Incense smoke curled around Surya and Chandru like silver serpents, weaving through the ancient trees of the temple courtyard. They sat in the stillness of dawn, legs crossed, eyes shut. Yet Surya’s mind was far from still. The silence felt heavy—a physical weight pressing against his chest.

  “Why are we doing this, Chandru?” Surya whispered, his voice cracking the meditative quiet. “And why here, in this temple? Does a change in location really matter?”

  Chandru didn’t open his eyes, but a faint smile touched his lips.

  “Yes… it matters,” he said calmly. “This is the best place for meditation. You can feel the silence and hear the movement of the air itself. You’ve completed physical training, Surya. There are no more tests for the flesh. But for Vessels like us, the body is merely a container.”

  “All seven chakras within us are unlocked,” he continued, “granting power that dwarfs any normal human. But power without a dam is a flood—it destroys the land.”

  Surya shifted, recalling a conversation with the enigmatic Ms. Verge.

  “Subha told me she unleashes only one chakra—the Third Eye. Yet her power is far superior to mine.”

  “You are right to notice,” Chandru replied, his voice dropping into a resonant hum. “To unleash one chakra properly is superior to unleashing seven improperly. A Vessel with inconsistent energy flow is no better than a peak-strength human. Our energy is chaotic—jagged. To truly master it, we must regulate the flow by forming layers over the chakras—seals that refine raw power into a razor’s edge.”

  Surya’s eyes snapped open.

  “Ms. Verge mentioned the inconsistency. But how do we build these layers?”

  “By linking soul and body until the mind becomes as clear as still water,” Chandru explained. “It is the work of lifetimes. A master may form only two layers across an entire existence of study.”

  “Two layers?” Surya gasped. “Then… does each layer increase power?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Chandru said. “Exponentially.”

  “Then how many layers over the seven chakras are needed to reach the full potential of a Vessel?”

  Chandru finally opened his eyes, their depths reflecting the pale morning sky.

  “Three.”

  Surya swallowed. “Has anyone ever done it?”

  “Only one,” Chandru said, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. “Bhishma—the strongest Vessel of elemental nature. A man who can choose the hour of his death. At one hundred and twenty-seven years old, he manipulates atomic energy as easily as breathing. He has mastered all sixty-four forms of martial arts and wields modern Norman weapons with divine precision.”

  A chill ran through Surya.

  “Kartha told me about him. The Protector of the Surface. He’s the one who drove the Demon King Bhavirana and his shadow army back into the Underworld.” He leaned in slightly. “Have you seen him?”

  “I have not,” Chandru admitted. “Even Master Pedro hasn’t seen him in decades. Legends say Bhishma lives in disguise, protecting Earth’s soul from the Mythics.”

  Surya fell silent, realizing something unsettling.

  The world was protected by a man over a century old.

  “If he wasn’t there,” Surya asked quietly, “would the Mythics return?”

  “They can sense his aura across dimensions,” Chandru said grimly. “They stay in the dark because his light is too blinding. They wait for it to fade.”

  Surya’s eyes widened.

  “But—”

  “Enough legends,” Chandru interrupted gently. “Return to your meditation.”

  Surya flushed.

  “Right. Sorry. Continuing.”

  While Surya struggled with the stillness of his mind, the others were discovering the limits of their bodies.

  In a secluded clearing, Vaishu moved with a grace that was almost haunting.

  She was practicing the Kolam—an intricate geometric pattern forming on the earth beneath her feet, drawn by her power. In her lineage, these were not mere designs; they were gateways.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  As she performed the rhythmic steps of Kathak, her feet struck the ground in precise beats, attempting to awaken the teleportation seal. The lines of the Kolam glowed faintly, responding to her movement.

  “Focus, Vaishu!” Pari called from the sidelines.

  Vaishu spun, her ghungroos chiming as she reached the crescendo of the dance—but the glowing lines flickered… then died.

  She collapsed to her knees, panting.

  “It’s too much,” she gasped. “Moving multiple people at once is immensely difficult. The moment my focus shifts—”

  Her voice trailed off as she noticed the medicine lady seated calmly inside the Kolam, resting on a wooden chair, her cat curled contentedly in her lap.

  The medicine lady tilted her head.

  “Vaishu… this teleportation—will it transport me, my kitten, and this chair? Am I correct?”

  Vaishu blinked.

  “No… living beings alone,” she said uncertainly. “I’m not sure about the chair—but I am sure the clothes you’re wearing will move with you.”

  Pari walked over and offered Vaishu a hand.

  “The dance isn’t for the audience,” she said gently. “It’s for the earth. You’re not moving people—you’re asking the earth to move them for you. Take a break. Try again later.”

  Vaishu nodded, then asked, “Where’s Rohan?”

  In the garden of the headquarters, Rohan was sweating through his tunic.

  Across from him stood Subha, her expression as unreadable as ever.

  Rohan’s task was the opposite of Vaishu’s—Stasis. He had to halt movement: living and non-living alike. His current assignment was simple in description and brutal in execution.

  Pause the tree.

  Pause the birds resting within it.

  Rohan reached out, jaw clenched, focusing on a sparrow perched on a branch.

  For a heartbeat, the bird faltered.

  Then it chirped—and flew away.

  “You’re trying to grip it like a stone,” Subha said calmly. “You cannot grip life. You must synchronize with its heartbeat… and then pause.”

  She handed him a pair of goggles.

  “Wear these. They’ll help you focus only on what you intend to stop.”

  Rohan examined them. Plain. Generic.

  “These are nice,” he said, slipping them on. “Do I look like a flight pilot?”

  Subha smiled faintly. She reached up, ruffled his hair, and said,

  “Yes. You are. Now fly properly—and don’t crash.”

  Rohan grinned.

  “All right, passenger.”

  As the students pushed against the limits of their bodies and minds, a very different kind of preparation was unfolding—quietly, patiently—in the dark.

  The No Moon day—the Amavasya—was approaching, a time when the veil between worlds thinned and the power of the Vessels waned.

  In the damp chill of his stronghold, Heera, the pure-blood vampire, sat upon his throne. One of the vamp girls rested casually on his thigh, leaning on his shoulder.

  He traced his fingers along her arm and said,

  “Your skin… it’s smooth as silk. I’m addicted to young blood.”

  A mixed-blood vampire stepped forward and bowed.

  “Sorry to interrupt. There is someone here to meet you. He says his name is Nathan.”

  “Let him in,” Heera replied.

  Tharag turned, watching the shadows.

  A tall, gaunt man emerged, wrapped in tattered grey robes. His mouth was completely patched and sealed with crude stitching, giving him a disturbing, unnatural appearance.

  “Tharag, meet Nathan,” Heera announced. “A Gravesage of the old blood.”

  Tharag narrowed his eyes.

  “Why bring a Gravesage here? We already have the mixed-blood vampires. They are hungry and ready.”

  Heera’s expression darkened.

  “I have no confidence in those mongrels for what is coming,” he said. “Nathan will be the catalyst for the massacre.”

  With that, he stepped down from the throne and embraced the robed figure.

  “Welcome back… my friend.”

  Tharag hesitated.

  “We could also ask the help of Witch Menaka. Her spells could—”

  “Witches,” Heera interrupted with a cold, polite smile. “I hate them. They are disgusting older women. I don’t want their kind anywhere near my domain.”

  Tharag looked at Heera, then fell silent.

  Heera raised his voice, calling out to the vampires throughout the den.

  “Prepare for battle. Play your roles without error. This is not a plan to eliminate a single Vessel—it is far greater. We will kill them all, and this section of BLINK shall witness our wrath.”

  The den erupted in response.

  “Hail Heera!”

  Tharag did not join them.

  Heera noticed. He placed a hand on Tharag’s shoulder and said quietly,

  “You should learn to smile.”

  Section D was notified at dusk, just before the No-Moon night.

  A passerby’s body had been found on the outskirts of the territory—a lone traveler, stripped of identity. His skin was carved with jagged symbols in the ancient script of the Underworld. The translator’s voice shook as he traced the wounds.

  “It says,” he whispered, “We want Moonmask for a duel again tonight. If you want to fight me, come to the same church where we last met.”

  “It’s a trap,” Pari said, pacing the small library. “A blatant, desperate trap.”

  “They might have known,” Subha said softly, “about the No Moon.”

  “Chandru,” Pari said firmly, turning to him. “You cannot go. This Moonmask persona has served us well, but they’ve timed this perfectly. They want to kill the symbol of our resistance when he is at his most fragile.”

  Chandru turned, his face pale in the torchlight.

  “If I don’t go, they’ll raze the nearby villages to draw me out. I told you about the pure-blood. He doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Subha and I will handle it,” Pari insisted. “We’ll intercept them at the church. You stay here. Protect the students. Protect Surya.”

  As they spoke, Vaishu stepped forward.

  “I’ll join you. This isn’t a fight with Chandru alone—it’s a fight for all of us.”

  Rohan walked in next, already wearing the pilot goggles, ready to assist Subha and Pari.

  Pari and Subha looked at each other. They felt the weight of that care—and shared a genuine smile.

  “All right,” Pari said.

  Then he placed a hand on Chandru’s shoulder.

  “Listen to me. Just this once… please.”

  Chandru hesitated, the weight of duty clashing with pride. Finally, he bowed his head.

  “Fine. I will stay.”

  While Section D prepared for the confrontation at the church, Surya continued his meditation at the nearby temple—this time standing on one leg, hands pressed together above his head in a namaste pose.

  “Focus,” he told himself, recalling Chandru’s words about the layers.

  “Clear as water. Soul and body.”

  As the sun sank lower, casting long, blood-colored shadows across the temple floor, Surya glanced toward the gate.

  Something felt wrong.

  He lowered his arms and stepped out of the stance.

  “That’s enough for today,” he murmured. “It’s already late… why hasn’t Chandru come?”

  He didn’t know about the Gravesage.

  He didn’t know about the message carved into skin.

  But as the moon vanished completely, plunging the world into total darkness, Surya felt a tremor run through the earth.

  The layers were thin.

  The duel was set.

  And the shadows were finally moving.