It has been some months since Khada Jhin last sampled its fine airs.
He is fourthmost inside a procession of pilgrims, each having come here to pay their respects at the Lasting Altar of Karma. There is an enormity of scale at play here that seems to be to the delight of everyone beside Jhin; himself, he has long since deemed the Altar impressive but unworthy of such unbridled awe. It exists as a testament to challenged, tired tradition, after all. Hardly to Jhin’s more contemporary taste.
Still, Jhin does not get in the way of their celebration for having made it to the summit and even partakes in the fête that follows, if only because it’s polite and he has ill reason to be needlessly conspicuous. The selection of Navori berries is filling enough, even if they’re a far cry from Zhyun brush-honey. So it goes.
The pilgrims have not scaled Lasting Altar in the hope of seeing Karma: there is always much ado about leaving her to her meditations, and seclusion of the Enlightened One is treated as an expectation, rather than the exception. Nor does it surprise Jhin that shortly after the fête has concluded and the pilgrims have made many prayers and meditations of their own, a retinue of hard-faced guardsmen come out from under the shaded ivory tresses of the deeper monastery.
His smile is innocent as can be.
The guardsman look wearily at Jhin, who for his part says nothing. Then they pass him and calmly instruct the pilgrims to begin their descent, for Karma has asked the Altar be cleared. Some express confusion but know better than to debate with the will of the Enlightened One, though some sport sparing glances at Jhin, who is noticeably excluded from this order. They get on with it, though.
A guard says: “She asked for you.”
Such it is that Jhin calmly walks into the monastery, taking down his pilgrim’s hood once under the shade. He has an unremarkable face with blue eyes and long, obsidian hair. There is nothing strange or unusual about the fake face which happens to be made of muscle, tissue, flesh and bone. Which is why it’s fake, of course. Sometimes it is better to wear a lie than flaunt the truth.
(Much as things would be different in Khada Jhin’s ideal world.)
The doors shut behind him, leaving Jhin alone with what is sure to soon be Karma at the nexus of the Lasting Altar. The scrying pool circling the ground of the atrium is a nice touch, he supposes. If far too harmonious and symmetrical. He wonders if this Enlightened One would be open to suggestion.
“Forgive my manners,” Jhin says, who presents his hands in prayer toward Karma when he sees her, clearly condescending. “It must be the first time a Demon has ever been inside the Altar. Pleasure’s all mine, Enlightened One.”
He doesn’t bother hiding himself. Pointless. Karma knew who he was as soon as he crested the mountain. But that’s the funny thing about his countrymen—despite all the vitriol and hatred thrown at the feet of the Golden Demon, only a sparing handful would ever take up arms against him when laid to bare. Tradition really can be that unbreakable.
“How was the last assassination attempt by the Brotherhood, my dear Karma? That must have smart.”
