The journey back was a grueling reversal of everything Vyan had fought to achieve.
When Ansh first suggested they turn back to find the Sanctum, Vyan had stopped dead, the black volcanic dust swirling furiously around his ankles.
”Why, sir?” Vyan’s voice was instantly cautious.
“We have been walking for days to escape the red death of the Sun-Scars. Why go directly back into the furnace?”
Ansh’s hand tightened on Vyan’s shoulder, his gnarled fingers trembling—not with the frailty of age, but with a sudden, sharp spike of Asura greed.
”Because, child,” he whispered, his voice losing its melodic hum for a split second, sounding instead like the grating of heavy stone over bone.
“There is a massive gain waiting there. A treasure that could change the very fabric of your life. Do you not want to see what that key at your hip truly unlocks?”
Vyan caught the sharp edge of that hunger—a flash of something dark and lethal in the old man’s tone—but to a twelve-year-old who had spent his life hidden in a jungle hut, curiosity was a more powerful force than caution.
He was a creature of why and how.
”I will tell you stories as we walk,” Ansh added quickly, smoothing his voice back into a grandfatherly purr.
“The history of the world, the secrets of the breath… everything your mother hinted at but never spoke aloud.”
That was the bribe Vyan couldn’t refuse.
They turned back.
As they trekked across the borderline where the black stone met the red sand, the devil began to speak, and for the first time, the mechanical grid of the world was laid bare to Vyan.
”Listen well, Vyan,” Ansh began, his voice echoing smoothly within the basalt corridors.
“The world is not made of dead matter, but of Prana—the Primordial Energy that breathes through the cosmos. In every human, there are seven sacred centers, seven internal chakra points. When a person awakens their awareness, these seven points are forced to collapse inward, compacting until they form a single, spinning vortex known as the Spindle.”
Vyan listened with an intensity that made his light bronze skin feel tight over his jaw.
”The Spindle is your furnace,” Ansh continued, gesturing with his tattered sleeve.
“It is where Prana is pulled from the ambient air, stored, and refined. Initially, it manifests as seven mini-spindles that act as separate, volatile reservoirs. Through rigorous cultivation, those seven storage pools must be perfectly merged into one proper Spindle. These vessels are ranked by their purity and their capacity to hold the Prana. We call these the Grades of the Spindle.”
Ansh leaned in, his sightless, milky eyes fixed on the empty horizon as he recited the hierarchy like a grim scripture:
Grade D (Fragile): A cracked vessel.
It leaks Prana as fast as it takes it in.
Most who possess this never survive the internal friction of their first year of meditation.
Grade C (Standard): The common path.
It allows for a steady, basic flow—enough to sustain a mundane life or a foot soldier, but never to truly excel.
Grade B (Deep): A vast, dark reservoir.
Those born with a Deep spindle can hold massive amounts of Prana, allowing them to perform feats that defy the laws of nature for hours on end.
Grade A (Celestial): The rarest of all.
It is a living sun held within the chest.
”And what do we do with this heat?” Ansh asked rhetorically, a dark pride slipping into his tone.
“We spin it. Those who can manipulate these energetic threads are called Yogis. When you successfully merge your seven mini-spindles into one proper vortex, that is when you officially become a Grade 1 Yogi. We are graded from 1 to 6. A Grade 1 is a mere apprentice, but a Grade 6… a Grade 6 is an expert who can weave the fate of a dominion or rewrite the sovereignty of nations. Anything above Grade 6, Vyan, is a class that no normal mortal can reach. You do not qualify even to know their names yet.”
”And the Sanctum?” Vyan asked, his golden eyes narrowing.
“What did you call it?”
”A Grotto,” Ansh hissed, a sliver of his raw Asura greed showing through his teeth.
“A Grotto is a leftover domain, a spatial inheritance left behind by an ancient Yogi below Grade 5. It is a pocket of the world where the laws of nature are bent, and the rewards are beyond measure. Those left by sages above Grade 5 are called Siddha Grottos.”
Vyan nodded silently.
He didn’t tell Ansh, but his gaze was already looking inward, inspecting the heavy thrumming in his own chest.
What kind of Spindle grade will I have?
he thought, monitoring the wild Prana shifting in his heart.
Was it Standard…
or Celestial?
But Vyan was not a passive student.
Every time a concept grew confusing, he interrupted the old man with a rapid-fire barrage of questions.
”But how does the Prana stay in the mini-spindles if I’m running or jumping?
Does the Spindle grow larger as I consume more Spirit-Roots?
What happens if the chakra points refuse to collapse all at once?
Do they fight each other?”
Behind him, Ansh’s patience was fraying like a sun-rotted rope.
Cheeky, insufferable little brat, Ansh thought, his jaw clenching so hard his rotten teeth ached.
My mind is fried, my internal channels are weeping blood, I am a Grade 3 Yogi who has unraveled entire enclaves…
and I am standing in the dirt giving a primary school lesson to a clueless whelp.
He violently suppressed the urge to loop his lone hand around the boy’s throat, repeatedly reminding himself of the magnificent feast to come.
The sooner we reach the Sanctum, the sooner I make him mine.
Ansh stared down at the back of Vyan’s neck with pure, unadulterated disdain before instantly pulling the gentle “Angel” mask back over his wrinkled features.
“Yes, my child?”
”Are there weapons?” Vyan asked, his mind flashing to a brief, lethal memory of his mother holding a strand of condensed light.
“Tools that can channel this Prana directly? I remember… seeing something alien. Something that wasn’t forged from common metal.”
Ansh stunned inside.
His posture locked.
This child…
He stared at the boy’s thin, bronze shoulders with a sudden creeping chill.
He is only twelve years old.
I just explained the bare concept of meditation, and he is already calculating how to weaponize the energy?
Vyan hadn’t just survived forty days in the desert wastes; his soul had developed the terrifying, immediate instincts of a combatant.
Ansh realized then that he had severely underestimated the boy’s intuition.
Vyan wasn’t just a passive vessel waiting to be stolen; he was a natural-born Yogi in the making.
”There are Prana-Tools,” Ansh said carefully, his voice dropping to a guarded whisper.
“Powerful artifacts that act as a direct extension of the Spindle. But they require refined Prana, Child. Without a formed Spindle, they are just dead weight you cannot lift.”
”Humble old sir!” Vyan suddenly shouted, pointing excitedly ahead as they crested a massive red ridge.
“Look! We are almost there!”
They had finally reached the edge of the red dunes.
The small, square basalt Sanctum sat waiting under the harsh afternoon sun, its four ancient pillars casting long, dark shadows across the earth like skeletal fingers reaching out to claim them.
As their feet stepped onto the smooth, ancient stone floor of the ruins, the golden sphere at Vyan’s hip instantly awoke, beginning to hum with a heavy, rhythmic frequency.
Ansh’s grin grew wider and wider, stretching from one ear to the other until his face deformed into a grotesque, predatory mask of pure joy.
He could smell it now.
The Grotto.
The ocean of pure Prana.
The grand finale of the boy, and the glorious beginning of his own godhood.
”We are home, Child,” the devil whispered, his lone hand locking onto the boy’s arm like a vise.
“Now… let us open the door.”
“Welcome to The Sovereign Of Kaliyuga! New chapters dropping daily.”