Fifty bronze coins. And he had to earn it only by selling his charms.
Ashan's voice emerged cautious, measured, the voice of a man who was already calculating the distance between where he was and where he needed to be. "How much does one charm cost?"
Still savoring his glacial spirit, Shikshak Yaren replied without looking up. "Five bronze coins for a well-made charm."
That means I just need to sell ten of them. Ashan let the number settle, felt the relief spread through his chest. Ten. He heaved a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs.
It didn't last.
But why would anyone buy charms made by a no-name novice?
He looked at his Shikshak, who was still lost in the taste of his drink, his eyes half-lidded, his lips curved in a faint smile that spoke of satisfaction and something else, something that might have been anticipation.
"Not happening." Yaren's voice was sharp, his pale eyes flickering open, fixing on Ashan with an intensity that had not been there before. "I will not advertise that I taught you charmcasting." He paused, and his voice dropped, became something colder, more deliberate. "And you should not tell anyone I taught you. You have to rely on yourself."
Talk about being cheap.
Ashan grabbed another quill and sheet of paper, his movements quick, almost angry. Right now, I should focus on creating a perfect charm.
He channeled a thread of atmic urja and will into the quill, feeling the familiar resistance, the familiar give. His hand moved with vastly improved speed and control compared to his first fumbling attempts, the lines flowing from the nib with a precision that had been unthinkable days ago.
Finally, it's done!
He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, letting his hand fall, letting his breath slow. Before him lay the parched, brownish paper, now inscribed with the symbol of flames in a contained circular motion. The lines were clean, the shape true, the intent clear. He held it carefully, feeling the faint pulse of energy that ran through it like a heartbeat.
"How is it?"
Shikshak Yaren finished his drink, setting the glass aside with a soft click. He gave the charm a cursory glance, his expression unreadable. "Throw it at me."
Ashan blinked. "Come again?"
"I don't want to repeat myself, Ashan." His tone held a warning edge, the edge of a man who had said the same thing too many times and was tired of saying it again.
Ashan did as instructed, tossing the paper toward his teacher, watching it flutter through the air, watching the light catch its edges, watching the space between them shrink.
I can feel the connection between the paper and me. He let the thought surface, cold and clear. It was established by threading my atmic urja into it.
The charm fluttered through the air, its trajectory lazy, unhurried. Ashan closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on that fragile, newfound link, feeling the shape of the energy that waited to be released.
"Ignite!"
He activated the charm.
The paper fluttered wildly for an instant—then erupted into a swirling ball of flames that seemed to have its own gravity, its own weight, its own hunger. The fireball rushed toward Shikshak Yaren, trailing heat, trailing light, trailing the smell of burning paper and something else, something that might have been ozone or might have been the first taste of power properly wielded.
Shikshak Yaren observed it calmly, his pale yellow eyes tracking its movement, its speed, its potential. "Not bad for a first try."
Then he simply punched in the direction of the oncoming fire.
What! Ashan's eyes widened. He punched the air!
Swish!
The compressed air from his punch tore through the fireball like a blade through silk, scattering the flames, extinguishing them, leaving only a wisp of smoke that curled toward the ceiling and was gone.
"What do you mean by saying 'Ignite'?" Yaren's voice was harsh, rebuking, the voice of a man who had seen too many students fail because they thought there was time for ceremony, for drama, for the small luxuries of words that did nothing. "In a life-and-death battle, you don't have time for fancy announcements."
"Well, I just can't help myself." Ashan smiled shyly, a flush of embarrassment warming his neck, his ears, the space behind his eyes. Now I'm feeling ridiculous about it.
Shikshak Yaren didn't pursue it further. His expression shifted, became something almost clinical. "That is called a fireball charm. It is a basic offensive charm. The execution was acceptable for a first attempt, but its power and activation time are still substandard." He waved a hand, dismissive. "Get back to crafting. Practice increasing their firepower and speed."
With that, he sank back into his sadhana, his presence receding, his attention turning inward, the room falling silent except for the soft rasp of his breath.
Practice firepower... Ashan let the thought surface, turned it over. Should I use the training facilities?
Shine!
Something gleamed in front of his eyes, bright, sudden, impossible to ignore.
"What the—!"
A perfect, dark sphere of light coalesced around Shikshak Yaren, encapsulating him in a seamless barrier that seemed to drink the light, to absorb the shadows, to be the only thing in the room that was truly solid.
Good grief!
Ashan's eyes ignited into their analytical grayish-white hues, the whirlpools spinning, the information flooding in. Time to analyze this!
He returned to his work, crafting more fireball charms, his hands moving with a speed and precision that had been unthinkable when he had started. Under his siddhi's dissecting gaze, he identified flaws and inefficiencies in his technique—the slight hesitation before the activation, the uneven distribution of urja, the places where the energy bled away before it could be shaped into flame. He honed his craft with each attempt, each failure a lesson, each success a door opening onto the next challenge.
Huff!
He took a sharp, weary breath, setting down the quill, letting his hands fall to his sides. I've depleted most of my atmic urja.
Nine completed fireball charms lay on the ground beside him, their surfaces faintly warm, their edges crisp, their symbols precise. Ten charms are my current limit.
He gathered them all, a weary but triumphant smirk curling his lips. Let's blast them all!
Swish! Swish! Swish!
He hurled all nine charms toward the imposing dark sphere that surrounded his teacher, watching them arc through the air, watching the light catch their edges, watching the space between them shrink.
The papers fluttered, then simultaneously transformed, swirling into balls of concentrated flame that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat, their own hunger, their own will.
Ah! Too bright!
Ashan shielded his eyes, the light searing through his closed lids, painting the darkness behind them in shades of orange and red. The temperature in the room spiked dramatically, the heat pressing against his skin, his clothes, the walls that held them.
Blast!
Nine fireballs slammed against the surface of the dark sphere in a thunderous, concussive roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. The sound was deafening, the kind that would shatter a normal person's eardrums, that would leave them bleeding and blind and broken.
No way! He lowered his hands, his eyes adjusting, his breath catching. Not a single crack!
The dark sphere stood utterly immaculate, its surface unblemished, unscratched, untouched. Not a scorch mark. Not a fissure. Not even a ripple where the flames had struck.
It tanked all nine charms. He let the realization settle, cold and heavy. What monstrous defensive capability.
Shaking off his daze, Ashan spoke up, his voice tired, defeated, the voice of a man who had given everything and come up empty. "Shikshak, I apologize for the disappointment, but I am completely spent."
Crack!
The dark sphere shattered like thin glass, dissolving into particles of dark light that vanished into the air, that scattered across the room, that left behind only the memory of what they had been.
"The power has increased." Shikshak Yaren's voice was flat, clinical. "But you still need to work on decreasing the activation time further. Practice for a few more days, then you may begin selling them in the market." He closed his eyes, re-entering his sadhana without another word. "Leave now."
"Praise the Lord of Greed." Ashan bowed, the motion automatic, and took his leave.
Outside, the night sky held the moon and stars captive, their light silver-pale, their shadows deep. A slight, cold breeze brushed against his skin, a welcome relief from the heat of his efforts, the heat that still clung to his clothes, his hair, the spaces behind his eyes.
Maybe I should take a bath before going to sleep.
He walked down the path toward his hut, his steps slow, his body heavy, his mind already turning over the lessons of the day, the failures, the successes, the mountain of debt that loomed before him. Fifty bronze coins. Ten charms. A market that did not know his name, a skill that was not yet refined, a future that was not yet written.
He smiled, faint and wry, and let the cold night air fill his lungs, let it cool the heat that still burned in his chest, let it remind him that there was more to this world than the things he had not yet achieved. There was the moon. There were the stars. There was the slow, patient work of becoming something more than he had been.
He walked on, and behind him, the lights of the base flickered and dimmed, and the night deepened, and the world continued on its indifferent course.