When Ashan first awakened his chakra, it had been a faint, shapeless ball of light nestled within his spine.
Now, at the Perfection stage, it was a tangible, brilliantly shining sphere, a solid core around which his energies spiralled and refined.
His entire spine seemed to hum with power, and for a few seconds, the illusory form of the Muladhara chakra became visible to his inner sight.
The dark-golden coil of sin energy reappeared, wrapping around the chakra like a stabilising band, its volatile power now a controlled part of his foundation.
Hours later, Ashan opened his eyes.
A new, profound strength resonated through his being. 'The Muladhara chakra feels real now. Substantial.'
He closed his eyes again, projecting his consciousness into his Chit Sagar.
The tranquil island, the clear ocean, and the blue sky remained, but upon closer inspection, the island itself had grown larger, its shores expanding into the mental waters.
Returning to the physical world, he assessed the others. All forty members had absorbed their vestiges.
Ten had reached the Awakened stage; the rest, whom he mentally categorised as being at the 'Entry Stage', had solidified their foundation.
'And we now have seven Bodhir-ranked Sadhakas at the Perfection stage.' He observed his team, who had just completed their own advancements.
A lingering thought nagged at him. 'The Order never specified the number of vestiges needed for advancement. They are a shortcut, pure and simple. But how efficient is a shortcut? I'll have to find the answers—or more likely, more questions—once we escape.'
He pushed the thought aside and addressed the group.
"Listen! Before we march, we take time to stabilise and master our new power."
No one refuted him. The order was met with grim nods.
Dris raised a hand, a light smile playing on his lips.
"Leader, how long do we take before marching?" The use of the title was deliberate, a public affirmation of loyalty that did not go unnoticed.
'He picks up on the little details, this one.'
Ashan answered as if he had expected the question. "Fifteen days. Then we move."
***
A horde of Ganshka tribes marched through the forest, their Gnash! Gnash! cries forming a dissonant chorus.
At their head strode the Vrkuka chieftain. He raised a clawed hand, and the chaotic column ground to a halt.
His kin, armed only with their natural claws, stood with tails twitching. The Ganshka clutched their crude wooden clubs and pikes.
The chief's claw traced the old scar on his snout. 'We're still waiting for stragglers. But time is a luxury. Those cats are likely at the altar already.'
He pointed to three of his warriors. "You three, wait for the remaining tribes. Bring them to the front immediately."
"Yes, Chief!" they replied, bowing their heads.
He looked ahead into the unnaturally dense woodland. The air itself felt strange and heavy.
'The altar grounds. Littered with traps. But I am no stranger to this place.'
He snorted, a puff of vapour in the cool air. "Forward march! We go to slaughter those preening cats!"
Woof! Woff!
Gnash! Gnash!
The combined cries of Vrkuka and Ganshka merged into a single, terrifying anthem of impending violence.
***
"We have arrived."
Lash's eyes blazed, his hands clenching and unclenching. He watched his tribe—the Vyaghruga—their claws bared and tails lashing with nervous energy.
They looked upon their chieftain with a mixture of fear and deep respect.
The Vyaghruga chief towered over them all.
His golden-yellow fur seemed to capture the sun, a stark contrast to the darker, earthier tones of his kin.
He stood with his arms crossed, hands tucked under his armpits, his deep green eyes smouldering.
On his chest, a blood-red mark in the shape of an inverted pentagram pulsed with a faint, sinister light.
"Keep your senses sharp," his deep voice rumbled, not even bothering to look back at his followers. "The path is riddled with traps."
He began to walk without another word.
"Yes, Chief!" the tribe hurriedly replied.
Lash shot a furious glance at his father's retreating back. 'Not a single word of inspiration? What has happened to him? And that mark... is this the price of his dealings with the kidnapped humans?'
Gritting his teeth, Lash turned and roared, "Let's slaughter those mutts and their green-skinned vermin! Let's take our freedom!"
Rawr! Rawr!
"Freedom! Freedom!"
The Vyaghruga took up the cry; their morale ignited as they began their march.
From the sidelines, Cloe watched it all unfold—her brother's rage, her tribe's fervour, her father's cold, silent stride.
'Is there no other way? 'Her heart felt heavy. 'I hope you are safe, Ballio. I hope you are far, far away from this coming bloodshed.'
Fifteen days passed.
The group of 47 Arashen-rank members resumed their march, leaving their temporary camp behind.
They moved with a new, disciplined confidence; their power stabilised.
Dris fell into step beside Ashan, keeping his voice low. "Hey, Ashan. How about one more duel?"
Team 7 took the lead, with the other 40 following in a tactical formation. The twin suns beat down upon them.
Roderic smirked. "You haven't beaten him once."
Dris clicked his tongue. "That's because he always finds the weak spot. It's like he knows what's coming." 'It can't be a kiriya or a mantra. What power is that?'
He stared at Ashan's back, the unspoken question hanging in the air.
Ballio walked with a tense, anxious expression, his fists intermittently clenching.
"Something wrong, Ballio?" Damara asked, her tone concerned.
Helma commented nonchalantly, "Probably thinking about that cat-girl, Cloe."
Ballio shot her an irritated look.
She merely shrugged. "What? Am I wrong?"
"You are," Ballio said, a hint of anger in his voice. "I am thinking about her. But she has a name. Use it."
Helma waved a dismissive hand. "Right, right."
Damara chuckled. "Looks like our Ballio's heart has been stolen by a wild feline."
Ballio glared at her.
"Ahem, I mean, Cloe," she corrected with a light cough.
"Hey, Roderic," Dris chimed in, smirking. "If it looks like a cat, talks like a cat, and thinks like a cat... isn't it just a talking cat?"
Roderic glanced from Ballio's now-drawn bow to Dris's smug face. "You're really trying to get an arrow in your knee, aren't you?"
"But it's factually correct," Imla stated, joining the conversation with her usual clinical detachment.
"The Vyaghruga are a human-feline hybrid; the descriptor is accurate."
"See? Imla gets it," Dris said, nodding in agreement. Helma and Damara murmured their assent.
"But that's not the point!" Ballio flustered.
"Cats are animals. They don't have societies, languages, or emotions as we do. The Vyaghruga does!"
"Animals have emotions, Ballio," Roderic countered gently. "They just can't articulate them like us."
"Roderic, you too?" Leader Ballio turned, seeking an ally. "What do you think?"
Ashan, who had been silently listening to the entire exchange, stopped walking.
The group halted behind him.
'Racism is a constant. Where there is a difference, there will be prejudice. You can police words, but not thoughts.'
"Everyone has stated facts," Ashan said, his calm voice cutting through the debate. "But this is a discussion for another time, if we survive. For now", he pointed ahead, his gaze sharpening, "we have a group of Ganshka to tail. Everyone, be quiet and stay low."