day before. I will take a mission. Or two.
Ashan returned to the restaurant, found a seat near the back, and ordered the same meal—flatbread and curry, the cheapest thing on the menu. The hall was filled with the hushed, boasting voices of Arashen-ranked members, their words overlapping, rising and falling like waves against a shore. He scanned the room but didn't see Rokan among the crowd of hungry faces.
Maybe he hasn't found a new victim. He let the thought settle, examined it from every angle. Using Kumar Taevor's name for deterrence was a good move, but I don't know how much weight it truly holds. A young lord of a Great House undoubtedly has as many enemies as he has privileges.
The waiter brought his order—five flatbreads, still steaming, and a bowl of mixed vegetable curry that smelled of cumin and something green. Ashan ate silently, his ears tuned to the conversations around him, the daily complaints that filled the space between bites.
It was the same everywhere: frustration over circumstances, the endless pursuit of more money, the grind that never ended.
"Damn, achieving 'Bodh' is sure hard," someone exclaimed from a table near the window, and Ashan's ears perked up.
The term felt faintly familiar. He chewed slowly, letting the memory surface. Back in the cave, Instructor Inria mentioned it in passing, without explanation. I'd better ask Shikshak Yaren about this.
He finished his meal, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and left the coins on the table.
And regarding using my siddhi to glean information... He stepped out into the morning light, letting the warmth settle on his face. I'd better not use it publicly too much. Who knows what forbidden knowledge I might stumble upon? It could easily become a death trap.
He headed to the training facilities, following the same routine as the day before. The old man at the desk did not look up when he paid his three bronze coins, and Ashan moved into the left section without a word.
The hours passed in a blur of movement, of mantras chanted until his throat was raw, of strikes practiced until his arms trembled. He pushed himself harder than the day before, let the fatigue build and then pushed past it, let the pain become something he could hold and shape and use.
After six hours of grueling practice, he went to the temple to pay his respects.
He ascended the staircase, feeling the air grow thick and dark around him, the weight of the divine emblem pressing down on his shoulders. He settled on the ground, performed the "Hollow Offering" gesture, and let the words rise from his chest.
"O Lord of Greed, who sits upon the Unfilled Vault,
Ruler of Wealth, whose breath is the Covetous Flame,
Grant us the Debt of the Damned, that we may hoard in your name."
He prayed to the Ruler of Wealth as the profane chants in Asurain echoed through the temple, the divine emblem shining with a dark light in response. The words were familiar now, the rhythm of them settling into his bones like something he had always known.
Afterward, he strolled through the base, familiarizing himself with its layout—the training grounds, the mission board, the buildings where senior sadhakas taught their arts. He walked until the sun fell and the moon rose, until the streets emptied and the shadows grew long, and then he returned to his hut to enter the state of sadhana.
For three days, Ashan followed this routine: study the book in the morning, train after lunch, pay respects at the temple, and practice sadhana through the night. The days blurred together, each one a copy of the last, and by the fourth morning, his pouch was nearly empty and his mind was full of questions he could not yet answer.
He stood before the mission board, surrounded by others browsing the postings, their voices low, their eyes hungry.
An easy mission with good rewards.
He scanned the board, his gaze moving across the parchments pinned to the wood, the offers of coin and supplies in exchange for risk and blood. His fingers touched the edge of one notice—Hunting Vypers—and he let the words settle in his mind.
His expression was serious, calculating, the expression of a man who had learned that every choice was a transaction, and every transaction had a price.
The sun was high, the day was young, and somewhere on this island, there was a mission that would give him what he needed to survive another week.
He just had to find it.