The first day of their seven-day deadline was a testament to the focused, desperate energy of the united tribes. Prana Farm 7, once a sterile symbol of oppression, was transformed into a buzzing hive of revolutionary activity.
The Blood-Iron warriors, under Rudra's command, became a deconstruction crew. They stripped the downed sentinel drones and crimson Enforcers for their advanced armor plating and power cells, their forgers working with the Jwala artisans to integrate the superior technology into their own scavenged gear. They were an army leveling up in real-time.
The Hydro-Nomads, led by Zara, took charge of logistics. They organized the farm's vast nutritional stores, tended to the weak and bewildered captives, and began scouting a network of safe, hidden routes to evacuate the civilians back to the Silent Corridors.
Chhaya and the Jwala healers focused on the greatest challenge: the minds of the freed. They performed gentle, meditative therapies, using their Prana-sense to help the captives untangle their real memories from the seductive fiction of the SamsaraNet. It was a slow, agonizing process, akin to waking a sleepwalker in the middle of a minefield. Vani, the first captive to defy the Prefect, became a bridge, her own lucid anger helping to ground the others, reminding them of the truth they had been forced to forget.
In the command center, Anasuya, Atri, and Kalpit formed the strategic heart of the operation. Atri, though still remote, was a god in the machine. Given free rein in a completely isolated AsuraCorp network, he was a child in a candy store, gleefully tearing through firewalls, downloading terabytes of classified data, and reverse-engineering the facility's core systems. Anasuya translated his digital findings into physical realities, directing teams to secure critical hardware and identify the most valuable pieces of technology for transport.
Kalpit's role was different. He was the anchor, the nexus. He spent hours with the captives, using his Anahata not to heal their minds, but to calm their hearts. He shared his own story, the story of a Sump-rat, reminding them that they were not just harvested cattle, but survivors of a broken world. His presence, his power, became a living symbol of the rebellion, giving them a focal point for their own budding defiance.
On the second day, a crisis erupted.
"It's the stasis-sickness," Chhaya reported to the council, her face grim. "Their bodies have been dormant for too long, sustained only by the farm's nutrient drips and a minimal Prana-feed. Now that they are awake, their own biological systems are failing. They are rejecting the real food we give them. Their immune systems are compromised. It's a cascading failure. If we don't find a way to stabilize them, they will begin to die."
<"She's right,">> Atri's voice confirmed from the comms. <"The SamsaraNet isn't just a dream-state; it's a total life-support system. By freeing them, you've essentially unplugged them from their own bodies' command prompts. We need a way to reboot their internal Prana systems.">>
The irony was crushing. They had freed the captives only for them to die from the very freedom they'd been given.
"The Prana-converters," Anasuya said, pointing to a schematic on the main screen. "The technology we came here to steal. It's designed to extract Prana. Could we reverse the flow? Use it to infuse them with life energy?"
<"Theoretically, yes,">> Atri replied, his excitement tempered with caution. <"But it's not a simple switch. Reversing the polarity would require a massive, stable power source, and a... a willing Prana donor. A very, very powerful one. The machine would extract the Prana from the donor and convert it into a broad-spectrum, therapeutic frequency that could then be infused into the captives.">>
Every eye in the room turned to Kalpit.
He was the only one with a power core strong enough, his Manipura a sun compared to the candles of even the most powerful Jwala healers. But the process Atri described was chilling. It would be a voluntary Prana-harvesting. He would have to plug himself into the very machine he sought to destroy, to become the battery to save the others.
"How much would it take?" he asked, his voice steady.
Atri was silent for a long moment, the only sound the faint crackle of the comm. <"To stabilize all of them... at once? Kalki... it would drain you completely. It might even be permanent. It might... break your connection. Extinguish the fire. You'd be saving them at the cost of the very power that makes you the Avatar.">>
The choice was laid bare. Sacrifice his divine power to save a few hundred broken souls. Or preserve his strength for the greater war, and let these first fruits of their victory wither on the vine.
It was Kaelen's test, made real. The needs of the many, or the needs of the few?
Rudra slammed his fist on the table. "No! The boy is our weapon! We do not break our best sword to mend a few cracked pots!"
"These 'cracked pots' are the very reason we are fighting this war, Rudra!" Chhaya countered, her voice sharp. "If we sacrifice the people to save the symbol, then we have already become what we fight against!"
The room was a crucible of impossible choices. Anasuya remained silent, her face a mask, but her eyes were locked on Kalpit, waiting for his command.
Kalpit looked at the schematic, at the cruel, efficient design of the Prana-converter. He remembered the feeling of being plugged into that machine, the blissful surrender. To do this, he would not be surrendering to a dream. He would be surrendering to a promise. A promise he had made to himself when he stood in front of the freed, weeping captives.
"Do it," he said, his voice quiet but absolute. The debate in the room ceased. "Prepare the machine."
An hour later, he was in the heart of the facility's main conversion chamber. He stood on a raised platform, surrounded by humming conduits and the very same stasis-pod technology that had imprisoned the others. But this pod was different. It had been reconfigured by Atri and Anasuya. It was a donor's chair.
The freed captives, now numbering almost a thousand, were gathered in an adjacent chamber, each one hooked up to a small, glowing infuser. They watched through a large plasteel window, their faces a mixture of fear, awe, and desperate hope. Vani was at the front, her hands pressed against the window, her eyes willing him to succeed.
Anasuya made the final connection, attaching a series of energy conduits to his chest, arms, and the base of his spine—right over his primary chakras. "Are you sure about this?" she whispered, her voice low, for his ears only. "There are other ways. We could try a slower infusion, using the Jwala healers..."
"There's no time," he replied, his gaze steady on the faces beyond the window. "This war isn't about me, or my power. It's about them."
He gave her a single nod. She stepped back and activated the sequence.
The machine whirred to life. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Kalpit gasped. It was not a violent, tearing sensation. It was a quiet, relentless, and terrifyingly efficient drain.
He felt the golden fire of his Manipura being drawn out, siphoned away, pulled into the machine's hungry core. He felt his Svadhisthana's flow slow to a trickle, his Muladhara's anchor begin to lift. The vibrant colors of his Prana-sight began to fade to a dull grey.
It was a thousand times worse than Kali's suppressive field. That had choked his power. This was devouring it.
But on the other side of the window, a miracle was happening.
The small infusers attached to the captives began to glow with a soft, golden light—his light. A wave of warmth and vitality washed through them. Color returned to their pale skin. Their weak, shallow breaths deepened. The vacant, haunted look in their eyes was replaced by a dawning lucidity. They were not just being healed; they were being reconnected to the fundamental energy of life itself.
They were waking up, truly waking up, from a lifetime of sleep.
And the cost of their awakening was his own light, fading into darkness. He felt the spark of Parashurama's boon flicker, threatening to go out. The whispers of Vashistha's guidance grew faint. He was being hollowed out, his connection to the divine being scraped away, layer by agonizing layer.
This, he realized with a chilling clarity, was the true pound of flesh the war demanded. Not a glorious death on the battlefield, but a quiet, absolute sacrifice in the heart of a cold machine.