Velan asked one of the merchants near the gate if he could stay with him for a week. The old man didn't even hesitate.
"Stay as long as you want," he said. "Share my work at night, and I'll share my food."
A fair deal — and perfect for Velan.
The merchant's hut sat right behind his shop, small but warm, with a straw roof and clay walls. His son handled the morning trade while the old man slept, and they swapped shifts every sunrise and sunset. In a city that never slept, their earnings never stopped either.
Velan agreed to work with him at night and sleep during the day.
Or at least pretend to sleep.
Morning hours were the best time to use the Venpavalā — the perfect time to refill his copper kada. Sleep could wait.
He kept the glowing fish in a small brass pot. It shimmered without dimming, its pearly body drifting silently in the water.
It didn't breathe.
It didn't eat.
It simply… existed.
For something so divine, Velan wondered how it ever went extinct.
The old man sat in the corner stitching his torn shirt with a needle and thread. His hands were old, but steady.
"You're thinking, why does a rich merchant wear this torn thing?" he muttered without looking up. "My wife made it… long ago. I'm not letting go of it."
Velan nodded politely, not sure why the man decided to share that with him.
"Alright," the old man finally sighed. "Let's eat."
He handed Velan a clay jug filled with something white and cloudy.
Velan blinked.
Booze? Should he ask?
No—he couldn't ask. Questions meant suspicion.
He drank.
And immediately burped.
It was delicious — warm, slightly sweet, tasting faintly of rice and spices. Way too good to be alcohol. Must've been the infamous rice porridge water.
Within minutes, a light dizziness rolled over him.
The old man was already snoring.
Velan forced himself upright. He needed to complete the kada ritual before sleep claimed him too.
The Venpavalā shone brightly inside the brass pot, its glow pulsing softly like a heartbeat. There was something undeniably divine about it — its light, its strange blind eyes—
BOOM!
The ground trembled.
A thunderclap outside jolted him to his feet.
He rushed to the tent flap and threw it open.
The bright morning had vanished.
The sky was pitch black.
Clouds swirled like boiling ink.
Thunder roared again.
"Rain? Summer doesn't even end for another month…"
Then a thought struck him — sharp, insane, brilliant.
A storm.
A sudden one.
Right when he needed it most.
He didn't have to wait.
He could kill the Bāndha king now.
Velan snatched a palm-leaf manuscript from his satchel — mantras written by his master.
The king of Bāndhas was a kind man, gentle and respected.
Velan's chest tightened.
The guilt took over him.
Master said it must happen. The timeline demands it.
Still… murder was murder.
He closed his eyes and began chanting the mantra for Vānam, one of the five Boothā powers.
A storm-bound technique.
A mantra that demanded lightning.
And consequences.
The Thunder Guide.
If he used it, his chakra system would destabilize.
He wouldn't be able to refill his kada for a week.
Thunder cracked again, shaking the city.
Velan grabbed the needle used by the old man, focusing his breath and spirit into its tiny metal frame. The needle warmed, then glowed yellow.
His vision blurred from the strain.
Not much time left.
The Thunder Guide Technique was notorious for killing its users long before it killed their targets.
Velan pushed harder.
The needle burned bright.
One more step:
He had to mark the king before the time window closed.
Nobody knew how long that window lasted — it shifted with every storm.
Only his master could manipulate it.
Velan couldn't.
He sprinted out of the tent, clutching the glowing needle, rain exploding around him in sheets.
The castle rose ahead, dark against the raging sky.
He tightened the scarf around his neck, exhaled once…
and charged straight into the storm.