The cellar air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the damp chill of the waterfall.
Bak-asura stood over Vyan, the heavy wooden cane whistling through the air.
Each strike was calculated, landing on Vyan’s shins, his shoulders, and the small of his back with a rhythmic, sickening thud.
For the first time in a month of beating, Bak-asura spoke in his voice—a deep, jagged rasp that carried the heat.
“You made me work for this, boy,” he hissed, punctuating a strike to Vyan’s ribs.
“Making me play the ‘Humble Dharma Sage’ for months… making me swallow my pride and pretend to be a weakling. This month was your punishment for making me wait. But it was also your training.”
He stopped, the cane dripping, and stood beside the crumpled boy.
He leaned down, his voice dropping into a mockery of the old “Dada” tone.
“Don’t look at me like that. Your Dada still loves you. Didn’t I promise to make you strong? To make you the greatest Yogi?”
On the cold floor, Vyan didn’t cry out.
Deep inside, a part of him—the part that had been “letting go”—suddenly sneered.
The mask of the world was gone.
He closed his eyes, and instead of the pain, he reached for a deeper memory.
He was back in the forest with his mother.
“Vyan,” she said softly.
“In a man’s moment of absolute despair, they plead to the Gods or they plead to the Devils. It is natural to turn to the Gods. But do you know why some choose the Devils?”
“Why, Mother?”
“A God keeps you safe,” she said, her eyes reflecting the shadows of the trees, “but only if you give up your self, your desires, and your ego. But a Devil? A Devil takes everything you have in exchange for helping you achieve your greatest desire. Everything in this universe hangs in a balance, Vyan. Being headstrong is the only thing that tips the scale. Be an Asura, and yet don’t be. Be Dharma, and yet don’t be. That is your path.”
The Present
Back in the cellar, Bak-asura gripped his cane.
“From now on, I will teach you the Asura hand to hand combat. I will teach you how to fight with hand and foot while I beat you. Don’t blame me, boy. You are the one who made a deal with the Devil.” He grinned, his teeth yellow in the torchlight.
“I will make you the strongest.”
Vyan’s voice was a dry ghost of what it used to be.
“But you will take everything from me.”
Bak-asura froze, then burst into a loud, mocking laugh.
“Finally! You speak to your Dada! Of course, boy. If I give, I must take. That is the law of the world.”
To Bak-asura’s surprise, Vyan didn’t tremble or beg.
He looked up, his amber-ish eyes cold and flat.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then, Bak-asura snapped.
The “Master” of the Grotto, the Grade 3 Yogi, lost his composure at the rejection of the “Ingrate” he had groomed.
“How can you not call me Dada?!” he roared, his face contorting.
“After everything I did? After I took care of you?”
He swung the cane with violent, uncontrolled fury.
Crack.
“Call me Dada!” Crack.
“Call me Dada!”
The beating continued for a brutal hour.
Bak-asura’s strikes were no longer “training”; they were the desperate lashing out of a man who realized he couldn’t own the boy’s spirit.
Finally, Vyan’s body went limp, his consciousness retreating into the darkness.
Bak-asura stopped, his chest heaving, looking at the bloody, unconscious heap in the corner.
“Huh… I went overboard. I need to control myself if the vessel is to survive.”
He turned and left, the iron door slamming shut.
In the corner, Vyan lay in the dark, his body sobbing even while his mind was gone.