The sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks of the western mountains, painting the Solari sky in hues of bruised purple and dying orange. In Delhi, this was the time for evening tea and the roar of traffic; in Uttarakhand, it was the time for Sandhya Aarti at the temples near the Ganga.
But here, in the decaying grandeur of the Vance manor, it was the time of the Mana Tax.
In the Solari Empire, land isn't just owned; it is "leased" from the Crown in exchange for Mana. Mage houses can easily refill the Empire's supply using their own bodies. But for a House of Knights like mine—men with plenty of muscle but nearly zero mana—we had to pay with physical Mana Crystals. They were our lifeblood, our battery, and we were running out.
I stood in my great-grandfather's old workshop, staring at three pulsating blue stones. To a Western Mage, these were junk. They were riddled with hairline fractures, leaking precious energy like a bucket made of mesh.
"If I don't fix these in thirty minutes, Master Kaelen will strip the crest off the front door," I muttered.
I picked up a quill. My heart was racing, but my mind was a calm lake—a trick the Sadhu had taught me during those long mountain winters. Western magic was like engineering; it required perfect, unbroken containers. But Eastern science... that was about the flow of energy.
"Aryan," the old saint's voice echoed in my mind, "The vessel does not matter if the vibration is true."
I dipped the quill into a jar of silver-infused ink and began to draw. I didn't try to repair the cracks. Instead, I drew a Mandala—a series of interlocking circles—directly over the fractures. At the center, I inscribed the Sanskrit syllable for 'Seal': बं (Bam).
As I wrote, I whispered the mantra: "ॐ पूर्णमदः पूर्णमिदं..."
The silver ink didn't just sit on the stone. It sank into the cracks. The blue light of the mana stopped flickering. It grew steady, turning a deep, royal indigo as the Sanskrit geometry "patched" the leak.
A heavy knock thundered against the manor's main oak doors. They were here.
I walked down the stairs, my boots echoing in the empty hall. Hans, the old butler, looked at me with eyes full of fear. "Master Kaelen is here, Young Master. He brought the 'Scale of Judgment'."
I stepped into the entryway. Master Kaelen stood there, wrapped in expensive silk robes that smelled of lavender and arrogance. He was a low-tier Mage who made a living by bullying fallen noble houses. To him, the Vances were just "primitive warriors" occupying valuable land that his master, Viscount Silas, wanted for a new magic academy.
Kaelen wasn't just a collector; he was a vulture. He had a thin, pointed nose and eyes that constantly darted around the room, mentally calculating the price of our furniture.
"Theodore Vance," Kaelen said, his voice dripping with fake politeness. "I trust the 'Knightly' family has gathered the required mana? Or shall I call the carpenters to remove your family's name from the gates? The Viscount is very eager to turn this dusty hall into a stable for his griffins."
"You're early, Master Kaelen," I said, stepping into the dim light. "I hope the Viscount isn't so desperate for our land that he's forgotten how to tell time."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. The Theodore he knew would have been stuttering or crying. "The Tax is three High-Grade Crystals. Hand them over, or step aside. Your father is at the border, and your brother is at the Academy—there is no one left to hide behind."
I held out my hand. The three indigo-glowing stones sat in my palm, humming with a vibration Kaelen had never felt before.
He snatched one, his brow furrowed. He pulled out a copper measuring rod—the standard tool for testing mana purity. He touched it to the crystal.
The rod didn't just glow; it shrieked. A bright white light filled the hallway, nearly blinding the guards.
"What is this?" Kaelen stammered, his hand shaking. "These crystals were reported as cracked! They should be empty! This... this purity level is nearly 100%! Even the Archmages in the capital can't refine stones this purely!"
"Maybe your reports are as old as your fashion sense," I said, leaning against the doorframe with a Delhi-boy's smirk. "We Vances might be Knights, but we know how to protect our inheritance."
Kaelen looked at me, then at the strange silver circles on the stones. He couldn't recognize the Sanskrit. To him, it looked like meaningless doodles, yet the power was undeniable. He had come to seize a house, but he was leaving with a mystery.
"This is... acceptable," Kaelen hissed, tucking the stones into his pouch. "But don't get comfortable, boy. Next month, the tax doubles. Let's see if your 'warrior luck' holds then."
He turned and marched out into the night. I watched the carriage disappear before I let out the breath I had been holding. My legs felt like jelly.
"Young Master..." Hans whispered, staring at me as if I were a ghost. "How did you... those were the Archmage's broken stones. No one can fix those."
"I didn't fix them, Hans," I said, looking up at the raven crest. "I just used a bit of Jugaad."
As I spoke, a sudden, searing heat erupted in my veins. My body, once pale and weak, began to throb with a strange rhythm. The "Vajra" refinement was starting. I wasn't just a scholar anymore; I was becoming the weapon my grandfather had dreamed of.