Hot. Painful. Burning.
The thoughts came in fragments now—Toric could not form sentences, could not do anything but feel as the heat consumed him. His entire being, he was certain, had been placed on some invisible pyre and set alight.
His breathing fragmented into gasps that tore at his throat, that left him light-headed, that made the world swim at the edges. The heat, which had begun in his right side as a dull, distant warmth, now spread outward like cracks in drying mud—branching, reaching, claiming new territory with each heartbeat. It was in his chest now, his arm, his neck, the space behind his eyes where something was building, something was growing, something was waiting to be born.
Ashan watched through eyes that should have been screaming for rest. They did not close. They could not close. There was too much to see, too much to do, too much that would be lost if he looked away now.
The obstructions in Toric's right-side nadis were burning away. Not literally—there was no flame, no smoke, no thing that could be seen or smelled or touched. But the effect was the same. Blockages that had existed for years, perhaps decades, were dissolving under the pressure of synchronized prana, giving way to channels that would allow energy to flow freely for the first time.
My hands.
He felt them before he saw them—a deep, throbbing heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. When he glanced down, cracks were forming across his skin, fine as spider silk, pale as moonlight, spreading with each passing second.
The nadis are still opening. I can't stop now. If I stop midway, he'll be crippled.
"Toric." His voice emerged calm, controlled, the voice of a surgeon who had done this before and would do it again. "Hold on."
Toric's body trembled in waves, each one more violent than the last. His prana, which had been a sluggish creek, now surged through half-opened channels like floodwater through broken dams—too fast, too chaotic, threatening to tear everything apart.
"Sync with my flow!" Ashan's command cut through the roaring in Toric's ears.
Sweat poured from Toric's forehead in steady streams, pooling on the floor beneath him. His eyes, when they opened, were shot through with burst vessels—red on white, stark against skin gone pale as old bone. His face had settled into a mask of pure endurance, the expression of a man who had stopped feeling individual pains and now simply contained the totality of them.
"I will not die."
The words were a grunt, barely intelligible, but they carried something that had not been there before: intent. Purpose. He was no longer just enduring. He was fighting.
The heat continued to rise. He continued to hold.
Ashan guided. Slowly. Calmly. Deliberately.
His hands, cracked and burning, maintained their position. The burn marks spreading across his palms and fingers were visible now—not the red of minor injury, but the deep, mottled discoloration of tissue pushed past its limits.
Sweat dripped from his forehead, tracing paths down his temples, his cheeks, his jaw.
Then something else joined it.
Blood.
A thin trickle, hot against his skin, emerged from the corner of his left eye and traced a path down his cheek.
I'm at my limit. Physical and mental both.
He checked Toric's progress one final time. The Pingala-side nadis had opened—not completely, not fully, but enough. Prana flowed where before it had been dammed.
"I'm stopping now." He pulled his hands away, severing the flow of his own energy. "Guide your own prana along the right side. Keep the heat contained. Don't let it flare."
Toric drew a breath so deep it seemed to pull air from the corners of the room. His shoulders, rigid with tension, slumped incrementally. For one heartbeat, two, he simply breathed.
Then he did as instructed. He reached inside, found the current of his own energy, and directed it—along the right side, following the path Ashan had traced. The heat, which had been threatening to consume him, began to subside. Not vanish—but settle. Find its level.
Easier. It flows easier now.
The sensation was like breathing after years of shallow gasps. Like seeing after decades of fog.
Ashan closed his eyes. One hand rose, wiping away the blood trail with a motion almost casual. The cracks on his hands were healing—slowly, visibly, the way minor wounds heal when prana is directed to them. It would take time. But they would heal.
It worked. His Pingala nadi isn't open—that would require proper vidya, proper initiation. But the nadis around it? Those are open. Slightly. Enough.
Enough to matter.
He settled into sadhana, letting his body and mind begin the slow work of recuperation. The room fell silent, the only sound the slow, steady rhythm of two men breathing.
.....
The moon traced its arc across the sky and vanished beyond the horizon. The sun returned.
Ashan remained in his meditative state, motionless as carved stone.
"HAHAHA!"
The laughter shattered silence like a hammer through glass. "Amazing! I can feel it! Flowing through me like—like I've been carrying weights my whole life and someone just cut them loose!"
Ashan's brow twitched. The expression that flickered across his face was pure annoyance.
He opened his eyes.
Toric stood in the center of the room, punching at empty air with abandon. His movements were sharp, precise, powerful—each strike carrying force that hadn't been there the day before. He danced around invisible opponents, ducking and weaving.
When he noticed Ashan watching, he stopped immediately. Dropped to one knee. Bowed his head.
"Thank you, Captain." The words were thick with something that might have been reverence. "For this. For everything. I—thank you."
Ashan studied him for a long moment. The blockage was still there—reduced, but present. He'd never be a true sadhaka without proper initiation. But he was stronger than he was. More useful.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Something flickered in Toric's prana—a wrong note in the melody, a discordance that had not been there before. Faint. Almost imperceptible. But present.
The grey-white whirlpools spun to life.
Danav lineage. My lineage. It's in him now. A trace—minute, negligible—but there.
The implications cascaded through his mind like falling stones. If I continue helping him, will it spread? Will he become more... me?
If the Order discovers a non-member carrying Danav prana, I'm dead. No trial, no appeal—just dead.
Will he die first? Does the contamination have limits?
I can't experiment recklessly. This is too dangerous.
He filed the questions away for later contemplation.
"Get the materials." He waved a hand. "Quickly."
"Yes, Captain!" Toric's enthusiasm was undimmed, his ignorance of the foreign energy now flowing through him total.
Ashan watched him go, a slight smile curving his lips.
What expression would he wear, I wonder, if he knew how thin the line beneath his feet has become?
The smile faded. But isn't it the same for every sadhaka? For me?
Rokan's face flashed through his memory—twisted, corrupted, consumed by the very power he'd sought to master.
For survival and power—how far will anyone go? They don't know. Can't know. Not until the moment arrives and they must make a choice.
.....
Toric returned, arms laden with buckets and materials.
"Pass the salted pieces."
"Captain... shouldn't you eat? Breakfast? Lunch?" Toric's brow furrowed with genuine concern. "You haven't moved since last night."
"I can survive without food for days. You should practice abstinence as well. It aids training."
Toric nodded thoughtfully, already beginning to absorb the lesson.
Ashan took one of the salted membranes and began dipping it in diluted limewater. The invention process resumed.