A wave of murmurs swept through the exhausted survivors.

Their blood-streaked faces, etched with fatigue, now turned to Ashan with a fragile, desperate hope.

“Let me explain from the beginning,” Ashan began, his voice cutting through the chatter.

Silence fell instantly.

“The Order teleported us to a “pocket dimension”. Think of it as a separate, confined space. This island isn’t just a location; it’s our prison.”

Shocked gasps and disbelieving cries erupted.

“No way!”

“You mean we can’t just sail away?”

“Silence!” Ashan’s commanding stare quelled the noise.

He produced the wooden key, holding it aloft.

“This is our ticket out. One of nine such keys. Find them all, and we can open the way home.”

They stared at the unassuming piece of wood, their expressions a mixture of confusion and scepticism.

“That’s it?”

“It doesn’t look special…”

Ashan pocketed the key.

“Appearances are deceiving. I am not forcing you, but understand this: without me, you will not survive this place. The choice is yours.”

One member, emboldened by desperation, stepped forward. “What’s to stop us from killing you and taking the key for ourselves?”

Ashan offered the man a thin, cold smile. “You are welcome to try. If you do not value your own life, or the lives of everyone here who would be caught in the crossfire.”

The man hesitated, his bravado crumbling as he looked at his battered companions.

They were exhausted, their urja spent after hours of relentless fighting.

Though they outnumbered Team 7, they were in no condition to challenge seven Awakened Bodhir-rank Sadhakas.

He clenched his fists, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“We agree,” he declared, his voice heavy with resignation. “We will follow your command, Ashan.”

No one voiced dissent. The silent agreement was a testament to their exhaustion and the grim reality of their situation.

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“Good,” Ashan said. “Now, rest. You’ve earned it.”

As the survivors dispersed to find patches of ground to collapse upon, Team 7 huddled together.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Dris whispered, “but is this the first we’re hearing about this key and the whole ‘nine keys to freedom’ plan?”

Roderic shook his head. “You’re not forgetting anything. He’s never mentioned it before.”

“Where did he even get it?” Damara joined the hushed conversation.

“The better question is, why nine keys?” Helma mused.

“Cloe didn’t know anything about this,” Ballio started. How does—”

“How does Ashan always know everything?” Imla finished, her voice low and intense.

All six of them stared at Ashan’s back, a chorus of unspoken suspicions screaming in their minds.

The pieces were adding up to an unsettling whole: his knowledge of all the Vidyas, his ability to combine them, his inexplicable appearances, and now this—the crucial information everyone else was dying to find.

“Why are you all looking at me so intensely?” Ashan asked without turning around, a light chuckle in his voice.

“Never seen a handsome boy before?”

“The thing is—ah, forget it,” Dris said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m going to loot the vestiges.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I know?” Ashan finally turned, his gaze sweeping over them.

Ballio stammered, “Ah, Ashan—it doesn’t matter if you don’t tell us. Right, guys?” Roderic, Helma, and Damara nodded in hesitant agreement.

“Yeah, we trust your process,” Damara said, forcing a smile. “We’re brothers and sisters after that ritual, after all.”

Imla, however, remained silent, her analytical mind racing. ‘Information. He trades in information. What are its limits? What does he know about me?’

A cold dread trickled down her spine.

Ashan’s eyes lingered on her. “Got something to say, Imla?”

She met his gaze, reclaiming her composure. “The nine keys. Do you know where they are?”

Ashan shrugged. “Not precisely. But it’s a safe bet the Manuga factions are collecting them.”

“And the door they unlock?” Helma asked. “If there are keys, there must be a door.”

“We’ll find it, Helma,” Ashan assured her. “For now, we distribute the vestiges. Ballio, have them form a line. Everyone gets two.”

The harvest was grim but plentiful.

From the 100 fallen Ganshka and 31 deceased members, they collected 131 vestiges—116 vital orbs from the Sharir Marga and 15 soul orbs from the Atma Marga.

“We’re rich!” Dris laughed, his hands full of glowing orbs.

“Not all for you, you bastard,” Roderic retorted. “They get distributed equally.”

“With this many”, Helma said, her small hands struggling to hold her share, “we could reach the Perfection stage. Maybe even Great Perfection.”

“The Perfection stage is feasible,” Ballio countered. “But Great Perfection is the bridge to the next rank. That’s a much larger leap.”

“Are you distributing these to the others as well?” Imla asked Ashan, her green eyes probing.

“Of course”, he answered without hesitation. “It strengthens us as a whole. A stronger army is a surviving army.”

After the distribution, 51 vestiges remained. Ashan tossed one idly in the air; it landed with a solid thud, utterly unblemished. ‘Resilient things.’

He distributed the remainder among his core team. They now numbered 47 in total, with 7 from Team 7. The maths left two vestiges spare.

Ashan pocketed them. ‘Extras never hurt.’

Half the group immediately entered a state of Sadhana, while the other half stood watch.

Ashan gave a slight nod to his team and found a spot to sit.

He assumed the root mudra, calming his breath and mind.

‘My team’s trust is a cracked vase, still holding water but beginning to leak. The newcomers’ loyalty is a transaction, bought with hope and vestiges. Fragile, but it will have to do.’

Pushing the thoughts aside, he plunged into Sadhana. His corrupted energies, now guided by the combined Vidyas of the serpent and the rat, surged within him.

One by one, he began absorbing the power from the seven vestiges.

The foreign energy was wild and untamed, a raging river crashing against the controlled banks of his own.

His refined energies clashed with the invaders, a violent tug-of-war occurring within his channels.

Slowly, surely, his core energy began to dominate, absorbing the wildness, pulling it all toward his Muladhara chakra.

The root chakra spun violently, a vortex of power.

Sparks of wasted energy still flared, sending jolts through his system, but the process was more efficient, more controlled than ever before.

He could feel it—the very nature of his Muladhara chakra was beginning to change, to densify, to perfect.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep