《Echoes of Power》


 1. Hidden Practice

    Copper pots clanged against iron trivets as Ayan wove through the chaos of the Gurukul¡¯s stone-walled mess hall. His hands strained under the weight of the massive cauldron, but he felt a surge of energy in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized not as exhaustion but defiance.


    The overseer¡¯s voice barked against the kitchen like the crack of a whip, but Ayan¡¯s mind was elsewhere ¡ª on the narrow space behind the bronze rice pot where, for exactly seven minutes each day, he would become more than just a servant.


    ¡°Move faster, boy!¡± The overseer¡¯s command sliced through the oppressively humid air. ¡°The Acharyas will not tolerate any delay in their midday meal.¡±


    Ayan quickened his pace without raising his eyes. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    Steam billowed from the bubbling pots, forming ghostly shapes that dissipated against the sooty ceiling. The kitchen was a battlefield of sounds ¡ª knives against cutting boards, the hiss of batter meeting hot oil, and the rhythmic thud of pestles crushing spices in stone mortars. Ayan navigated through the discordant place with a practiced precision, his bare feet finding purchase on the worn floor slick with spilled water and vegetable peelings scattered around.


    Unlike the other servants who shuffled around with downcast eyes, Ayan¡¯s gaze constantly measured distances, noted positions, and tracked the movements of every person in the room. Not from fear, though, that would have been the sensible response to the oppressively rigid hierarchy within the Gurukul. No ¡ª Ayan watched because observation was the first discipline of survival.


    The overseer ¡ª a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual sheen of sweat on his forehead, and knuckles scarred from decades of kitchen work and enforcing kindly discipline ¡ª paced along the length of the long preparation tables. His bamboo switch tapped against his palm in a metronomic warning.


    He tentatively tasted the lentil soup. ¡°You there! The spice is overpowering. Do you think the Acharyas cannot taste your laziness?¡± His switch whipped through the air, landing squarely on a young boy¡¯s shoulders.


    The boy¡¯s piercing scream filled the room as he clutched his back and fell down in a heap of pain. ¡°I swear it wasn¡¯t me ¡ª¡±


    With a grunt, the overseer grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, as he pulled him up. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter! There¡¯s a mistake and someone has to pay for it.¡±


    The boy cowered and picked up the pestle with shaky hands and started grinding again, a rivulet of tears tracing a winding path down his dusty cheeks.


    Ayan¡¯s jaw tightened. His fingers curled firmly around the handle of the pot he carried. A fierce flame burned in his heart.


    One day... One day, that switch would not fall so freely.


    He set the cauldron down, wincing as his arms protested the sudden release of weight. He discreetly approached the younger boy and slipped a handful of roasted cashews into his pocket.


    ¡°For later,¡± he whispered.


    The boy¡¯s eyes widened in gratitude, and he nodded once before quickly darting back to his task.


    Ayan smiled and returned to his own duties. He took three steps and then a quick sideways movement past the girl with tired eyes, washing rice. Two more steps, then a pause as the butcher¡¯s cleaver sliced through the meat with a sharp crack, like a small branch snapping underfoot. Five more steps, and Ayan reached the massive hearth, where he carefully lowered his burden onto the stones beside the fire.


    ¡°Water for the second rice batch,¡± he announced, his voice a monotone drone lost in the steam and the clatter of the kitchen.


    The fire tender ¡ª an old man with eyes clouded by cataracts ¡ª nodded without looking up from the carefully balanced flames he nursed. The tenders were the only servants granted any measure of respect in the Kitchen¡¯s established order. Their skill determined whether the meals emerged perfectly cooked or ruined beyond salvation.


    Ayan wiped his palms against his rough cotton trousers and glanced towards the corner where the largest of the bronze pots sat upon its dedicated hearth. Behind it lay a narrow alcove ¡ª an architectural over-thought ¡ª where firewood used to be stored before a larger woodshed was built. Now it collected shadows and dust, ignored by all except the one servant who had discovered its potential.


    The overseer turned away, distracted by a commotion at the vegetable preparation area. Ayan measured his opportunity with the precision of a Seer, meticulously calculating the alignment of celestial bodies. Three servants were between him and his destination. The head cook was bent over a spice box, his attention focused on picking the right one among two identical powders.


    Now.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Ayan moved with a deliberate casualness toward the rice station, grabbed a wooden paddle used for stirring, and then slipped between the enormous pot. The heat from the fire baked his skin through his thin shirt, but he welcomed the discomfort. Pain was merely another teacher.


    The alcove was barely four feet wide, with just enough space for a single person to stand without touching the rough stone walls on either side. Dust motes swirled in the thin shaft of light that penetrated from a crack in the ceiling. Acrid smell of old ashes and the metallic tang of his own sweat filled the air, thick and cloying.


    Ayan placed the paddle within easy reach and lowered himself into a crouch. His breathing slowed and became deliberate.


    Seven minutes.


    That was all he could safely take before someone noticed his absence.


    His fingers traced the familiar patterns in the fine layer of dust and ash on the floor. Circles within circles, their lines weaving into intricate patterns ¡ª symbols of power he had traced hundreds of times, yet their meaning remained obscure to him. These were only fragments of knowledge he had gleaned from forbidden glimpses of the training provided to the privileged disciples in the Gurukul. Yet, they were a comfort he found nowhere else ¡ª a fleeting sanctuary drawn in dust.


    Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, Ayan rose into the first position ¡ª back straight, arms extended, palms open. He moved through forms he had pieced together with observation, from the rare occasions when he witnessed the actual training sessions while delivering meals or collecting laundry. The movements were imperfect; he knew ¡ª pale imitations of the true techniques taught by the Acharyas ¡ª but they were his.


    ¡°A person¡¯s true nature reveals itself through disciplined movement,¡± he had heard the Guru Durjaya tell his students. In this cramped, stolen space, he became someone other than the nameless servant who existed only to fulfill others¡¯ needs.


    His muscles remembered the steps. Guard position. Strike. Retreat. Circular step. Defensive block. His body flowed through the practiced sequences; small, controlled movements in the limited space, a silent dance of growing confidence.


    What would his sister Tanvi say if she could see him now? The thought brought a fleeting smile to his lips. She would probably scold him for taking such a risk, then ask him to teach her whatever he had learned. She was more often sick than not these days, but she more than made up for it with her indomitable spirit.


    For Tanvi, he pushed himself harder. For her, he endured the daily humiliations of servitude. He searched for strength that went beyond what their circumstances allowed; for her.


    A bead of sweat traced down his temple. Ayan completed another form, this one designed to potentially channel energy through the core of his body and awaken his kundalini.


    No energy stirred inside him, just like the past three years. He sighed and vowed to try again tomorrow.


    The rice paddle clattered against the stone floor.


    Ayan froze. He held his breath ¡ª listening. The Kitchen symphony continued uninterrupted once again ¡ª no sudden stillness, no approaching footsteps. His time was up.


    He grabbed the paddle, took a moment to collect himself, and centered his thoughts. The boundary between his secret practice and identity as a servant needed to be absolute ¡ª with no overlap ¡ª if he was to survive.


    ¡°Boy! Where have you gone?¡± The overseer¡¯s voice rose above the kitchen din.


    Ayan emerged from behind the rice pot, paddle in hand. ¡°Checking the bottom grain, sir. Sometimes it sticks if not stirred properly.¡±


    The overseer narrowed his eyes, but the explanation was practical enough to avoid suspicion. ¡°The meal service begins in twenty minutes. Get those vegetable platters arranged.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Sir.¡±


    Ayan moved towards the preparation tables, his posture once again adopting the slight stoop expected of someone in his position.


    The remaining hours of kitchen duty passed in a blur of mechanical tasks. Ayan carried platters heaped with aromatic dishes to the dining hall where disciples and Acharyas sat in accordance to rank and merit. He kept his eyes lowered as he served, but his awareness remained heightened, his mind cataloguing fragments of information, noting which disciples commanded respect and which Acharyas wielded the most influence.


    Knowledge was another form of strength. He collected it like others might gather precious stones.


    As the sun set, Ayan cleared the last of the plates, his aching body a reminder of both servitude and secret training ¡ª proof that he was still alive, still human in a place that treated him as something less. Tomorrow promised more drudgery, but also seven precious minutes behind the rice pot ¡ª one step closer to saving his sister, and himself.


    Ayan grabbed some leftovers, wiped his hands on a ragged cloth, and headed toward the servants'' quarters to check on Tanvi. His stomach growled, but he vehemently ignored it.


    He heard the soft, uneven snoring as he stepped into the hut, and his pulse quickened. In the dim glow of dying embers, Tanvi lay curled on her sleeping pallet, her breath shallow but steady. His eyes flicked to the tiny glass vial beside her¡ªempty.


    Ayan exhaled slowly, his chest tight with relief and something else. Not fear. Not yet. But close. This was the last dose he could afford. The medicine had bought her another night of peace, but beyond that¡­


    He kneeled beside her, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest. Stronger than before. Less strained. The curse wasn¡¯t winning ¡ª at least not yet. Tomorrow, he¡¯d return to the caverns, another desperate gamble in the depths to afford her next dose. He had no other choice.


    His stomach clenched, the hunger a dull, familiar thing. He ignored it. He had already offered his fasting to the gods ¡ª an unspoken bargain in the dark. Let this work. Let her live.


    Tanvi shifted, her breath deeper now, steadier. Ayan swallowed, the tension in his spine loosening just a fraction.


    Tonight, she was safe.


    Tomorrow, he would find a way.

 2. Spoils of the Dead

    The stench of death filled Ayan¡¯s nostrils, a toxic miasma that clung to him like a second skin as he crouched against the slick surface of Buried Hollow¡ªthe first dungeon within the depths of the Ancient Ruins. The air buzzed with the low hum of distant echoes, and each breath felt like swallowing decay.


    His worn knife slid into the swollen belly of a decomposing Rotling, and the viscera oozed out in twisted strands of putrid green and black. A network of fungal tendrils pulsed around the rotting corpse, desperately clinging to the stolen life force.


    Seventeen carcasses lay harvested at his feet, and his arms burned with the strain of precision work that could not¡ªwould not¡ªfalter despite his exhaustion.


    Above him, Bioluminescent fungi clung to the top of the cavern, casting an eerie blue-green glow across the stone slab where Ayan worked. The light caught the edge of his harvesting blade, gleaming against the dark ichor that coated it to the hilt. Sulfur rot coated his breath, and the moist air beaded on his skin and dampened his threadbare tunic.


    ¡°Steady,¡± he murmured, more to himself than to the girl beside him. Reni¡ªanother servant who volunteered for the expedition¡ªheld an empty glass jar at the ready. Her hands trembled, eyes darting between the bloated carcass and the group of disciples lounging against the far wall.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand how you can stand it,¡± she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the dripping echo of the cavern. She swallowed hard as Ayan¡¯s fingers probed deeper into the Rotling¡¯s chest cavity. ¡°The smell alone,¡± she added, her voice cracking in the heavy air.


    Ayan didn¡¯t respond. His focus narrowed to the task before him, and he worked the blade deeper, searching for the gland that contained the precious Prana extract. His fingers moved with practiced precision, despite the trembling in his arms. One wrong move and the delicate Prana gland would rupture, rendering the entire carcass worthless.


    Four hours of harvesting, and the disciples hadn¡¯t allowed him a single break.


    Behind him, the disciples laughed and joked, their pristine robes a stark contrast to his blood-soaked hands. They never did the messy work ¡ª that¡¯s what the Hauler was for.


    ¡°Ugh, look at that!¡± a young, thin, sneering disciple exclaimed. ¡°Imagine doing that for a living. I¡¯d rather be dead.¡±


    Another disciple made a gagging sound. ¡°Are you sure he¡¯s human? Looks more like a scavenger.¡±


    Ayan kept his head down, hands working with swift precision, refusing to rise to their taunts. His face betrayed nothing, though the fury rose in his throat like bile. The passage ahead led towards Fungus Crest¡ªan area blanketed by bioluminescent fungi. The light there was stronger, and packed with rich harvesting grounds, though it was more dangerous.


    Reni¡¯s posture stiffened beside him, her knuckles white around the jar. She was newer to this work, unaccustomed to the mockery and humiliation. Ayan had learned long ago that any visible reaction only invited further cruelty.


    ¡°There,¡± Ayan whispered, his fingertips grazing the swollen mass beneath the tissue. ¡°I¡¯ve found it.¡±


    His blade moved with surgical precision, carving around the Prana sac embedded in the Rotling¡¯s chest. The parasite that animated these corpses drew Prana from their hosts, concentrating it into these glowing repositories. Each successful extraction meant coin¡ªcoin that would buy medicine for his sister Tanvi.


    The thought of her face tightened his chest. Her grown thinness, the mysterious curse that kept her bedridden, her once vibrant eyes now dull with constant pain. He¡¯d endure any humiliation if that meant one more vial of the medicine that kept her suffering at bay.


    Without warning, heavy footsteps approached from behind. Even without turning, Ayan recognized them: the cloying stench of wine and expensive perfume cut through the reek of death.


    ¡°Taking your time as usual, servant?¡± Kanshul¡¯s voice was sharp, layered with disdain as it cut through the stagnant air. He was the expedition leader, a Senior Disciple at the Gurukul.


    ¡°Almost finished with this one,¡± Ayan replied, his tone neutral despite the burning protest of his ribs.


    Kanshul clicked his tongue in disapproval. ¡°Almost isn¡¯t good enough. The Fungus Crust waits for no man, and we¡¯ve got quotas to fill.¡±


    A sharp kick drove into Ayan¡¯s ribs, sending him staggering forward. His hands slipped, plunging elbow-deep into the slick, reeking carcass. Reni screamed, and the jar almost threatening to drop from her trembling hands. The stench of fungal blood and rot clung to his skin, but he swallowed hard, determined not to release the cry forming in his throat.


    ¡°Faster, servant,¡± Kanshul barked, his voice cutting through the cavern¡¯s shadow like a blade. ¡°We don¡¯t have all day for you pathetic fumbling around.¡±


    Laughter rippled through the disciples. Ayan didn¡¯t react. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, steadying himself against the stone slab. He nearly lost the gland, which would have been a disaster.


    ¡°I said faster.¡±


    Another kick, harder this time. Ayan¡¯s fingers clenched around his knife, knuckles white with suppressed rage. Bit by bit, he fought down the fire of rage. His seven minute everyday training would not help against the disciples, especially as a servant with a dormant kundalini.


    Each of the disciples had their kundalini awakened at the tender age of ten. Ayan didn¡¯t. Since then, he tried everything to awaken his kundalini for the past decade without success.


    Truth was, without the disciples¡¯ protection, he¡¯d never make it out of Buried Hollow alive. He had no choice but to endure.


    Reni¡¯s hand brushed against his arm¡ªa silent gesture of support. Ayan nodded slightly, forcing his breathing to steady as he returned to the task. The gland pulsed between his fingers, a small pocket of concentrated Prana that glowed with a sickly green light.


    Another thing he couldn¡¯t use.


    The awakening of kundalini, symbolized by a rising serpent from the base of the spine, opened one of the five main nadis, granting the person elemental abilities and more.


    And Prana, a vital life force, flowed through the nadis¡ªits cleansing and refining power enhancing the control and flow of elemental energies, like a river nourishing the land.


    Reni gently shook his shoulders, jolting him back to awareness.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Found it,¡± he muttered under his breath as he worked to sever the sac with steady, deliberate strokes. The fungal growth around it wriggled like discontented serpents, their tendrils grasping at his fingers as if sensing its life force being stolen away. He placed the gland in Reni¡¯s jar, where it pulsed with fading energy¡ªthe last remnant of the Rotling¡¯s stolen power.


    ¡°About time.¡± Kanshul snatched the jar roughly from Reni¡¯s hands, scrutinizing the contents beneath the shifting shadows. The glow illuminated his sharp features in a disconcerting montage of light and dark. ¡°This one¡¯s smaller than the others. Trying to cheat us, servant?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all there was,¡± Ayan replied, struggling to keep his voice even. ¡°Rotlings near the entrance have less Prana. The deeper ones produce more.¡±


    Kanshul¡¯s lip curled in scorn. ¡°So now the servant thinks he knows more than we do?¡± He spun to address his followers. ¡°Did you hear that? Our servant has become an expert!¡±


    The disciples¡¯ laughter escalated into a chorus of haughty amusement. A stocky disciple, fresh-faced with a jagged scar trailing down his cheek, stepped forward. ¡°The Hauler thinks he knows the caverns better than we do. Did your Kundalini awaken when we weren¡¯t looking?¡±


    Ayan silently wiped his bloodied hands on a rag, saying nothing. Let them mock. Tanvi faced worse daily. Last time, Kanshul had paid him only half the promised coins. The bitter memory of begging the apothecary for credit still stung deeply.


    ¡°Now gut the rest,¡± Kanshul ordered, handing the jar to another disciple who carefully sealed and labeled it. ¡°The scouts reported a mini-boss territory left vacant after the last expedition. I am talking about the Blightfang Ravager¡¯s place. There could be cores for the taking.¡±


    Cores.


    The crystallized essence of monster power. A single one could fetch enough money to feed a family for months¡ªor fuel a disciple¡¯s advancement through the Gurukul ranks. Ayan had never even touched one. Others always claimed such prizes long before the servants arrived at a kill site.


    The disciples moved away, their lanterns casting long shadows that danced across the cavern walls. Their voices faded as they discussed their spoils, comparing what they¡¯d claim for themselves and what they¡¯d report to the Gurukul. Ayan knew the routine¡ªa quarter of the harvest disappeared into their personal collections, while he received nothing but scraps, if he was lucky.


    ¡°Do you think...¡± Reni began, her voice barely audible as she offered him another jar.


    Ayan interrupted, shaking his head slightly: ¡°Don¡¯t... Don¡¯t think about the cores. Don¡¯t think about anything except getting through this expedition alive.¡±


    He then shifted his attention to the next carcass¡ªa grotesquely bloated specimen with fungal growths erupting between its hollow eye sockets and decaying mouth. Once, this had been human. Now, the parasitic spores had overtaken every inch of its form and forced it into an unearthly semblance of life. The thought made his stomach churn, but his experienced hands did not waver as he pressed the frosty edge of his blade against the distended belly.


    The carcass burst open with a wet sound, releasing a cloud of spores that made Reni cough and turn away. Ayan hardly noticed. The spores tickled his throat, but he had built up a resistance over countless expeditions.


    ¡°How do you know so much about the Hollow?¡± Reni asked.


    Ayan¡¯s hands paused for a moment. ¡°This is my tenth expedition this year,¡± he said simply. ¡°You learn things when your life depends on it.¡±


    Unlike the disciples, who seemed to glide effortlessly through the winding caverns on the currents of their Prana, Ayan had to rely on knowledge, memory and intuition.


    The Gurukul Asans had long ago dismissed him for his unawakened kundalini, citing his improper bloodline and lack of sufficient mental acuity as the reasons, heaping blame on him for every setback. Without an awakened kundalini, he could never channel Prana through his Nadi.


    He would always be nothing more than a mere servant, and a hauler, forced to toil for scraps, forced to work for scraps, yet his sharp mind and knowledge served as his only weapons against his despair.


    He cleared his throat. ¡°I¡¯ve been down here enough times to map every passage,¡± he said, voice tinged with pride. ¡°I know where the Mirefangs nest and which tunnels flood during the rainy season. I know which fungi are safe to touch and which will melt your skin.¡±


    He unearthed the gland and continued on ahead with Reni. The fungi dimmed as they stepped deeper and a cloying scent of wet fur thickened the already soupy air. The floor was littered with bones¡ªsome picked clean, others half-dissolved in moss-slick pools.


    ¡°We¡¯re in Feralspawn territory,¡± Ayan hissed to Reni. ¡°We need to keep an eye out.¡±


    Kneeling near another carcass, he continued his work. He observed the dim flicker of nervous energy among the group. He knew that the wolf-like Feralspawn scavenged these sections in organized packs, though at this time of year they should have already moved deeper following the migration of the smaller creatures they preyed on.


    But the quiet in this cavern, the unsettling absence of their howls, hinted that something was very wrong.


    He opened his mouth to speak, then swallowed the urge. What would be the point? They never listened to him.


    ¡°Nineteen,¡± he said instead, carefully placing another glowing sac in Reni¡¯s jar, its dim light casting trembling shadows on her pale face. The tension in her eyes betrayed her fear¡ªeven if the disciples masked their own with arrogant indifference.


    ¡°The expedition before the last,¡± she whispered, ¡°a servant died right here. They say the Feralspawn tore him apart while the disciples just watched.¡±


    Ayan reassured her it was just rumors, but his knotted stomach betrayed his own doubts.


    Kanshul¡¯s voice cut sharply across their hushed conversation. ¡°Talking instead of working, are we?¡± He strode back toward them, hands glowing faintly with a sphere of gathered Prana. A demonstration of his authority¡ªneedless, but typical. ¡°Perhaps I should dock your pay for insubordination.¡±


    Ayan¡¯s heart sank. Not again. Not when Tanvi needed¡ª


    ¡°No,¡± he said quickly, forcing his face into a mask of deference. ¡°I was explaining the proper extraction technique to her.¡±


    Kanshul¡¯s eyes bore into him, and then he snorted dismissively. As he turned away, his last words trailed after him like a curse. ¡°And servant? Your payment depends on quality and quantity. I¡¯d hate to find that these sacs were... damaged during your clumsy work.¡±


    The threat hung in the air, explicit and cruel. Ayan¡¯s jaw clenched so tight he feared his teeth might crack. Kanshul knew the sacs were perfect, but he held all the power. He could claim any fault, invent any reason to withhold payment.


    And Ayan could do nothing about it.


    He urged Reni onward, eyeing the next corpse. ¡°We¡¯ve got work to do.¡±


    Ayan¡¯s knife plunged into the next Rotling, green-black ichor splattering across his forearms. As he worked, his gaze drifted to the passage ahead, where strange sounds echoed in the distance. The Fungus crest was the Blightfang Ravager, aka Mini-boss¡¯s territory. A vacant territory meant opportunity. But it also meant something had driven the occupant away.


    Or destroyed it.


    He wiped sweat from his brow, unknowingly smearing monster blood across his forehead. Every breath carried the copper tang of recent kills, and the air hung heavy with moisture.


    Something felt wrong about this expedition. The usual growls and sputtering noises were absent and the oppressive silence unsettled him. But such concerns weren¡¯t for someone like him to voice. He was here to harvest, survive and get payment.


    He extracted the final sac. Twenty. A respectable amount for the hauler. Ayan straightened, his back protesting the hours hunched over dead monstrosities. Beyond them, the disciples were already gathering their equipment, eager to press deeper in search of greater treasures.


    ¡°Time to move out!¡± Kanshul¡¯s voice thundered, echoing through the chamber. ¡°Keep up, Haulers, or we¡¯ll leave you behind.¡±


    Ayan nodded wordlessly, carefully packing each jar into his frayed satchel. The weight pressed against his side, its weight heavy with responsibility. With Tanvi¡¯s life.


    As the group descended into the deeper reaches of the Hollow, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that crawled up his spine like one of the fungal parasites that animated the Rotlings. This expedition felt different.


    Not because of what they might find.


    But because of what might find them.