For two days, the cellar was silent.
The only visitor was the Grotto Spirit, who brought a bowl of flavorless grain and a warning: “The Master says to be ready.” Vyan didn’t spend that time shivering.
He spent it cementing a single word into the bedrock of his mind.
Freedom.
He whispered it until his throat was dry.
He whispered it until the word lost its meaning and became a rhythmic vibration, a mantra that shielded his soul.
When he finally fell asleep on the second night, he didn’t dream of his mother’s lap; he dreamed of a horizon he hadn’t reached yet.
The door was kicked open the next morning.
Bak-asura entered, his heavy leather gauntlets clinking.
He found Vyan sitting upright, eyes fixed on the door.
The boy’s gaze was no longer wide with fear; it was narrow, tracking the Old Man like a predator tracks a storm.
“You want to call me Old Man?” Bak-asura sneered.
“Fine. But an Old Man has no patience for a slow student. Today, we stop breaking the bone and start tempering the strike.”
Bak-asura dropped into a low stance.
His crimson Prana flared, heavy and stagnant.
“What I am teaching you is the Asura-style. In the Sun-Scars, we don’t have the luxury of elegant forms. We fight with what we have.”
Suddenly, the Old Man’s arms became a blur.
A series of lightning jabs whistled through the air, the pressure creating mini-vortices that whipped Vyan’s hair.
Vyan’s eyes strained, but he couldn’t even see the hands—only the ripples in the air they left behind. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“Speed is power,” Bak-asura barked, stopping as abruptly as he’d started.
“If you hit the right pressure point with enough velocity, a jab is as deadly as a mountain-crushing punch. Now. Stance. Do it.”
Vyan stood and mimicked the low stance for few hours.
He thrust his arm forward, over and over.
Bak-asura paced around him like a wolf, kicking Vyan’s heels to fix his balance, adjusting his shoulders with rough tugs.
“I don’t have any Prana,” Vyan said, his voice level.
Bak-asura leaned in, his face inches from Vyan’s.
“Don’t lie to me, boy. I’ve watched your breathing. I know you can pull ten, maybe twenty percent of your capacity in a day or two. You will teach me that method—that is the cost of my ‘Dada’ wisdom.”
Vyan didn’t flinch.
“Should I use the technique with Prana, then?”
“Eventually. With an Astra, it becomes a god-killer. But for now, You do it without. Your body must be strong enough to hold the speed, or the friction will tear your muscles off the bone. That’s why I hit you, boy. To make the meat tough.”
Vyan looked at him, trying to parse the psycho-logic of a man who beats a child to “toughen” him.
“Old man… don’t you want to teach me how to use an Astra?”
Bak-asura’s eyes flashed with a mix of suspicion and dark nostalgia.
“Don’t get cheeky.
I’ve lived six decades.
I know you have an Astra—and maybe you had one before we ever met.
Listen to me, boy: nobody becomes an Asura by choice.
We scrape.
We beg.
We murder.
We do anything to get by.
That is the life.”
“Why did you become one?” Vyan asked.
The air in the room turned cold.
Bak-asura reached out, his gauntleted hand grabbing a fistful of Vyan’s hair and yanking his head forward.
“You’ve got a lot of questions today,” Bak-asura hissed, his eyes reflecting a hidden, ancient pain.
“Lesson ends. Be ready for tomorrow. It gets harsher.”
He shoved Vyan back and vanished through the door.
Vyan didn’t lie down.
As the silence returned, he dropped back into the stance.
He closed his eyes, visualizing the lightning jabs Bak-asura had shown him.
But he didn’t do it without Prana.
He began to train by himself.
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