Surya lingered by the hut's threshold, the guru's words about a vayuroot still buzzing in his ears, then sought Guru Arjun's leave for the next evening, citing unfinished tasks. With a nod, the guru agreed, and Surya set off to find Elenav, his brother-in-arms, lounging near the training grounds, his saffron kurta bright against the dusk.
Elenav, a rising star among the ashram's young body refiners and heir to a sprawling merchant clan, knew the outer city's veins like his own pulse. Over months, Surya had pried loose the tale of that library brawl. A petty bureaucrat, housed by the government, had flown into a rage when a slum-born servant spilled chai on his silk dhoti. He'd ordered his guards to thrash the man near death. Lacking coin for a vaidya, the servant succumbed, leaving a wife and two daughters to the slums' mercy.
Fury had driven Elenav to the bureaucrat's doorstep, pummeling him till his face bloomed purple. The guards he spared—they were but pawns. The bureaucrat, wielding his rank, issued Elenav's arrest, though the ashram and his kin's clout would quash it with a fat purse in a day. That arrogant guard outside the library had just been unlucky—or foolish—to cross him then.
Surya knew the slums' bite too well—hunger gnawing at hope, families fraying under want. Hearing the ashram now sheltered the widow and girls, gratitude swelled; he'd chosen a righteous path. Yet, in his gut, the bureaucrat deserved more than bruises—death, perhaps, though Elenav's justice sufficed for now. Their bond had deepened through such tales, brothers forged in sweat and shared defiance. Together, they hatched a plan.
At dawn, Surya climbed the library's stone steps, his frame leaner, sharper, but cloaked in the same hole-riddled dhoti—disguise enough, he hoped, from the clerk's memory. At the counter, he counted out ten silver Rupiyas borrowed from Elenav, each coin clinking deliberately, his fingers brushing the token as if it were a sacred yantra. He gaped, wide-eyed, feigning awe at its faint glow, a slum boy's first trinket. From the corner of his vision, he caught the clerk's cruel smirk—bait taken.
He bounced toward a podium, heart pounding not from waste—Elenav's coin would serve justice—but from purpose. "System, scan all tomes on mystic arts," he urged, seeking Exp or a shortcut for PAM-1's mage dreams.
[78 texts identified. Open each as they appear.]
Books materialized, their leather spines etched with Devanagari. Surya flipped to first pages only, wary of prying eyes, his face a mask of manic glee—a greenhorn drunk on discovery, too eager to linger. Odd glances met him, but the guard stayed absent.
[_Ding_ Preliminary mystic arts insight gained. 30 Exp awarded.]
A grin tugged his lips—progress! He pondered the next topic when a meaty hand yanked him skyward.
"You again!" the guard snarled, his pitted face unchanged. "I'd know that rat mug anywhere. Was cooking a pretext to toss you—now I needn't bother." No coin-check this time—just a march to the door and a kick that nearly sent Surya skull-first into the dirt.
The guard and clerk shared a guttural laugh, the crowd blind to the scene, noses in scrolls. Surya rose, dust clotting his dhoti, fury blazing as he stormed back. "You can't! I checked last time—there's no rule for this! Return my Rupiyas, or I'll drag you to the raj-vichar!" His shout rippled, drawing a small knot of onlookers.
The guard's guffaw boomed. "Try, brat. No proof, no patron—you're nothing."
Surya's lips twitched into a sly curve, freezing the guard's mirth. The man lunged, hoisting Surya by the waist, too swift for his Sadhak-0 reflexes against a Human-2's stride. A rough pat-down missed the trishul medallion but snagged a square coin tucked deep in his dhoti's fold.
"Chitra-trap yantra!" the guard sneered, dropping Surya. "Clever, eh? Not the first to try." He raised a fist, relishing the crowd's gaze.
Surya's face twisted—panic, horror, all rehearsed—widening the duo's grins as whispers spread.