Surya exhaled a shaky breath as the system's voice faded, relief washing over him like a monsoon downpour. Pain as a side effect? He'd faced worse in the ashram's crucible—three months of naraka had forged his tolerance, each ache a badge of defiance. The rumors Elenav had whispered—monstrous deformations—were true then, but the system's precision promised safety.
"Will future techniques take this long?" he asked, the question gnawing at him since the system vanished. Ninety days offline for every gain would leave him no better than the others, system or not.
[With upgrades, functions and tools enhance. "Background Installation" unlocks later, preventing such delays. Exp Points resolve all, host is assured.]
Surya smirked faintly—Exp, the eternal key. Predictable, yet comforting.
One last doubt lingered, sparked by the system's explanation of SAT-1. "If small pathways just exhale unused prana, why do low-Samskara folk need more energy *and* time? Shouldn't it just be time, with the same net prana?"
[Absorbed prana alters within the body, becoming unabsorbable again. This modified energy returns to the earth.]
Clarity struck like a temple gong. On Earth, he'd seen humanity plunder without care, scarring the planet. Here, Aryavarta's cycle balanced it—Ether drawn from the soil, prana absorbed, then returned, perhaps even at death. A cosmic ledger, neatly tied.
Six days remained until the final test. Elenav had hinted at rewards for the top three—gifts and privileges from the Trishul of Dharma. Surya itched to deploy SAT-1, to see how far it could push him. Epok's smug face, leaner now but no less arrogant, flashed in his mind—a target to pummel into the dust.
---
One Week Later
The ashram's ETC keepers scratched their heads, vexed by a week-long riddle. Charged with tracking Ether use, they'd noted a five percent spike across ETC-1's daily draw—near a hundred shishyas breathing its mist. A trifling jump, perhaps, but on such a scale, it gouged the ashram's coffers. Once, a sly earth mage had tunneled Ether to his quarters, slashing levels until caught. This time, no culprit emerged, and the staff—trainees themselves in this lucrative art—faced Guru Arjun's stern wage cuts.
Jagan, a lanky keeper with a low-grade Samskara, sought escape in the trainee competition that day. Perched on a wooden stand overlooking the sparring circle, he nudged his friend Mohan. "Who's worth watching?"
Mohan, squat and sun-darkened, pointed to a wiry youth with a sunken face. "That one—Epok. High-grade, nearing Sadhak Human-1. Folk say his Samskara's a blessing." He sighed, envy lacing his tone. Like Jagan, he'd been shunt to ETC duties, their low potential barring warrior paths. This trade, at least, promised respect one day—better than slaving for a spice merchant.
Jagan's gaze drifted to another—a lean boy, thin but muscled, staring at Epok with a glint of fire. "And him?"
"Daneel—er, Surya," Mohan corrected. "Low-grade like us, but sixth now, clawing up with sheer grit. Out-trains everyone, even past midnight. Won't topple the high-grades, but he's a name here."
Jagan nodded, a pang of kinship stirring. His own brother, a low-grade soldier, had broken under relentless toil, discharged in shame. "Pity," he murmured.
The matches kicked off, the crowd—a mix of shishyas and staff—roaring as Jal Mage Bhanu took the referee's spot. His water spheres quelled fights gently, unlike Vidya's infamous stint; she'd once hurled a rule-breaker into the stands, nearly snapping his neck. Bhanu's way was kinder.
Fights split into three tiers by Samskara, with lower ranks free to challenge up. Rules were tight—three clean hits won, sparing young bodies excess harm. Three months had honed their skill, and the crowd gasped at deft dodges and swift strikes.
Surya shone in the low-grade tier, a whirlwind of calm fury. He charged opponents, faster than their weary limbs could counter, landing hits with precision honed on rubber effigies. His steady gaze won the crowd's cheers, a slum boy defying his lot.
Tiers wrapped up, and inter-tier challenges flared. High-grades held ranks one to five, mid-grades below, low-grades last. Surya topped his tier, dispatching peers with ease. Most mid-grades challenged upward, but two stood apart.
Kiran, Surya's quiet ally, called out the sixth-rank—a mid-grade he'd once shared mats with. His agility, sharpened sparring late with Surya, dazzled. He vaulted across the dirt, a palm strike dazing his foe's forehead, then two more to seal it. The crowd erupted, louder than a Diwali night.
Then came the rarest bout—a low-grade daring the top rank. Surya faced Epok, eyes locked, the air thick with stakes.