Dale leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyelids heavy. The hallway was dim, the air thick with dust and the distant smell of the sea. He had been waiting for what felt like hours.
Thump.
The door slammed open so hard the frame rattled. Dale's eyes snapped wide. "We're done waiting." Thruston's voice was cold as deep water. "Time to put that bastard out of his misery."
He strode down the hallway without looking back. Dale pushed off the wall, his mind catching up. The bloodlust in Thruston's eyes was unmistakable—they were finally moving against Toric.
Hehehe. A grin split Dale's face. If I land the final blow—if I kill him—my reputation will soar. They'll have to respect me then. All of them.
He hurried after Thruston. "Yeah! Let's do it! I'll gather the men—"
Thruston's hand sliced through the air. "No numbers. Just me."
Dale's face contorted—foul anger barely contained. This fucking baldy. Always taking everything for himself.
Behind his fury, he missed the look in Thruston's eyes. The cold calculation. The ambition.
Branth is getting old. Soft. Afraid of his own shadow. A leader who fears his own power doesn't deserve to lead. Maybe it's time for a change. Soon.
.....
At the tavern window...
Slurp.
Ashan finished the last of his berry juice and set aside the remnants of roasted fish. Breakfast done, he turned to the window ledge where four sheaths lay in the afternoon light.
Two days of drying had transformed them. The meat had cured perfectly—smooth, supple, shaped exactly to the wooden molds. They gleamed with a faint translucence, like fine parchment stretched thin.
He reached for the sesame oil bottle.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Golden liquid fell onto the first sheath. He spread it with careful fingers, working the oil into every fold, every curve. The meat absorbed it slowly, darkening, becoming more pliable. The oil's fragrance rose—nutty, warm, pleasant.
One by one, each sheath received the same treatment. By the time he finished, they glistened faintly.
Next: the beeswax.
He dipped a length of linen thread into the warm wax and began the delicate work of applying it to the sheaths. A spiral here. A wave there. Small touches that transformed necessity into craft.
When he finished, he held one up to the light. The design was exquisite—the oil gave it depth and shine, the waxed threads created subtle texture, the shape was anatomically perfect.
The first condom. Humanity's greatest invention, reborn in a pirate tavern on a lawless island.
Now for the final test.
He arranged them near the window, letting the evening air complete the drying. Sunlight slanted through the glass, painting the room in hues of deepening orange.
Ashan leaned against the windowsill, letting the breeze cool his face. The sky was a masterpiece—dark blue bleeding into red bleeding into orange, clouds like brushstrokes across infinity.
From below, laughter erupted.
"Haha! Yes! We should absolutely do it!"
He looked down. A crowd filled the street—a dozen men at least, maybe more. At their head walked Toric, chest puffed, stride confident. Flanking him were the three brothers, looking slightly less lost than before. Behind them, a collection of faces: young, old, thin, scarred, desperate, eager.
He recruited. Actually recruited. In just a few days. Not bad. Not bad at all.
He's come back to report—and probably to ask for another session. More power. More opening.
But another procedure would push my prana deeper into his system. The Danav contamination would spread. And if the Order ever detects a non-member carrying Danav lineage energy...
A reward, yes. But not that reward. Not yet.
"HAHAHA! The Captain will be so happy!"
Toric strode through the streets, basking in the weight of followers behind him. He glanced back—a dozen men, maybe more, all drawn by the promise of power.
I might ask for that thing the Captain did. The energy thing. Just... just a little more.
"Stop right there, BASTARD!"
The shout froze the entire procession. Toric turned.
Two figures blocked the street behind them. One red-haired, twitching with barely contained violence. One bald, massive, motionless as carved stone.
Dale raised his sword, drawing it across his own throat in a mock threat. "You're all dead. Line up. Take your turns."
One of the new recruits—young, eager, stupid—took the bait. He charged with a roar.
"Fools. You're asking to—"
The recruit never reached him.
Thruston moved—not fast, but inevitably. His hand closed around the man's throat like a vice. Squeezed. The recruit's face cycled through colors—red, purple, blue-black. His legs kicked. His hands clawed at the iron grip.
Crack.
The sound was small. Final. Thruston tossed the corpse aside like garbage.
The new recruits stumbled back, their faces pale. Some turned to run. Others froze entirely. Toric stepped forward, placing himself between his people and the threat.
"Well, well. Took you long enough, baldy. I was starting to think your Master had you on a leash."
"STOP IGNORING ME!"
Dale's composure shattered. He charged, sword raised, envisioning the perfect strike.
Toric's fist met his chest. The impact was like a ship's ram. Dale flew backward, crashing into a stack of crates twenty feet away.
"Someone deal with that." Toric did not even watch him fall. His sword was already out, pointed at Thruston. "Now, baldy. Just us."
.....
Impossible.
Ashan's eyes had tracked Dale's flight, his crash, his crumpled form. Something about the way he fell caught attention even without the siddhi. He let the grey-white whirlpools spin to life.
[Viksana: Analyse].
Information flooded in. Dale's history. His injuries. His name. His parentage. His—
What?
[Information Panel]
Name: Dale
Age: 34
Origin: Ogefil Island
Occupation: Master's Crew Enforcer
Status: Unconscious, multiple fractures, internal bleeding
Notable Relations:
Father: Unknown
Mother: Deceased (prostitute, tavern worker)
Son: Ashan (self-proclaimed name, age 12, current location: 15 meters above, observing through window)
The world stopped. Ashan stared at the words. They did not change. Did not dissolve.
Son: Ashan. That man. That red-haired, rage-filled, incompetent fool. Is my...
Father?
His vision blurred. No—not blurred. Shifted.
Suddenly he was no longer at the window. No longer in the tavern. No longer in control.
He stood on the shore of his own mind-sea—the chit sagar—but something was wrong. The waters churned. The sky was wrong—dark, bruised, shot through with veins of sickly light.
And before him, rising from the depths, was himself. But wrong. The face was his, but scaled—snake scales glistening with moisture. The neck was wrong—too thin, too long. The nose stretched grotesquely. Arms and legs twisted at angles that should not bend.
The corrupted self laughed.
"HAHAHAHAHA!" The sound was wet. Wrong. It made the chit sagar seethe.
"You... I destroyed you. Before. In this very place. How are you alive?"
The corruption grinned wider. "The corruption never dies. It never will."
Ashan's mind flashed to Instructor Inria's words: "You are constantly fighting among yourselves."
He understood now. The battle was against this. Always this. Forever this.
"Now, Ashan. What will you do?" It gestured toward the street, toward Dale's broken body. "Will you deny your existence? Kill your own father? Pretend he never mattered?"
Another gesture—toward Toric, toward the fight. "Or will you let him live? Let the world know that the great Ashan, the Vidhishar, the Captain, has that for a sire?"
It leaned closer. "Do you know why I could surface again? One look at your past—at him—and your emotions shattered. You lost control. Just for a moment. Just long enough."
Ashan said nothing. Could say nothing.
"One moment of weakness. That's all it takes. That's all it ever takes."
Behind them, the chit sagar raged. Outside, Toric and Thruston circled each other, swords drawn, death approaching. And in a tavern window, a twelve-year-old boy sat frozen, staring at nothing, fighting a battle no one else could see.