[Viksana].
The world sharpened into a cascade of data as his eyes swirled with grayish-white light. He turned his gaze inward, analyzing the turbulent flows of Prana and Atmic within his own body. The strain was less now, a tolerable hum since his ascension to Bodnir.
The information streamed in: the Nadis absorbing Ojas, refining it into Prana through specific breathing. The Manas, refined by mantra, crystallizing into Atmic. Two rivers of power, meant to merge, but currently colliding.
'Breathing and mantra must be simultaneous. Control both flows to the root chakra and stabilize.' He wrestled with the data, seeking a pattern, a flaw in the design. In his root chakra, the energies clashed again, producing tiny, maddening sparks that jolted his system.
'There must be an efficient path.' Asking the instructors was out of the question—their paths were different. This was a test for the Samyama Marga Sadhakas alone.
He released the Siddhi, the gray fading from his eyes as he took a long, steadying breath. "So this is a bottleneck," he murmured, a wry smile touching his lips. "Ignoring the clashes means slow, plodding progress. But time is a luxury we don't have."
***
"Fuck! My whole body itches from these energy clashes!" Dris snarled, slamming a fist against his thigh in the mess hall.
"A rare point of agreement," Rodric admitted, wincing as he shifted in his seat. "The control is... elusive."
"Should we ask an instructor?" Ballio ventured. "The elder said we could."
Imla shook her head. "Their knowledge is for different paths. It would be useless."
"Her reasoning is correct, but her conclusion is premature," Ashan interjected, setting down his spoon. He held the table's attention. "The elder knows our Marga. He is testing us. To ask for help now is to fail the first, unspoken trial. We must prove we can unravel this ourselves."
He left his deeper reason unspoken: That old man's suspicion is a tangible weight. To solve this too quickly would confirm it. I need to be careful, not clever.
"Do you have any ideas, then?" Dris asked, frustration bleeding into his voice.
"Not yet," Ashan lied smoothly. "But I will." He returned to his meal, the conversation effectively ended.
***
Back in the solitude of his cave, Ashan sat cross-legged on the stone. The candle's flame was the only witness.
"[Viksana]."
Once more, his perception expanded. "The key is the clash. Two different energies, two different control mechanisms. The waste product is the spark." His mind, enhanced by the Siddhi, worked at an inhuman speed, cross-referencing data from his earlier attempts.
'When I advanced, there was a moment of perfect synchronization... a rhythmic gap between the inhalation and the exhalation, the preparation and the utterance. If I can find that harmonic point...'
He assumed the root mudra, half-closed his eyes, and began.
He drew a breath for four seconds, visualizing the spiral up his spine. Simultaneously, he prepared the mantra in his mind, holding the nascent Atmic in a state of readiness.
He held his breath, body still, lungs full. The inner tension rose. Then, he chanted softly, the Ashurain syllables resonating in his skull: "𝔑𝔞-ℜ𝔞-𝔗𝔥𝔞!"
He guided both energies. They swirled around his root chakra, stabilizing. The violent sparks were gone, replaced by a mere fizzle of wasted power.
He exhaled for six seconds, coiling the energy downward, and mentally whispered the concluding phrase: "𝔈𝔰𝔥𝔞 𝔜𝔞𝔩𝔲𝔫 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔨𝔥!"
He rested for two seconds in perfect, silent stillness.
After seven minutes, he released the state with a shaky, long hiss of breath. A genuine smile, this time, touched his lips. "I've found the rhythm."
***
"Alright, Ashan. Did you figure it out or not?" Dris demanded, his eyes bloodshot, his body twitching with residual energy sparks.
"You didn't stop, you idiot?" Rodric sighed.
"The jolts became too much," Ballio admitted, scratching his nose. Damara and Helma nodded in silent agreement.
Imla's green eyes studied Ashan, a mask over her calculating thoughts. 'If he has the solution, it confirms his unnatural talent. If not, he's fallible.' "Well?" she prompted. "Do you have an idea?"
All eyes were on him.
"I do," Ashan said, his voice low.
A stunned silence fell over the group.
"What is it? Tell me!" Dris implored, impatient.
"Dris," Ashan's voice cooled several degrees. "Patience is not a virtue here. It is a requirement for survival on this path."
Dris clicked his tongue but bowed his head slightly. "My bad, Leader."
Ashan explained, his tone calm and pedagogical. He detailed the method of simultaneous preparation—breathing while mentally forming the mantra, holding the breath to chant, then exhaling with the concluding phrase. He omitted, of course, the catalyst of his discovery.
"The wastage decreases significantly. The sparks become manageable. The key is not to see them as two separate tasks, but as one unified process. You must harmonize the intention and synchronize the timing."
He finished, leaving them with the blueprint. It was a strategic investment—a stronger team was a more useful asset. And a loyal one, led by the one who held the keys to their progress.