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Illusion of a Saint

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“Nemo liber est qui corpori servit” - No one is free who is a slave to his body (Seneca)



Golden reflections shimmered from every angle, bathing the temple in rich, rippling, vibrant colours. Royal reds and sparkling golds lined the bead curtains concealing his statue, the source of his mighty power and the focus of his religion and beliefs. The only sounds to penetrate his ears were his own soft breathing, and the faint ringing of chimes as they swayed. But he heeded nothing of his surroundings. With eyes closed, he focused only on the steady beat of his heart, slow and paced; controlled, just as he required.

Legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, he whispered, his chants floating away on the breeze. For countless hours he had sat in this very position, his body free of any tension that could be counter-productive to his needs. His aim was to prepare his mind and body so they would melt into one being, perfectly synchronised for the task he faced.

He could feel the intense power surge through his muscles, drowning him in concentrated energy forces that could only be described as supernatural. Adrenaline pumped furiously through his body, flooding him with an excitement he had rarely experienced before. This was what he lived for, where his talent lay. This was what made him greater than his enemy; gave him the spotlight in which to perform as the masterful act.

His meditation was almost complete. Balling his fists hard, his mind rode the final wave of empowerment before relaxing with a release of breath. Finally, he had achieved fulfilment. Finally, he was ready to face those he despised in this entire world.

Opening his eyes to the glow of the firelight, he smiled a knowing and malicious smile. His eyes burned with a fiery cunning as everything fell into place. Touching the copper bracelet around his wrist, he was filled with a renewed sense of aspiration. Deep inside, he was ready.

With a widening smile of wicked pleasure, Belah Gaat touched his hands together, a gracious bow to the statue before him, and a soft whisper:

“It is time.”