Screech! Screech!
The final, wallowing cries of the Nirsadha echoed through the market square, bouncing off the stone walls, the wooden stalls, the faces of the crowd that stood frozen in a ring of witness. Then the cries faded, swallowed by the crackle of consuming flame, by the hiss of something that had been human and was human no longer being reduced to ash and memory.
Everyone watched. The sellers who had been shouting their wares stood silent. The buyers who had been haggling over prices stood still. The children who had been weaving through the crowd on errands for their parents stood with their hands over their mouths and their eyes wide. The corrupted thing burned, engulfed in crimson fire, writhing and wailing until even that ceased.
"This is my first time seeing someone become Nirsadha!"
"Same here." The voice was low and hushed, the voice of someone who had heard stories and dismissed them and was now, at last, understanding. "I thought it was just... something they told us to keep us in line."
"The scholars of Janadhani Rajyam have many theories about their origin..." Another voice, older and more thoughtful. "The most common one is that the act of sadhana itself plants the seed of corruption in a Sadhaka. That every time we draw power, we are also drawing something else. Something that waits."
"But why?" The question was sharp and urgent, the question of someone who had just realized that the ground beneath their feet was not as solid as they had thought. "Where does the corruption even come from?"
The whispers spread through the crowd, low and hushed, each voice still carrying the fresh, metallic taste of fear—the fear of becoming that, of losing control, of waking up one day to find that the thing looking back from the mirror was not you, had never been you, would never be you again.
"Only through faith in the Lord of Greed can we climb the ladder to immortality!" The voice was high and desperate, the voice of a man who needed to believe that there was a way out, a way up, a way to be safe from the thing that had just happened in front of him.
"Praise the Lord of Greed!"
The words spread through the crowd like fire through dry grass, like the flames that were still consuming what was left of Rokan, like the fear that had been building since the first signs of corruption and was now, at last, finding release.
"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."
They fell into the familiar, profane prayer of Ashurain, the words rising, falling, and rising again, a collective shield against the horror they had just witnessed, a wall of sound and faith and desperation that pushed back the silence, pushed back the fear, pushed back the thing that had been in their midst and was now only ash and memory.
Ashan followed along, his lips moving with theirs, his voice joining theirs, his face a mask of piety and devotion that betrayed nothing of the cold, clear thoughts moving behind it.
Well. He let the thought surface, examined it, let it go. The Lord of Greed must be pleased. I've just sent one of his followers to settle his final debt.
"Look! The flames are dying!"
The fire receded, the crimson light dimming, the heat fading, leaving behind a crisped, charred husk that was barely recognizable as something that had once been human. Resting atop it, pulsing faintly, was a single, dark orb that seemed to have its own gravity, its own weight, its own hunger.
"A vestige!" The voice was excited and greedy, the voice of someone who had already forgotten what they had just seen in their eagerness to claim what was left. "It must have absorbed the vestige of the other victim, too!"
Someone, driven by greed or curiosity or the particular blindness that comes from wanting something you have been told you cannot have, took a step forward, his hand reaching, his eyes fixed on the orb.
"Wait, you fool!" Another voice barked, sharp and urgent, pulling him back. "That vestige is corrupted! If you want to turn into a monster, do it off this island!"
The dark orb visibly oozed a sickly, malignant energy, something that was not quite light and not quite dark, something that seemed to move of its own accord, to pulse with a rhythm that was not quite a heartbeat. The charred remains beneath it were already melting, being drawn into the orb's core, the ash and bone and memory of what had been Rokan becoming fuel for something that would not die, that could not die, that would wait and watch and grow until it found another host, another vessel, another chance to be.
"The Nirsadha was a Bodnir-ranked Sadhaka, Perfection stage." The voice was clinical and detached, the voice of someone who had seen too much to be moved by what was in front of him. "So was the man it killed. Both were Sharir Marga."
The charmcaster who had betrayed Rokan sidled up to Ashan, his steps careful, his smile fixed, his eyes everywhere but on the thing that was still pulsing, still waiting, still watching.
"A shame you don't walk the Sharir Path." He shook his head in performative disappointment. "But it's corrupted anyway."
Ashan didn't spare him a glance. His eyes were fixed on the orb, on the way it pulsed, on the way it seemed to reach for something that was not there. "Enough about the vestige." His voice was flat and absolute. "You owe me compensation for the losses I suffered thanks to your little stunt."
The man coughed, caught off guard, his carefully constructed composure cracking. "Losses?" His voice was higher than it had been, thinner. "What losses could you possibly have?"
Ashan's lips curved, the smile cold and precise. "Psychological trauma." He let the words hang, let them settle. "I'm deeply shaken. I doubt I'll be able to enter a peaceful state of sadhana for days."
This fucker! The charmcaster's face darkened, his hands clenching at his sides, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing.
.....
"What is all this noise?!"
A new voice thundered through the market square, slicing through the murmurs, through the whispers, through the lingering silence that had fallen after the flames died. All heads turned.
An officer strode leisurely toward the corrupted vestige, his cloak of advanced design marked with the dark gold serpent strap of his faction, his steps measured, his gaze cold, his presence a weight that pressed down on the crowd, that pushed them back, that made them remember that there were always those who stood above and those who stood below and that the line between them was not easily crossed.
The crowd instinctively made way, parting before him like water before a stone, their voices falling silent, their eyes lowering, their hands finding their sides.
"Officer..." The whisper was barely audible, lost almost as soon as it was spoken.
The man stopped before the orb, studied it for a moment, his face betraying nothing. Then he raised his hand, fingers curling, and the dark orb rose from the ashes, floating and turning, caught in the grip of a will that was not its own. He examined it coldly, his eyes moving across its surface, his lips pressing together, his breath slow and measured.
He sealed it inside a small wooden box with a snap that seemed louder than it should have been.
"Hmph." The sound was dismissive and final. "Nirsadha." He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the crowd, across the faces that were still pale, still frightened, still uncertain. "Who dealt the final blow?"
The crowd shrank under his gaze, the men who had been boasting of their courage moments before finding their eyes fixed on the ground, their voices lost, their hands empty. Their eyes drifted, inevitably, to Ashan.
Fuck them all.
Ashan stepped forward, his steps measured, his face calm, his voice steady. "I landed the killing strike." He let the words hang, let them settle. "But it died by our combined effort."
The officer closed the distance between them, his gaze a physical weight, a pressure that pressed against Ashan's skin, his lungs, his eyes. "Name."
"Ashan." He did not look away. "Arashen Ashan."
"Arashen Ashan." The officer's voice was flat and professional. "You will come with me for further questioning." His tone brooked no argument, allowed no discussion, offered no room for anything but compliance.
Where was this bastard when we were fighting for our lives? Ashan let the thought surface, let the icy rage simmer beneath his calm. Well, no matter. Questioning can't hurt. He let the thought settle, let it become something else, something colder, something that was not quite reassurance and not quite threat. I'm the Kumar's man now.
"If you attempt to hinder—" The officer's voice was sharp and commanding, the voice of a man who was used to being obeyed. Then he stopped. His eyes widened. His mouth opened, then closed. His cold, authoritative expression fractured, replaced by something that was there and gone in a second—startled subservience, recognition, fear.
His mask snapped back into place, but the damage was done.
"What happened?"
"Why did he look like that?"
The crowd buzzed with hushed confusion, their voices rising, falling, and rising again, their eyes moving from the officer to Ashan and back again, trying to understand what they had just seen, what it meant, what would come next.
The officer cleared his throat, the sound loud in the sudden silence. "Your..." He paused, his eyes flickering to Ashan's face, then away. "...contribution is noted." He straightened, his composure restored, his voice steady. "Praise the Lord of Greed."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, the crowd parting for him once more, their whispers following him, their eyes following him, their questions unanswered.
Had to be the Kumar's influence. Ashan watched him go, let the thought surface, let it settle. He felt no triumph. Instead, a sour taste filled his mouth, a weight settled in his chest, a question that had no answer pressed against the back of his mind.
How tightly am I being watched?
.....
The crowd, abuzz with theories about the strange exchange, about the officer's sudden change in demeanor, about the boy who had killed a Nirsadha and walked away without a scratch, began to disperse. The sellers returned to their stalls. The buyers returned to their haggling. The children returned to their errands. The market, which had been frozen in a moment of horror, began to move again.
But the deeper horror—the horror of becoming something alien, something unmade, something that was not you and had never been you and would never be you again—lingered in the air. It clung to them all long after the charred scent had faded, long after the crowd had gone, long after the sun had set and the moon had risen and the lights of the base had flickered and dimmed.
Ashan stood alone in the empty square, the weight of what he had done pressing against his thoughts, and watched the darkness gather.