"What will you do now, Ashan?"
The corrupted self's voice slithered through the chaos of the chit sagar, each word dripping with mockery. The waves that had been crashing seemed to pause, to listen, to wait.
"Isn't it your philosophy that labels are for the weak?"
Ashan clutched his face, fingers digging into his own flesh, the pressure the only anchor in a world gone mad. His nails bit into his cheeks, the pain sharp and immediate.
The corruption crouched beside him, pressing close, its breath a fetid wind against his ear. "One shouldn't put a label on anyone or anything. No black. No white. No grey. Everything is just... clusters of hues." It laughed—a wet, gurgling sound. "Or can't you live by your own philosophy? Hard, isn't it? Thinking and saying versus doing in reality."
Ashan's body shook. The voice was his own, twisted into something unrecognizable.
It's right. It's me. And it's right.
"But all of this—" The corruption grabbed his arms, forcing him to meet its eyes. Those bulging, wrong-angled eyes that should not exist. Its face twitched, flesh writhing beneath the surface, mouth stretching into a grin that split too wide, showed too many teeth. "—all of this can be avoided so easily."
Ashan tried to look away. Couldn't.
"Accept your corruption." The voice dropped, intimate, seductive. "You want to evolve your humanity, yes? That's your goal, isn't it? Then accept it. Let it in. Evolve."
No.
But his hands—he looked down—his hands were changing. Skin darkening, thickening, scales pushing through like buried things surfacing. The infection spread up his wrists, his forearms, claiming territory.
"Feel and control your emotions." The corruption spat the words like poison. "That's what you tell yourself. But it can't be done. Not perfectly. Not by a human."
Ashan's throat tightened. Words jammed behind a barrier that had not existed moments ago.
"Humans are social. Emotional. They love. They hate." The corruption's voice rose, cracking with fury. "That's why they thrive! And that's also why corruption rises! You can't have one without the other!"
It grabbed his face, nails—claws—digging into his cheeks. "And you think you can just... feel and control? BULLSHIT!"
The chit sagar roared. Waves crashed against each other, white foam spraying into a sky that had gone dark as pitch.
"This isn't a game, Ashan! This isn't some novel you're reading on a lazy afternoon! The pain you've felt—the pain you've caused—the lives you've taken—it's all real! Etched into the fabric of existence!"
Ashan tried to speak. His throat was a closed fist.
The corruption leaned closer, its grotesque face filling his vision. "You wear a mask. Always. Don't you?"
He couldn't answer. Couldn't move. Couldn't even blink. His body had become a prison—awareness trapped behind eyes that could only watch.
The chit sagar screamed around him. Waves like mountains. Sky like a bruise.
"I know everything about you." The corruption's hand—scaled, elongated, wrong—cupped his cheek almost tenderly. "You don't need to speak."
Ashan's left side was fully infected now. The skin there felt... not his own.
A single tear escaped his left eye. The corruption caught it on one long nail, held it up, watched it glisten. "You think paranoia will save you. Constant thinking. Using others. All those techniques you consumed from your past life—books, shows, and knowledge. You thought it would let you sail safely through this world."
The nail traced down his cheek, parting the flesh. Blood followed. "But you forgot one detail." The voice dropped to a whisper. "This isn't fantasy. This is true dark-horror reality."
Ashan's mind raced, but his body remained frozen.
"So why? Why the disgust at seeing that man, your father? You never minded being a prostitute's son. You told your friends that. You accepted it." Its grip tightened on his neck. "And with all your vaunted intelligence, you must have known he could still be alive. So why?"
Why the distraction? Why the hesitation?
Silence. The chit sagar held its breath.
"Or..." The corruption's voice softened, almost kind. "Are your ideals failing you? Your philosophy? Can you not bear their weight anymore?"
It laughed. The sound was a thousand screams compressed.
Ashan's other half began to change. The infection claimed new ground.
Why?
The question echoed through the prison of his mind. It was a shock. Yes. A surprise. When I saw that man's information...
But my corruption is right. Isn't it? I can't bear my own ideals. My own philosophy. When reality punches through, I break.
Or is it deeper?
Images flickered—a cave, darkness, survival. Three trials passed through blood and terror. The Order's training—the drills, the pressure, the constant edge of death. The final trial. The war.
It never stopped. One hell to another.
House of Greed. Their politics. Yaren's lectures. Bodh training. Charmcasting. Hours of focus, days of practice, all to survive the next moment. Then the mission. The Matriarch. The chase. The escape. Back to this place—this home—and immediately plotting again. Never stopping. Never resting.
A rest. That's what I need. Just a moment to breathe.
It hasn't even been a year since I became a sadhaka. One year. And look at everything. Everything I've done. Everything I've become.
But none of it matters, does it? None of it concerns anyone but me.
"Yes!" The corruption's voice pierced through. "Sleep, Ashan! Rest! We're becoming something beyond human—but you can still cling to your humanity! Try! TRY!"
More laughter. Darker. Triumphant.
"Don't push too hard. Your body might break."
"Pathetic..."
The word escaped like a breath, faint, worn, almost swallowed by the roaring sea of his consciousness. It shouldn't have been audible. It barely was. But the corrupted self's laughter stopped.
"...that's what I wanted to say. About my current situation."
Ashan's lips curved—not a smile, not quite. Just a shape. A recognition of absurdity.
The corruption studied him with those impossible eyes. "So what is it? If not pathetic, then what?"
Ashan's smile widened—barely, weakly, but truly. "Getting a reality check from yourself... that's better than getting it from anyone else. That's what I like about this."
His eyes sharpened. Cold. Clear. "Thanks for that reality check."
.....
Above them, the dark sky parted.
Blue light blazed through—thunder gathering, crackling, hungry. The corruption recoiled, putting distance between them.
CRACK.
Lightning struck—a direct hit. The corrupted form shuddered, smoke rising from its twisted flesh. "You think fighting changes anything? You can't win against me! You can't win against yourself!"
More lightning fell. And more. Each strike buys space and buys time.
The infection on Ashan's body began to recede—slowly at first, then faster. Skin returning to skin. Fingers becoming fingers.
"Once again. I'm grateful. You've given me profound insight."
His eyes blazed—grey-white whirlpools spinning with terrible purpose. "I am weak. I can't bear my own weight. Not yet."
He raised both arms to the churning sky. "That's why I'll keep walking, keep growing, until I can bear it."
The sea beneath the corruption opened—a maw of dark water that swallowed it whole. The sky above delivered judgement—lightning after lightning, strike after strike, pounding the depths where it had fallen.
Ashan watched. The corruption fled his body in waves—visible, tangible, leaving.
He clutched his chest, feeling his heartbeat against his palm. Steady. Strong. His.
Everyone's gratitude. I still owe it. The debt isn't paid.
I can't die yet. Not until I've earned the right.