Ashan settled onto the cold ground. Cross-legged. Centered. The position that had become as familiar as breathing, as necessary as the blood that moved through his veins.
The mission can wait. First—this knowledge.
Breath measured. Mind still. Body forgotten.
Three. That was the crux—the answer to my energy losses during sadhana.
All these years, I've been using 4-4-6-2. Breathing. Mantra. Synchronization. Harmonization.
Wrong.
The correct sequence is three seconds per.
He tried it.
First three seconds: Inhale. Long. Deep. Drawing prana from the earth below, atmic from the space around. Mentally preparing the mantra—not speaking, just forming it in the space behind thought.
Next three seconds: Hold. Breath suspended. The mantra chanted—not aloud, but in the resonance of his being. Vibration without sound. Intent without motion.
Next three seconds: Exhale. Slow. Controlled. The mantra whispered on the outgoing breath—a prayer, a command, a truth.
Final three seconds: Rest. Emptiness. The space between. Waiting for the next cycle.
The change was immediate. Profound. Prana and atmic flowed together—not fighting, not clashing, but dancing. At his root chakra, where energies had always collided, they now merged.
The spherical chakra absorbed both greedily. Hungrily. Correctly.
And beneath them both, deeper than either, the volatile dark golden sin energy stirred. Rose. Wrapped around the root chakra like a serpent coiling protectively around treasure.
Yes.
This is it. The complete sequence. The correct method.
Now—the synergy effect. Serpent and Rat. Both Houses. Combined.
On his right shoulder, the dark brass-golden tattoo blazed—light without heat, power without sound. On his left shoulder, the dark brown rat tattoo answered—smaller, subtler, but present. Both are shining. Both are active.
This is the effect.
His eyes swirled—grey-white whirlpools spinning in the darkness of closed lids. They're gone now. Acarya. Nadrima. I can use [Analyse] freely.
Information flooded in. His own body. His own energies. His own truth.
The sun tracked across the sky. Golden yellow rays shifted to orange, to red, to the deep purple of approaching dusk. Ashan opened his eyes.
That's what I call a perfect sadhana.
He stretched—muscles moving smoothly, joints no longer aching, body renewed. No clashes. No sharp pain. Just... flow.
Now. The task.
He rose. Exited.
The tavern had not changed. A few patrons nursed drinks at scattered tables. A group of teenagers loitered near the corner—watchful, waiting, trained.
Captain.
Dunstan's gaze found him first. A whisper to Toric, who was—predictably—deep in his cups. Solna set down her chilim, the smoke curling, the ember glowing. All three. Relaxed. Waiting.
"All you bastards—OUT." Toric's voice cut through the tavern like a blade. The patrons scrambled—drinks abandoned, conversations forgotten, survival instincts screaming.
A few curious glances at Ashan on the way out. "Is he a high-ranking member? Crimson Serpent?" "Shh! I don't know. I don't want to know."
The door closed. Silence settled. Three bodies bowed. "Welcome, Captain."
Ashan nodded. "Map."
Dunstan moved immediately—producing a rolled parchment from beneath the counter, spreading it across the table with reverent care. Four figures sat. Four sets of eyes studied the lines and marks that meant territory. Toric's expression was hungry. Predatory. Finally. Solna's was calculated. Measuring. Expansion, then.
"Thanks to a merchant patron." Dunstan's voice was quiet and efficient. "High-quality map. Accurate."
Ashan's finger traced their position. "You've heard the news."
Grim silence. Nods all around. "Here." Dunstan pointed. "Islands near us. Pirate-ruled. Now controlled by Suryazar Rajyam and Hunter Union." His finger moved. "We are here. Edge of the Alonmari Sea. A few miles northwest—" he tapped, "—Zarrin Darya. The Golden Sun Sea, in the Hindari tongue."
Solna's voice joined. "Before, we were beneath notice. Small. Insignificant." A pause. "Now? We've drawn attention."
Toric leaned forward. "No land between us and the Golden Sun. That's Suryazar domain." He traced a line on the map. "They could come from there. But they won't."
Dunstan frowned. "Explain."
"Look." Toric's finger moved to islands southeast of Ogefil—deeper in the Alonmari Sea. "They've already established forces here. Cleared pirates. Built bases. Why waste resources sending ships the long way when they have forces right there?"
"Unless they want to surprise us." Dunstan's voice was skeptical. "Divide our attention."
Toric waved dismissively. "We're one island. One crew. One target. They don't need strategy—they need overwhelming force. And they already have it positioned."
The argument continued. Toric aggressive. Dunstan cautious. Solna silent, watching, calculating.
"Enough." One word. Quiet. Absolute.
Silence fell. Three sets of eyes fixed on Ashan. "Three weeks. We will sail in three weeks." His voice was calm. Clinical. Final. "Before then—contact every source. Demand military support. In exchange, they get products. Tons of it."
Solna's eyes narrowed. "And if they refuse?"
"Then spread their secrets. Their rumors. Their shame." A pause. "If that fails—find their families. Apply pressure. We aren't asking. We're ordering." Another pause. "Understand?"
Three voices, one response: "Yes, Captain." "As you wish." "It will be done."
Ashan rose. The meeting was over. Behind him, Toric's hungry grin. Dunstan's calculating eyes. Solna's thoughtful smoke.
I have to prepare. Countermeasures. Contingencies. Plans within plans.
So much for immortal life. First, I have to survive long enough to earn it.
He stepped into the night.