“Repeat after me,” Head Instructor Inira commanded, her voice a blade of ice.

The guttural syllables of Ashurain echoed in the hall.

“𝔇𝔞𝔷𝔥𝔦𝔯 𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔷 𝔳𝔞𝔩𝔤𝔞𝔯 𝔰𝔲𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥!”

The candidates chanted in unison, a chorus of the damned.

“Place your hand forward. Channel your atmic. Visualize a bolt of energy striking your foe.”

Ashan complied, the foul words feeling like poison on his tongue.

He focused, shaping his intent.

“To invoke a mantra,” Inira’s voice cut through his concentration, “requires two pillars: the words of power to stir nature and the visualization to manifest reality.”

“𝔇𝔞𝔷𝔥𝔦𝔯 𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔷 𝔳𝔞𝔩𝔤𝔞𝔯 𝔰𝔲𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥!”

A dark azure bolt, thin and sharp, shot from Ashan’s palm, drilling a neat hole into a wooden puppet.

Around him, others managed similar feats. A flicker of something—awe, grim satisfaction—stirred in his chest.

‘The childhood fantasy of casting spells, realized. And like all fantasies, it comes draped in profanity and effort.’

“The mantra translates as ‘Strike forth, thread of deathly surge,” Inira stated flatly.

“Now, continue. Until the words are etched into your soul.”

***

In the combat hall, Head Instructor Ress and Instructor Asrein stood waiting.

“Now you’re Bodnir-ranked, we take the next step,” Ress growled.

“Yessa handles unarmed Kiriya. We handle arms. And since you maggots know nothing, listen up.”

‘If you told us, we would know,’ Ashan retorted silently.

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Asrein cleared his throat. “Kiriya are martial techniques that use specific Prana-charged breathing patterns to execute combat forms. They are the art of turning breath into a weapon.”

‘So mantras are spells fueled by atmic,’ Ashan cataloged. ‘Kiriyas are techniques fueled by prana. A clear, brutal taxonomy.’

“Grab a weapon.”

Ashan selected a sword, its metal blade a cold, serious weight in his hand.

“First, the basic stances, but now with Prana strengthening your body.”

The hall filled with the sounds of thrusts and slashes, each movement now amplified by internal energy.

Ashan felt the difference—a refined power, a deadly grace.

“Enough! Now, follow my breathing with your Life Sense. This is [Traya Vetra]—the Threefold Strike.”

Ress demonstrated. Inhale, half-step, thrust-exhale.

Inhale, wrist rotation, upward slash-exhale. Inhale-raised, overhead diagonal strike-exhale.

Three devastating movements in three seconds.

“Frontal Impact. Upward Severing. Downward Casting.

Now, drill it until the pattern is burned into your marrow!”

The attempts were clumsy, a far cry from the instructor’s lethal fluidity. Ashan’s mind raced.

‘I could use [Viksana] to map his Prana flow perfectly… but would Ress sense the intrusion? The risk is too high.’

He fell back on mimicry and memory, his movements crude but determined.

“See and Sense, you maggots!”

Ress roared, demonstrating again as the session wore on until the bell finally released them, leaving Ashan physically and mentally drained.

***

Three Days Later—[Ashan’s POV]

The three days bled into a grueling rhythm of disciplined agony.

Dawn: Sadhana.

The clash of Prana and Atmic was now a controlled simmer, the energy loss minimized through relentless practice and subtle refinements via [Viksana].

Prayer: The Hollow Offering to the Lord of Greed. The gesture was becoming second nature, a daily reaffirmation of his damnation.

Stamina Training: Instructor Vael introduced weighted runs. ‘Fuck him,’ I cursed internally, even as I used Prana strengthening to bear the load, my muscles screaming

in protest.

Language and Theory: Instructor Faala delved deeper into Ashurain.

“We speak Simple Asurain, a ‘High Tongue’ derived from the Primordial Tongue. Its words hold power. Speak carelessly, and you may attract things best left unspoken.” The warning was a cold stone in my gut.

Combat Class: The rocks remained unbroken. “A final chance tomorrow,” Yessa snarled, his displeasure a tangible threat.

World Studies: Old Dhren’s face twisted with disgust as he cataloged the seven Manuga subtypes: Vrkuga, Vyaghruga, Naguga…

‘Did one of them break his heart?’ I mused.

His mood then shifted to rapturous joy as he lectured on herbs.

“External catalysts! Vital pills for the body, soul pills for the mind. For the Samyama path, you must balance both or find the exceedingly rare union pills.

Dris’s face was a mask of blank despair, while Helma scribbled notes frantically.

‘So talent and effort aren’t enough,’ I noted. ‘Wealth and connections are just as vital. The path to power is paved with gold.’

Mantras and Kiriyas: Inira’s cold voice guided us in mental fortification. “Visualize a barrier. Shape it. Manifest it.” I imagined a hexagonal shield around my mind.

Kach! It shattered, the backlash a sharp pain behind my eyes. Strengthening the mind was a more subtle, more painful art.

Kiriya’s practice was a cycle of repetition.

Ress no longer demonstrated, forcing us to rely on memory and sense. I honed my breathing, syncing it with the three strikes of [Traya Vetra], the movements becoming slightly less clumsy with each repetition.

Three days of relentless discipline.

No major incidents, no confrontations with the elder. Only the slow, grinding accumulation of foundation and the quiet, exhausting certainty that this was only the beginning.

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