"Toric defeated Nesbet—the champion—easily. Dominated him."
The old tavern keeper's voice trembled as he spoke, recounting events he had only heard secondhand. But he delivered them now with the certainty of an eyewitness, with the particular conviction of a man who had learned that the truth was whatever the man holding the fire said it was.
"Then he challenged the Master and Mistress both. Said it openly." He paused, licking dry lips. "Three fighters came at him. He destroyed them too. Quick. Brutal. No one from either faction touched him."
His hands, knotted and twisted with age, found each other, held each other, would not let go.
"After that—three men. Brothers. Went to him. Asked to follow." His voice dropped to a whisper. "On their knees, practically."
Ashan's hands never stopped moving. The membrane stretched over another mold, smooth and precise, his attention apparently elsewhere.
"That's... that's all." The old man's voice cracked on the final word. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. When Ashan did not respond, he pressed on, fear making him brave. "I did what you asked. Reported everything. So please—" He held up his right palm, revealing the fresh burn mark seared into the flesh. "Please don't burn me again."
His whole body shook. His eyes were wide, the whites showing. His breath came in quick, short gasps that fogged in the cold air.
Monster. No—worse than monster. How does he make fire from nothing? From his hands? I saw it. I felt it. My old eyes aren't playing tricks—the burn proves it.
This isn't a bad dream. It's a bad fate. Mine.
Ashan waved a dismissive hand without looking up. "Do as you're told. Go."
"Thank you! Thank you! The Lord of Storms will bless you! Grace you with fair winds and—"
"Go."
The old man fled.
The Lord of Storms. Ashan's lips curved slightly. I don't need his blessings. But the Lord of Greed? Him I could use. A fortune would be nice. A large one.
Good call, not using mantras in public. Look at that old man—one glimpse of power and he's convinced I'm a demon. The whole island would think the same. Useful, maybe. But useful in ways I can't control yet.
He examined the finished membranes—four of them now, perfectly shaped, smooth as silk, waiting for the next stage.
Now they dry. A day. Maybe two.
He crossed to the window and pushed it open. Night air flooded in, cool and salt-tinged, carrying the distant sounds of the island's eternal chaos. Moonlight followed—silver and pale, painting the room in soft shadows.
Ashan stretched, feeling the familiar ache of focused labor. His shoulders rolled, his neck cracked, his hands trembled for a moment before finding their rest.
Art and craft. Both require the same thing: patience. Precision. The willingness to do small things perfectly.
Toric performed well. Better than expected. And staying out there—recruiting on his own—that shows understanding. He's learning.
Now we wait. For the impulsive ones. The ones who can't abide patience. They'll come. They always do.
He settled onto the bed, cross-legged, his spine straight, his hands resting on his knees. He closed his eyes.
Breath in. Breath out. Urja stirred in his core, circling the muladhara chakra like water finding its level. The world fell away.
.....
Meanwhile, in the common room...
"CHEERS!"
Toric's roar could have woken the dead. It certainly woke the three brothers, who had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past hour. Their eyes opened, closed, opened again.
"Hic—Captain—maybe quieter—" Holt managed.
"Quiet? QUIET?" Toric slammed another empty mug on the table. "We're celebrating! First recruits! First victory! First—" He squinted at the brothers. "By the storms. You three can't hold anything, can you?"
"Hic... we've been drinking all night." Colt—or was it Nolt?—mumbled. "Morning's here. Sun's up. We're... we're done."
"Done? We're just starting!"
The table before them was a graveyard of wooden mugs. Empty vessels lay on their sides, clustered together like fallen soldiers.
"Hic... can't... anymore..." Nolt's head drooped toward the table.
"Bah!" Toric drained another mug and slammed it down with excessive force. "If you can't hold your liquor, you can't hold your life! Following me means enduring! Everything! Booze, blood, battle—"
"Hey!"
A voice cut across the room. "Keep it down! Some of us are trying to eat!"
Toric's head turned slowly, like a predator scenting prey. His eyes found the speaker—a thick-necked man at a corner table, surrounded by three others, all wearing the colors of the Master's crew.
Toric's smile widened. He picked up his mug, took a long, deliberate drink, and threw it.
The mug caught the thick-necked man square in the face. He toppled backward, blood already flowing.
"FUCK YOU!" Toric was on his feet. "FUCK YOUR MASTER!" He whirled on the brothers. "You three! Up! Now! This is a tavern brawl! Your first test!"
Holt blinked. "F-Fight?"
Colt looked at his hands. "We just joined. Yesterday. Hours ago."
Nolt managed to stand—his legs unsteady, his arms reaching for support. "Should I... punch? Kick? What's the... the thing to do?"
Toric did not wait. He was already moving, crashing into the Master's men like a wave against stone.
"THAT'S HIM! TORIC! THE RING FIGHTER! RUN IF YOU—"
Too late. Wood splintered. Flesh connected with flesh. Bones cracked. The brothers, drunk and terrified, grabbed whatever was at hand—mugs, table legs, an entire chair—and waded into the chaos.
"I'll kill you!"
"Wait—hic—" Holt lurched, stumbled—
PFFFFFFTTT.
Vomit erupted from his mouth in a spectacular arc, catching the oncoming fighter full in the face.
"WHAT THE—UGH—IT'S IN MY EYES—IT'S IN MY MOUTH—"
Colt and Nolt, seeing their brother's success, immediately copied the technique.
PFFFTT. PFFFFFFTTTT.
Two more streams joined the first. The Master's men recoiled, gagging, slipping in the sudden slickness.
"MY MOUTH! NO, NOT MY MOUTH—"
"GURGLE—GLUB—"
Toric paused mid-swing, took in the scene, and burst into laughter so loud it shook the rafters. "HAHAHA! NOW THAT'S A BRAWL!"
He grabbed two opponents by their heads and cracked them together. They dropped like stones.
More of the Master's crew flooded in from the street—drawn by the noise, by the promise of violence. They came with knives, clubs, broken bottles. Toric met them with fists, feet, and the joyful abandon of a man who had spent his entire life learning exactly one thing: how to win when outnumbered.
The tavern transformed. Tables became rubble. Mugs became projectiles. The air stank of blood, vomit, and fear.
The owner watched from behind his counter, his hands clutching his hair, his tears streaming down his face. Then Toric appeared before him, blood-spattered and grinning, and tossed a heavy pouch onto the counter.
"Compensation! And we'll need more drinks! The good stuff!"
The owner's tears stopped. A professional smile snapped into place with the speed of long practice. "Of course, customer! Right away! The finest we have!"
He vanished into the back.
The three brothers collapsed against each other in the corner, battered, bruised, covered in substances best not examined, and grinning like madmen. Holt looked at Colt. Colt looked at Nolt. Nolt looked at the ceiling and giggled.
Toric surveyed the wreckage and nodded with satisfaction.
Not bad. They're useless in a fight. Can't hold liquor. Can't aim their fists. But they followed. They tried. That's something.
Improvement will come. Or it won't. Either way, the first step is taken.
He grabbed a fresh mug from the miraculously intact shelf behind the bar and raised it high.
"To the crew! Small steps! Bigger ones to come!"
The brothers raised imaginary mugs and cheered.
The tavern, what remained of it, had never seen anything like it.