Ayaan froze at the wooden bench. The voice in his head—usually sarcastic or arrogant—now sounded like a cold wind whistling through a tomb.
"The key to everything," he thought, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Rudra.
The old man wasn't doing anything threatening. He was simply crushing fresh ginger with a heavy brass mortar and pestle. Each strike was rhythmic, producing a sound that resonated deep in Ayaan's chest, like a distant temple bell.
"Don't just stand there like a pillar, young man. Sit," Rudra said, gesturing to the same worn stool.
Ayaan sat, his eyes tracking Rudra's movements. Now that he knew about the ranks—Sadhaka, Yoddha, and the terrifying levels above—he tried to measure the old man. But it was impossible. Rudra felt like a bottomless well; the more Ayaan tried to sense his Prana, the deeper the silence became. It was as if Rudra didn't just have Prana; he was the space around it.
"You look different in these clothes," Rudra remarked, sliding a clay cup across the scarred wooden counter. "The tea is at its peak. If you wait, the soul of the ginger will vanish. Drink it fast."
Ayaan took a sip. This time, the heat didn't just surge; it settled. It felt like his bones were being reinforced with liquid iron. "I am going back to the University today, sir. I have to finish what I started."
Rudra stopped his crushing. He looked at Ayaan, his eyes twinkling with a sudden, sharp intelligence. "The University, eh? A place of knowledge and ego. Tell me, Ayaan... why do you seek a degree when you already carry an ocean in your head?"
Ayaan's heart skipped. He knows about the book?
Before he could answer, Rudra leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The world is changing, Ayaan. The sound of the world is getting louder. Soon, a degree won't be worth the paper it's printed on. But knowledge... true knowledge... that is the only currency that will survive the storm."
Rudra reached into the pocket of his apron and pulled out a small, dried leaf that looked like it was made of hammered gold. He dropped it into Ayaan's tea. The liquid hissed, turning a vibrant amber.
The voice in Ayaan's head suddenly chimed in, surprisingly respectful. "Oi, old man, I hope you aren't misguiding the kid. Bring me to him when he breaks through... he is too weak now."
Ayaan finished the tea and walked toward the campus. The sprawling lawns and glass-fronted library felt like a dream from a past life. As he walked through the main gates, he could hear the vibrations of thousands of students—their anxieties about exams, their petty jealousies, their shallow laughter. It was a chaotic mess compared to the pure sound of the mountain.
"Look at this! The beggar is back!"
A group of students stood near the fountain. At the center was Ritesh, surrounded by a new group of bodyguards—men with cold eyes and thick necks, all arranged by his father. Ritesh did not approach Ayaan this time. He stayed safely behind his wall of meat, but his voice was full of venom.
"I don't know what trick you used in the alley," Ritesh sneered, feeling brave behind his guards. "But this is my territory. My father owns the board of this University. One word from me and you're expelled. Your sister will be out on the street by tonight."
"Ritesh," Ayaan said, his voice low and vibrating with a frequency that made the water in the fountain ripple. "I didn't come here for you. I came here for my future. Move."
"Or what?" Ritesh barked. "Beat him."
The three guards stepped forward. Ayaan felt it immediately—these weren't street thugs. Their Prana was steady and focused. All of them were at the Peak Level of Sadhaka. While Ayaan was technically at the beginning of that rank, the difference in their raw, cultivated strength should have been like heaven and earth.
The guard in the middle, a man with a scarred jaw, reached out to grab Ayaan's collar.
"Kid," the voice in Ayaan's head rumbled. "You cannot defeat them in sheer strength alone yet. They are more 'refined' in their brutality. But you have trained for three years in the primordial silence. Let me give you something."
As the voice spoke, a vision flashed in Ayaan's mind. It was a technique that felt ancient, yet strangely familiar, as if it had been waiting in his blood for centuries.
Ayaan didn't strike. He simply planted his feet and took a deep, abdominal breath.
The air around him did not just move; it imploded. The pressure was so sudden and violent that the guards stumbled back as if they had walked into a hurricane. The concrete beneath Ayaan's boots cracked, spiderwebbing outward.
"I said," Ayaan repeated, his eyes flickering with the Azure storm, "Move."
The scarred guard growled, recovering his balance. He pulled a collapsible baton and swung it with the full weight of a Peak Sadhaka's strength. But to Ayaan, the move looked slow. The "Sound" of the guard's body told him exactly where the strike would land before it even started.
Ayaan didn't dodge. He caught the steel baton with his bare hand. The sound of metal hitting his palm was not a thud, but a sharp, metallic ping, as if two bars of iron had collided.
"My turn," Ayaan whispered.