Well, that was a good haul.
Ashan looked around the Chaturanga hall. The fervor had died down, the earlier excitement settling into the quiet concentration of players who had found their rhythm. Members sat in loose circles around the boards, their faces illuminated by lantern light, their voices low, their hands moving with the careful deliberation of men who had learned that haste was the enemy of victory.
He played a few more matches, his focus sharp, his winnings growing steadily. Each game was a lesson, each opponent a teacher. He lost some, won more, and by the time he finally rose from the table, his pouch was heavier than it had been in days.
Night had fallen. A cold breeze whispered through the cracks in his hut, carrying the scent of salt and distant water. Ashan sat on his worn mattress, the pouch in his hands, weighing it, feeling the shift of coins beneath the leather.
Forty bronze coins. He let the number settle in his mind, turn over, reveal its edges. I won and lost quite a few matches today.
He tucked the pouch back into his robe, feeling its weight against his hip. In the dim light of a single candle, his expression turned serious.
Why do I need a medium—a coin, a pendant—to gaze into the Karmajala-Loka, even with my siddhi?
He pondered the question until the candle burned down to a stub, until the shadows in the corners of the room grew long and still. The answer, when it came, was simple, obvious, and deeply unsatisfying.
My mastery over the siddhi must still be low. That's the only reason that makes sense.
The next few weeks flew by like an autumn wind—quick, restless, carrying the scent of change. Ashan's life fell into a fixed, grinding rhythm, the kind of rhythm that wore down resistance and built something harder in its place.
He began each day with the rigorous training of his kiriyas and mantras, pushing his body to its limits and then beyond. After a meager lunch—always the same flatbread and curry, always two bronze coins—he paid his obligatory respects at the temple, performing the Hollow Offering with the mechanical precision of a man who had done it a thousand times before.
Then, he would head to the Chaturanga hall.
A certain fame had begun to cling to him there. It wasn't that he won every match—he lost as often as he won, sometimes more. But his swift, unorthodox tactics and seemingly preemptive movements marked him as different, marked him as someone who saw the board in a way that others did not. The regulars had begun to watch him, to study his games, to whisper about the boy who moved like he already knew what was going to happen.
His siddhi played a silent, significant role. He used [Scrying] for quick, binary divinations—Will I win this match? Is this move correct?—letting the pendant's spin guide his choices, but never letting it make them for him.
Of course, he knew divination was not absolute. It could be muddled by ranked existences or other variables, could be thrown off by forces he could not name. This was fantasy made reality, and the first rule was that there were no immutable rules—only conditions that could be bypassed. That was what made it real.
And I, he thought, moving a piece that no one had seen coming, am one such variable.
He also took regular hunting missions, culling the Vyper population during their breeding season when their corpses were in high demand. The caves had become familiar to him now—the dark tunnels, the hissing sounds, the quick, brutal work of killing things that would kill him if he gave them the chance.
His days ended not with dinner, but by sinking into the state of sadhana until dawn.
Ashan entered Shikshak Yaren's building, pushing the door open with a hand that had learned to expect the smell of blood and chemicals. He noted, with mild surprise, that the room was clean—the floor scrubbed, the walls wiped down, the instruments on the table arranged in neat rows. The usual pungent odors had faded to something almost tolerable.
No mopping today.
His teacher was still engrossed in his work, hunched over a piece of parched, brownish paper, inscribing intricate patterns with a sharp quill that moved in quick, precise strokes. The symbols were familiar now—the geometries of power, the patterns that turned paper into weapon.
"Praise the Lord of Greed," Ashan offered.
"Praise the Lord of Greed." Yaren set his quill down with the finality of a door closing, tucking the paper into his robes with hands that did not tremble. "Sit."
Ashan obeyed, settling onto the floor across from him, his posture relaxed, his hands resting on his knees.
Shikshak Yaren observed him for a long moment, his pale yellow eyes moving across Ashan's face, his shoulders, the way he held himself. A slight, knowing smile touched his lips.
"It seems you are using your power quite adeptly to turn a profit."
Crap. Ashan's internal alarm rang, sharp and immediate. He's heard the rumors. If he wants a cut—
His expression remained carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
Shikshak Yaren chuckled softly. "Do not worry." He waved a hand, the gesture almost lazy. "It is good you are applying it practically. A power is only as good as its use."
Yeah. Ashan let the words settle, turned them over in his mind. Power isn't inherently evil, nor are its applications. Power is simply power. It exists in many forms: beauty, wealth, connections, titles. But the purest form is individual strength—the kind that can't be borrowed, bestowed, or stolen.
"Why don't we have a match of Chaturanga ourselves?" Yaren tapped his storage ring twice. With a flash of light, an Ashtapada board materialized between them, the squares alternating between light and dark, the pieces already set in their starting positions.
He leaned forward, and his voice, when it came, was flat, unwavering, the voice of a man who did not make requests. "And to keep it fair—do not use your siddhi. I am... quite sensitive to such fluctuations."
Ashan offered a polite, practiced smile. "Of course, Shikshak Yaren. I wouldn't dare to cheat you."
He arranged his black pieces quietly, his fingers finding the grooves, the weight, the shape of each carved figure. "There is no time limit," Yaren stated, tossing the dice to begin.
Spin. A six.
Shikshak Yaren moved his Padati forward, his hand quick, decisive. The match was intense from the first move—a battle of wills as much as strategy, a conversation conducted in the language of pieces and squares.
Even without his siddhi, Ashan held his own. His moves were careful, deliberate, the moves of a man who had learned that patience was the weapon that could not be taken from him. He lost four Padati and one Gaja, but Shikshak Yaren had lost five Padati and a Ratha. The board was open now, the pieces spread thin, the geometry of victory shifting with each move.
"Ashan." Yaren's voice was quiet, measured. He cornered Ashan's Raja with his Gaja, the piece moving into position with the inevitability of a closing door. "What is your view on being a Raja?"
Is this the real test?
Ashan moved his Raja to safety, his fingers finding the path that his eyes had already traced. "A Raja must shoulder the weight of his people—their desires, emotions, sins, everything. He must make their collective burden his own absolute will."
Shikshak Yaren's eyes flickered. His own Raja was suddenly threatened by Ashan's Ratha, the piece having moved into position while his attention was elsewhere.
"You mean the Raja must lose his own will and identity, forging a new one from the desires of his people?"
Ashan shook his head slowly. "Not quite." He moved another piece, closing the net. "He must think beyond both his own will and theirs. He doesn't have to lose anything; he has to redefine his will, aligning it with a greater purpose that encompasses them all."
With a final, decisive move, Shikshak Yaren's Mantri captured Ashan's Ratha, delivering checkmate. The piece fell, the board shifted, and the game was over.
Shikshak Yaren's voice deepened, something new in it—something that might have been recognition or might have been the first stirrings of respect. "Hmmm. Redefine it, and implement that vision among his people." He studied Ashan across the board, his pale yellow eyes sharp, assessing. "You have a... peculiar way of thinking."
Seeing no path to salvation for his Raja, Ashan raised his hands in surrender. "Well, I lose."
"Checkmate, then." Shikshak Yaren gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Checkmate."
He began to gather the pieces, his hands moving with the careful precision of a man who had handled them a thousand times before. Ashan watched him, waiting, letting the silence stretch between them.
The lesson, he knew, was not over.