After dipping all four salted membranes in the diluted limewater—a brief immersion, nothing more, the liquid beading on the surfaces and running off in thin rivulets—Ashan reached for the wooden mold.
The carved shape was unmistakable. Toric had seen enough of them in his years at sea—in brothels where the women worked in rooms that smelled of cheap perfume and cheaper sweat, in bawdy tavern talk where men drank and boasted and remembered things that had happened and things that had not, in the crude carvings sailors made during long voyages when there was nothing to do but wait for the wind to change and the sea to calm and the thing that was coming to come. But he had never seen one treated with such reverence, such surgical precision, as Ashan now handled it. The boy's fingers moved over the polished wood with the particular care of a craftsman who had done this before, who had learned the shape of it, who knew exactly where the pressure was needed and where it was not.
The boy stretched one membrane gently over the polished wood. His fingers worked with the same careful attention he gave to charmcraft—smoothing, shaping, molding the treated meat into a perfect replica of the form beneath. There was no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing, no moment where he stopped to consider whether this was the right way or the wrong way or the way that would work. It was simply the way. The way that had been learned and practiced and become the thing that it was.
Toric watched. He had been watching for some time now. The sun had shifted, the shadows had lengthened, the light that came through the grimy window had changed from gold to amber to the particular softness of late afternoon. Watching was, he had learned, often the safest response to his captain's activities. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to understand, but the questions died on his tongue and the understanding waited and the watching continued.
"Why are you still here?"
Toric blinked, the words pulling him from somewhere he had not realized he had gone. "Sorry—"
"Test your new strength." Ashan did not look up from his work, his focus absolute, his hands moving with the particular economy of a man who had done this before and would do it again and did not need to think about it. The membrane conformed to the mold with each deliberate stroke, the material smoothing, flattening, becoming the thing that it was meant to be.
Test my strength? Toric's mind raced. Does he mean the fighting rings? But that would expose us—let our enemies measure what we can do. He shook the thought away. And wandering around now, after everything...
No. He let the thought settle. The Captain knows this. So there must be another reason. He watched Ashan's hands move, watched the membrane become the thing that it was meant to be. Another layer I'm not seeing.
"Alright, Captain." His voice, when it came, carried something new—a confidence that had not been there before the procedure, before the heat, before the thing that had opened in his right side and was now flowing through him like a river that had finally found its course. "I'll win every match." He paused. "Any other instructions?"
Ashan's answer came without pause, without inflection. "You'll understand eventually."
Toric did not argue. Did not question. Did not even try.
It's become routine now. He turned, his steps heavy, his shoulders squared. This strange trust in someone who could kill me without blinking.
He left.
.....
Behind him, Ashan reached for the next membrane, his hands already moving, the work already resuming.
Fight. Show them what a sadhaka can do—even a rogue one. He smoothed the material. Let them see power and wonder where it comes from. His lips curled. Let them ask questions that lead nowhere.
Let them fear what they don't understand.
.....
The stairs creaked beneath Toric's feet. The old tavern keeper, slumped in his usual stupor behind the desk, straightened violently when Toric appeared. His back went rigid, his eyes flew wide, his hands rose in a gesture that was almost a bow, almost a plea.
Oh ho. A smile cracked Toric's weathered face. The benefits of power. He stepped into the noon sun, felt it warm on his face, his hands, the place where the thing that had been opened in his right side was still flowing. Not bad at all.
The island roared around him—chatter, commerce, conflict. Life in all its chaotic glory. He moved through it with a new awareness, feeling the prana flow through his right side like a river that had finally found its course, that had been dammed and was now free.
The fighting rings. He let the thought surface. Let's see if anyone there can give me a real challenge.
He heard it before he saw it.
Even from blocks away, the noise was unmistakable—a wall of sound made of cheers and curses, screams of triumph and wails of defeat. The fighting grounds occupied an open stretch of packed earth at the edge of the settlement, ringed by nothing but the buildings that had grown up around it over decades of use.
Dozens of circles had formed across the grounds, each one a small kingdom of blood and bronze. In each circle, a wooden desk held two piles of coins and a small metal bell. Bettors tossed their bronze into the pools, shouting for their chosen fighter. The matches themselves played out in the center—a chaos of simultaneous violence that somehow resolved into individual battles.
"Hell yeah! Finish him!"
"Gut punch! Gut punch! Gut—YES!"
"Eyes! Take his eyes!"
"Break his nose! Make him eat it!"
The crowd's voices overlapped, competed, merged into a single roaring entity. The sounds of impact—fist on flesh, boot on bone—provided percussion beneath the vocal assault.
Toric's lips curled. "What a madhouse."
Thump.
A body hit the ground near his feet—a local fighter, defeated, his face a ruin of fresh wounds. The victor stood over him, arms raised. The crowd erupted.
Ting-ting-ting!
"We have our winner! Nesbet!" The announcer's voice cut through the chaos. "And remember, folks—bet on Nesbet, and your coin's at rest!"
Toric's eyes found the champion. Nesbet was lean where Toric was bulky, structured where Toric was weathered. A short beard framed a face that might have been handsome if not for the cold confidence in his eyes. His muscles did not bulge—they flowed, each one perfectly defined. He stood in the center of his circle like a man who had never doubted he would stand there.
"Any other challengers for our Nesbet?" The announcer scanned the crowd. "Anyone with the stones to test themselves against the best?"
Silence.
"I'll fight him."
The words left Toric's mouth before he fully decided to speak them. The crowd parted—not eagerly, not willingly, but necessarily. Whispers rippled through the onlookers.
"Who is that?"
"No idea. Never seen him."
"Is he stupid? That's Nesbet. Nesbet doesn't lose."
"Maybe he's just suicidal. Some people are."
The announcer's professional smile widened. "Oh ho! A challenger appears!" He spread his arms. "Name, friend?"
"Toric." He fished a single bronze coin from his pocket and tossed it toward the desk. "One bronze on myself."
A wave of snickers swept the crowd. "One bronze? Is that all he's worth?" "Guess he knows something we don't—he's gonna lose it anyway!" "Put your coins on Nesbet, people! Free money!"
The other pool began to fill—two bronze, five, ten. "I've got five on Nesbet!" "Two here!" "Kill the arrogant bastard, Nesbet! Make him regret stepping in your circle!"
Toric stretched—rolling his shoulders, flexing his arms, feeling the unfamiliar ease of movement in his right side. Then he stepped into the circle and faced his opponent.
Nesbet studied him with cool, assessing eyes. He did not speak. Did not posture. He just waited, perfectly still, perfectly ready.
This one's dangerous. Toric let the thought surface. Not just strong—experienced. He's killed before. Probably often.
Aloud, he said: "I hope you don't break too quickly."
Then he moved.
The punch came from nowhere—or seemed to. To Nesbet, it was a test. He ducked under it with inches to spare, his body flowing into a counter-kick that caught Toric in the ribs.
Solid. Toric absorbed the blow. But not solid enough.
The match exploded into full fury. Fist met flesh. Kick met block. Both fighters moved through combinations that would have ended lesser opponents in seconds. The crowd's cheers grew louder, more invested. Coins changed hands in frantic side bets.
Neither fighter noticed. They were in the space now—the place where fighting stopped being thought and became pure instinct, where the body moved and the mind simply watched.
Toric felt his prana surge through newly opened channels, lending speed and power to every strike. Nesbet fought with the precision of a man who had never needed magic—just skill, honed over years.
The symphony of violence played on.