The jungle thinned at dawn. The road curved into a river valley where the walls of New Relhi (Rajistan's capital) rose like a horizon.
The Gate of the Eternal Flame towered above the path, its bricks shimmering with lapis blue and flame-red tiles. Carved beasts crouched at its base—horned bulls, cranes mid-flight, tigers poised to spring. Above the arch, whales drifted across a starfield mural, their gilded fins catching the sunrise.
The convoy slowed, candidates craning their necks.
Kai leaned out of the carriage, breath catching. Rajir had shrines and muddy squares. This—this was a world.
Aria smirked at his awe. "Careful. Stare too long and you'll be robbed before you step inside."
Darius lurched past, flask raised in salute. "Ahh, she still stands! The lion's mouth of Rajistan! And here we march, ready to be swallowed!" He laughed loudly enough to startle a horse.
The guards rolled their eyes.
Crossing the gate was like stepping into another world. The arch hummed faintly, carvings bound with a stabilizing aura. The air thickened—incense, heat, and noise.
New Relhi spread wide in tiers: avenues packed with people, banners strung high, colors so bright they stung the eyes.
Vendors shouted in every dialect. "Rice, three Tola a sack!" "Spirit-tattoos, blessed by Script-Masters!" "Imported Ziraeli dream-silk, true as memory!"
Kai blinked at the whirlwind of activity. In Rajir, you bartered with one farmer and one baker. Here, hawkers carried aura-beads, each faintly glowing. Tola was forged not as coins but as spheres, necklaces clinking in payment. Scrolls stamped with seals pulsed faintly as Script Masters read them at the corners. Even tattoos shimmered on forearms, glowing when traced by temple-clerks to prove a deal.
Aria leaned close. "Don't stare. Every bead's ritually read, every scroll tied to a soul record. Even children know what's true or false. You don't."
Kai swallowed, sitting back. "So this is how Tola breathes."
She smirked. "Now you're learning."
The streets weren't just complete; they were alive.
Dockhands pushed spice carts while shouting curses over traffic. Arena promoters waved crimson banners of a flaming bull—tonight's Flamehorn Balarak match. A caravan from Zirael clinked with dream-aura rings and bracelets.
At a white-tiled bank, two Script-Masters unrolled parchment, tallying glowing Tola as seals burned on completion. Nearby, spirit-tattooists pressed fresh patterns into a merchant's arms—living currency, faint blue lines joining his aura.
Children wove through the chaos, laughing, some balancing carved balarak horns, others with wooden cranes strapped to their arms.
New Relhi wasn't sacred. It was alive.
Kai clutched the pouch Elder Xander had given him, its weight small. In Rajir, bread cost half a coin. Here, prices screamed in hundreds.
"A thousand won't last," he muttered.
Aria heard. "It never does. You'll manage. Or you'll starve." She smirked at his tightened expression. "Good. You're not the type to starve."
The carriage rolled deeper.
Towers gleamed with relic carvings—the threefold Trikaya, the thunderous Vajra, the black-sealed Samsara Chains. Between them, crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, noise like a tide.
Kai's ribs throbbed, but his spirit burned brighter.
The world is bigger than I imagined. And I'm only at the gate.
The convoy slowed at a plaza. A tall pillar stood at its center, etched with guild marks and national sigils—the split-point.
Guards barked orders, dividing wagons. Banners marked each lane: Janoah's eagle, Chun's dragon, Britannia's sword-star, Rajistan's lotus flame.
Darius staggered ahead, flask held high. "Here we are! The crossroads! You want Chun? You want glory? First, take your nation's road. The Guild loves paperwork more than your dreams!" He cackled, nearly stumbling.
Candidates muttered as the crowd split.
Kai frowned. "We're... splitting?"
Aria's jaw tightened. "Of course. Nations guard their routes. They don't want us learning from each other before the exam."
The wagon stopped. An officer barked her name. She grabbed her pack without hesitation.
Kai moved forward, ribs sore. "Wait. So this is it? You're gone?"
Aria looked at him, steady. For a heartbeat, her eyes softened. Then came the smirk, sharp but not cruel. "That's how it works, monk. Friends one day, rivals the next. Don't get sentimental."
"I'm not," Kai said. "I'll see you in Chun. And when I do, I won't be behind you."
She blinked, then laughed quickly, genuinely. "You really don't know how to shut up." She slung her pack and hopped down. "Fine. Prove it."
For a moment, the noise faded. A promise hung.
Then she was gone, swallowed by her nation's line.
Darius swayed near the pillar, flask dangling. To most, he looked drunk. But his eyes tracked Kai and Aria's parting.
He coughed loudly enough to mask his thoughts. "Off you go, little heroes! Don't trip. The gods hate clumsy Seekers!"
The plaza roared—feet shuffling, wagons creaking, banners snapping.
And just like that, Kai and Aria took different roads.
The plaza buzzed with orders and wagons splitting. Darius staggered toward Kai, flask swinging.
"You." He pointed the flask like a rod. "Monk-boy. You've never bought your own socks. Time to fix that. Supplies—rice, skins, the usual. One hour."
He shoved a scrap into Kai's hand, already turning back to drink.
Kai blinked. "Why me?"
Darius barked a laugh, nearly stumbling. "Because I said so. And because the others know better when I'm thirsty."
Kai wove through the streets, eyes wide. Beads clinked, scrolls glowed, tattoos gleamed as merchants sealed deals. Spices stung, banners snapped, and children chased with carved horns.
Three men slipped from a side street.
"Lost, stranger?" one grinned. "Cheaper stalls ahead. Safer, too."
Another gestured. "Pouch looks heavy. Better we hold it."
They closed around him, knives flashing.
Kai's ribs tightened. He thought of his training—
"Oi."
The voice came slow, slurred.
Darius stood at the alley mouth, flask dangling. "Monk-boy. I said supplies. Not sightseeing with rats."
The first thief sneered. "Old drunk, mind your—"
He lunged.
A flash—then he was on the ground, groaning, blade snapped.
No one saw the motion. Not Kai. Not the thieves.
Only the echo of steel.
Darius exhaled, loose, flask steady. His grin vanished, eyes sharp as blades. Calm as prayer, he muttered:
"I'm too sober for this."
The others froze. One whispered, pale, "That's... Darius King. The Gold Seeker. The Boze Master."
Another laughed nervously. "Boze Master? Famous for being drunk?"
Kai pressed his lips, but a laugh slipped. Absurd. A swaying fool cutting men down faster than sight.
Darius tipped his flask, a grin returning. "Now... get the damn supplies, monk-boy."
Kai nodded, ribs aching but chest lighter. He'd seen it. The sway was a mask. The laughter was bait. Beneath it, Darius moved like a blade. And he hadn't even tried.
He stepped from the alley, pouch heavy. Darius's words echoed: Supplies. And maybe a weapon.
The capital stretched ahead.
A black rose marked a doorway. Inside, shelves towered with glowing vials, powders, roots, and bones.
Behind the counter, a pale girl with dark bangs, eyes rimmed in kohl, beads pulsing at her throat. She glanced once, then back to a vial.
"You're holding your ribs," she said flatly. "Arena bruises. You need a potion."
Kai blinked. "How did you—"
She smirked. "Alice Wonder. Wonder family. Biggest potion-makers alive. This shop's just a foothold before Chun. The exams mean blood. Blood means profit."
She slid a clay vial forward, amber light glowing. "Forty Tola."
Kai set down four silver coins. Alice raised a brow.
"Coins? Old monastery stock. Rare. But they spend."
Kai took the vial. "What's in it?"
Alice leaned forward. "You really don't know? Potions are herbs, monster parts, relic dust, oils—brewed, bound with aura. Sometimes the maker's aura. They're not just medicine. They're history. A vial can heal, kill, sharpen, or even cloak you. This one's a basic healer: lotus root, firepepper, amber resin. Restores flesh, mends bone. Sip slow or you'll shock your channels."
Kai sipped. Heat spread, ribs eased, breath steady.
Alice smiled faintly. "See? In Rajistan, they call potions prayers in liquid form. I call them chemistry, ritual, and risk. Too many, your body forgets to heal. Wrong one, it's poison. Spell-potions? One spell bound to liquid. Rare, banned. And myths say there's an Elixir of Life—halts decay, rewrites the soul's rhythm. Fairy tale, maybe. But if it exists, it's worth kingdoms."
Kai set the vial down. "Thank you."
Alice smirked. "Don't thank me. Survive. Dead Seekers don't pay."
Later, he found a stall of blades and spears. In the corner leaned dusty staves.
The smith, arms scarred, glanced over. "Empty hands, monk-style. You'll want steel. Thirty-five for a sword."
Kai's eyes went to the staff—dark wood, grooves worn. He lifted it.
The smith laughed. "That? No aura etchings, no forge marks. Splinters before glory. Look—" he raised a spear rippling with blue aura—"a weapon for Seekers."
Kai shook his head. "I want this one."
"Why? It's plain wood."
Kai traced the grooves. Balanced. Familiar. Every kata at the monastery etched in him. This wasn't new. It was his.
"How much?"
"Fifteen. And I'll feel guilty taking it."
Kai paid, slinging it across his back. "Sun," he murmured.
The weight settled like it belonged.
Workers in leather jackets passed by, a fist clenched around a broken chain. Tool blades clinked.
"Scraphearts Union," someone whispered. "Hazard crews. Black Zone cleaners."
One tossed a coin to a rice boy and walked on.
Kai touched Sun on his back, ribs steady now. Not monks. Not Seekers. But they bore burdens too.
By sundown, his list was done—water gourds, rice, cloak, potion, staff. He climbed the shrine stairs.
New Relhi sprawled below. Streets like rivers, towers painted with relics, smoke from forges rising.
Rajir was a square: his monastery, a street.
Kai gripped Sun, steady. If I walk the Seeker's path, I'll burn brighter than this city.
On the way back, he passed the alley. Empty. A broken knife, a smear of blood.
At the wagons, Darius leaned on a wheel, flask swinging.
"Supplies?"
Kai dropped the bundle. "What happened in that alley?"
Darius muttered, "Too sober for this." Then squinted at the staff. "That? Splinters before glory."
Kai smiled. "It's called Sun."
Darius roared with laughter, nearly spilling his drink.
The convoy left New Relhi at dawn, towers fading behind. Each sunrise revealed a new face of the world.
Fields spread wide. Farmers guided aura-plows through the terraces, chanting a rhythmic tune. Children waved for coins. Kai leaned, seeing how many lives bent to Tola's weight.
At night, he trained, Sun spinning beneath stars. Returning one evening, whispers cut the dark.
"Why's the Silver wasting time on him?"
"Maybe monk-boy will trip over that stick before Chun."
Kai said nothing, but the words clung.
The Red Hills.
Ridges streaked red, vultures circling. Scouts warned of Blackstripe Yawru on the cliffs.
Here, Mushi called Kai aside. Staff met sword. Kai learned how far he had to go. Mushi ended it with a glance, unreadable.
That night, Darius found him alone. Flask in hand, voice low, he muttered a correction—grip, stance, small but sharp.
Kai blinked. Had he imagined it?
Darius took a sip, grinned. "Too sober for this." And left.
Kai never spoke of it, but from then on, Sun moved differently.
South, the jungle closed in. Rain hammered wagons for days. One night, lightning lit a ridge—another convoy moving. A figure's aura burned bright, painting the storm.
Kai gripped Sun. Who was it?
Borderlands.
Scrub, cracked earth. Patrols doubled. Whispers of raiders and cultists spread. Rivalries flared, but Kai trained steadily each night. He remembered Darius's words, the corrections only he had heard.
And when he looked at the stars, he whispered: "One day, I'll stand with them."
A month passed. Chun's river border rose ahead, banners whipping. Kai gripped Sun tighter, carrying unseen lessons.
Aria... I hope I see you soon.