I asked one of the merchants near the gate if I could stay with him for a week.
The old man didn't even hesitate.
"Stay as long as you want," he said. "Share my work at night, and I'll share my food."
A fair deal — and perfect for me.
The merchant's hut sat right behind his shop, small but warm, with a straw roof and clay walls. His son handled the morning trade while the old man slept, and they swapped shifts every sunrise and sunset. In a city that never slept, their earnings never stopped either.
I agreed to work with him at night and sleep during the day.
Or at least pretend to sleep.
Morning hours were the best time to harvest the Venpavalā — the perfect time to refill my copper kada.
Sleep could wait.
I kept the glowing fish in a small brass pot. It shimmered without dimming, its pearly body drifting silently in the water.
It didn't breathe.
It didn't eat.
It simply… existed.
For something so divine, I wondered how it ever went extinct.
The old man sat in the corner stitching his torn shirt with a needle and thread. His hands were old, but steady.
"You're thinking, why does a rich merchant wear this torn thing?" he muttered without looking up. "My wife made it… long ago. And she's no more here."
I nodded politely, not sure why he decided to share that with me.
"Alright," the old man finally sighed. "Let's eat."
He handed me a clay jug filled with something white and cloudy.
I blinked.
Booze? Should I ask?
No — I couldn't ask. Questions meant suspicion.
I drank.
And immediately burped.
It was delicious — warm, slightly sweet, tasting faintly of rice and spices. Way too good to be alcohol. Must've been the infamous kànji[1].
Within minutes, a light dizziness rolled over me.
The old man was already snoring.
I forced myself upright. I needed to complete the kada ritual before sleep claimed me too.
The Venpavalā shone brightly inside the brass pot, its glow pulsing softly like a heartbeat. There was something undeniably divine about it — its light, its strange blind eyes—
BOOM!
The ground trembled.
A thunderclap outside jolted me to my feet.
I rushed to the tent flap and threw it open.
The bright morning had vanished.
The sky was pitch black.
Clouds swirled like boiling ink.
Thunder roared again.
"Rain? Summer doesn't even end for another month…"
Then a thought struck me — sharp, insane, brilliant.
A storm.
A sudden one.
Right when I needed it most.
I didn't have to wait.
I could kill the Bāndha king now.
I snatched a palm-leaf manuscript from my satchel — mantras written by my master.
The king of Bāndhas was a kind man, gentle and respected.
My chest tightened.
Guilt hit me like a stone.
Master said it must happen. The timeline demanded it.
Still… murder was murder.
I closed my eyes and began chanting the mantra for Vānam, one of the five Elemental spirits.
A storm-bound technique.
A mantra that demanded lightning.
And consequences.
The Thunder Guide.
If I used it, my chakra system would destabilize.
I wouldn't be able to refill my kada for a week.
Thunder cracked again, shaking the city.
I grabbed the needle the old man had been using, focusing my breath and spirit into its tiny metal frame. The needle warmed, then glowed yellow.
My vision blurred from the strain.
Not much time left.
The Thunder Guide Technique was notorious for killing its users long before it killed their targets.
I pushed harder.
The needle burned bright.
One more step:
I had to mark the king before the time window closed.
Nobody knew how long that window lasted — it shifted with every storm.
Only my master was able to manipulate it.
I couldn't.
I sprinted out of the tent, clutching the glowing needle, rain exploding around me in sheets.
The castle rose ahead, dark against the raging sky.
I tightened the scarf around my neck, exhaled once…
and charged straight into the storm.
[1] Kànji - Rice porridge water that is famous in rural Tamilnadu