The amber water spray of the waterfall had become Vyan’s entire world.
For what felt like a single month to the waking world outside—but three full, grueling months under the dilated, heavy time of the Grotto—the twelve-and-a-half-year-old had sat immovable upon the wet basalt stone.
The brutal, chaotic heat that had once threatened to melt his bones from the inside out was finally cooling, settling into a steady, rhythmic hum.
Through sheer, unbroken repetition, Vyan had achieved an average level of refinement—a milestone that would have taken a normal mortal years of frustrating, agonizing study.
But Vyan had two distinct advantages.
He had a Grade 3 Yogi secretly monitoring his channels, and he possessed the ancient, meditative breathing method his mother had beaten into his muscle memory.
Every time he exhaled, his breath acted like a master blacksmith’s bellows, smoothly cooling the wild, unrefined energy and hammering the raw Prana into a pristine, malleable state.
Ansh had relentlessly drummed the urgency of this process into his head.
”Every Yogi’s absolute first step, Vyan, is learning to refine raw energy in a matter of seconds,” the old man had lectured, his voice echoing in the boy’s memory.
“The Prana inside a Grotto or within Prana Knots is wild, native, and unrefined. If you cannot polish it instantly upon drawing it in, it will tear your channels apart before you can ever deploy it. You must become a fast furnace.”
Vyan’s speed of learning was better than average, though he wasn’t a miraculous prodigy who grasped it instantly.
He was steady, methodical, and deeply enduring.
Because he possessed a peak A-grade Celestial Spindle, his internal capacity was utterly immense.
Compared to the fragile or standard spindles Ansh had described, Vyan’s furnace was a deep, long-lasting reservoir.
It could eventually run dry, of course, but its longevity depended entirely on how intelligently he chose to burn it.
Though Vyan didn’t truly understand the terrifying scale of his own potential—to him, he was just a clueless forest boy learning a difficult new craft—he felt a simple, childish joy in his daily progress.
Deep within his marrow, an instinct buried since the dawn of the early human began to wake.
It was an ancient drive that predated language, scripture, and law: the primal hunger to grow stronger.
In the harsh, unforgiving wilderness of the Hollow Era, personal strength was the only currency that never devalued.
Every single time a thread of perfectly refined Prana settled quietly into his Spindle, Vyan felt more “real,” more heavily anchored to the earth beneath his feet.
I wonder if Father ever felt the weight of the world like this, Vyan thought, his eyes remaining closed as the golden, humid mist coated his bare shoulders.
Humble old sir Ansh says the Dharma is the sacred path of absolute order.
If everyone who walks that path is as kind, selfless, and wise as he is, then the world beyond the jungle must be a truly beautiful place.
A sharp pang of guilt suddenly pricked Vyan’s chest as he recalled his initial suspicions of the old man.
He lost his hand and his sight for the Righteous Law.
He has no reason to help me, yet he spends his last, dying strength teaching a nameless forest boy like me.
Are all Dharma Yogis this saintly?
And what of the Asura path?
Ansh says they are demonic monsters…
if the Dharma is this bright, the shadows must be very dark indeed.
In truth, Vyan didn’t deeply care about the grand politics of Dharma or Asura.
That was exactly how his mother had raised him.
She had carved her detached philosophy deep into his soul, teaching him the art of letting go, warning him never to anchor his heart to love or hate.
His intense curiosity was the only engine driving him forward—a burning desire to understand the world and the strange people occupying it.
He was, after all, still just a twelve-and-a-half-year-old child trying to make sense of a massive, terrifying world.
In his innocent mind, the world was rapidly organizing itself into a simple map of light and dark.
He felt “dumb,” uneducated, and incredibly lucky to have stumbled upon such a saintly guide in the desert.
He silently resolved to work harder, to refine his Prana even faster, so that he could eventually protect Ansh in his final, fading days—the exact same way Ansh was currently “protecting” him.
High above, near the edge of the light-pavilion, a dark silhouette silently watched the boy.
Ansh was back from his scouting trip to the stitched wall, his mind a chaotic hornet’s nest of burning greed.
A month have passed in this pocket, meaning three full months has bled away in the world outside, he mused, his liver-spotted fingers twitching rhythmically against his tattered robes.
Three months of beautiful, uninterrupted grooming.
The boy’s body is transforming into masterpiece.
His musculature is dense, his channels are widening, and his Spindle is stabilizing perfectly.
A grotesque, evil grin slowly warped Ansh’s scarred face in the shadows.
My own personal backyard vessel.
My pristine replacement.
His thoughts drifted back to the “Visitor’s Puzzle” and the glowing, clumsy stitch on the basalt wall.
Over the last few days of intense contemplation, a frustrating reality had set in.
Before returning to the pavilion, he had secretly tried to force his way through the wall, pouring his own energy into the tear.
But he had failed miserably.
The stitch had violently rejected him, nearly burning his remaining spirit-threads.
It was an infuriating realization.
The mysterious entity who had treated a Grade 5 Grotto like a minor trading post had laid down a restriction that age and raw power couldn’t bypass.
Perhaps it was precisely because Ansh was a Grade 3 Weaver, his Prana already locked into a specific, corrupt Asura alignment, that the wall locked him out.
To unravel those pristine stitches and claim the Grotto’s absolute ownership, the puzzle didn’t require a heavy hammer; it required a clean, unblemished Grade 1 frequency that could perfectly adapt and resonate with the environment’s original, high-tier matrix.
He needed Vyan’s pure, Celestial Prana.
The boy was a blank slate, a Grade 1 vessel of unmatched density, capable of slipping past the ward’s defenses like a ghost.
But more importantly, Ansh needed that energy under his , unquestioning command.
He couldn’t risk the boy triggering the puzzle and accidentally claiming the kingdom for himself.
He needed Vyan’s pure, Celestial Prana.
But more importantly, he needed it under his absolute, unquestioning command.
The ownership of this entire kingdom is within my reach, Ansh thought, the violet, malicious light behind his milky cataracts pulsing with a frantic energy.
If I can force the boy’s Celestial Prana to interface with the stitch, the wall will unravel.
I won’t just inherit a body; I will inherit a fortress that can hide me from the entire world.
A dark, guttural, and ancient Asura term slipped past his cracked lips—a word meant for “The Harvest.”
”Kha-Rudra,” Ansh whispered into the ozone-heavy air, the sound dying instantly against the ambient roar of the waterfall.
The old man’s mind was completely made up.
The gentle phase of grooming was officially over; the breaking of the lamb was about to begin.
“Welcome to The Sovereign Of Kaliyuga! New chapters dropping daily.”