Hasya's expression twists with irritation as he watches Cakara walk away. His hands curl into fists, frustration boiling beneath his skin.
Then—
Smack!
A firm slap lands on the back of his head.
Hasya flinches, spinning around with a glare. “What the hell?!”
Behind him stands Agra, the oldest in their group, two years Cakara’s senior. He smirks, dripping with condescension.
“What are you standing around for? Prepare the damn water like the boss ordered.”
Hasya scowls. “He didn’t say my name. Why the hell do I have to do it?”
Smack!
Another slap.
“You little runt.” Agra snaps. “Just because the boss treats you well, you think you're his right-hand man? Be grateful we let you stay.”
Hasya clicks his tongue. Without another word, he stomps off toward a small hut, muttering under his breath.
Inside the hut, he sets a clay pot of water onto a crude clay-built stove.
Then…
He just sits there.
Staring.
Waiting.
Doing nothing.
The firewood beneath the pot remains unlit.
But his mind drifts to the strange child Cakara brought back.
Adanu Raksa.
He looks around Hasya’s age—maybe younger. But everything about him is different.
Smooth skin, unscarred face. Delicate hands, untouched by hardship. Clothes dirtied, but finer than anything Hasya has ever worn.
“A noble’s son?”
He lips curl slightly. His hands clench around his knees.
Why had Cakara gone out of his way to save a brat like that?
A surge of envy knots in his chest.
Until then—
Srrk!
A sound jolts him from his thoughts. A figure looms behind him.
Startled, Hasya grabs a nearby machete and swings—
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Dpp!
A hand catches the blade effortlessly—between two fingers.
Hasya freezes.
His eyes dart upward, meeting the amused gaze of Yodha, the group’s largest and most easygoing member.
“Whoa there, kid.” Yodha chuckles. “What’s with the hostility?”
Hasya exhales sharply, lowering the blade. “Damn it, Yodha! How many times do I have to tell you—stop sneaking up on me!”
Yodha smirks. “Sneaking? I walked in plain sight, and you still panicked.”
Hasya clicks his tongue, turning away. “Whatever.”
Yodha pats his shoulder, his grip heavy. “Relax. No one in the Band of the Enchanted Dagger wants to rape you.”
Hasya stiffens.
His grip tightens around the machete. “Shut up! How can you say that with that bandit face of yours?!”
Yodha laughs heartily, then gestures at the stove. “How’s the water coming?”
Hasya mutters, still glaring at the floor. “Not yet.”
Yodha hums and crouches beside him.
The two sit in silence.
Watching the pot.
Waiting.
…
Then—
Yodha blinks.
Frowns.
His expression twists in confusion.
“…Wait.”
Hasya looks up. “What?”
Yodha turns to him, deadpan.
“Did you light the fire?”
Hasya’s stomach drops. His eyes dart to the stove.
The twigs. Cold. Unlit. Untouched.
“SHIT!!!”
He scrambles, grabbing the flint and striking it furiously. Sparks flicker—but don’t catch.
“Damn it! Why didn’t you say something sooner?!” he snaps.
“You didn’t even notice it yourself?!” Yodha argues.
Outside, Agra’s voice cuts through the night.
“OI! WHERE’S THE DAMN WATER?!”
Hasya flinches. His panic triples.
Yodha sighs. “Move aside.”
Hasya scoots back as Yodha picks up a twig, pressing his fingers into it.
“It’s still damp. You forgot to dry the firewood—again.”
With a sigh, Yodha closes his eyes.
Then, sweat beads on his forehead as the twig vibrates slightly. Wisps of steam curl from its surface, moisture evaporating.
Hasya watches, unimpressed. “You’re using your kanuragan* just to dry a twig?”
“Easier than waiting,” Yodha mutters, moving on to another damp twig.
Hasya frowns. “Then why not just heat the damn water with your hands?”
Yodha exhales, looking drained. “My kanuragan isn’t strong enough to heat that much water.”
Hasya rolls his eyes. Finally, with dry twigs, he strikes the flint again—this time, the fire catches.
They wait, the flames crackling softly beneath the pot.
Moments later, Yodha nods. “Should be hot enough.”
Not wasting another second, Hasya grabs the pot and rushes out, Yodha following close behind.
But then, the moment they reacheCakara’s room—
CRASH!
The pot slips from Hasya’s hands. Clay shatters against the floor.
He doesn’t flinch. His body locks up in pure terror.
Something is clinging to Adanu Raksa’s leg.
Three spirit creatures.
Their grotesque, malformed faces contort in pleasure as they latch onto the boy’s limb, their translucent bodies pulsing with a sickly glow.
Yodha’s grip tightens around his sword. He swings again—but same result.
No impact. No resistance.
“Hasya!” he barks. “Go get Cakara!”
No response.
Hasya is still kneeling, frozen in horror, eyes locked onto the writhing spirits.
Then suddenly—
Wuuuu!
The walls groan. From the small gaps between the wooden planks, thick white mist begins to seep through.
More spirits.
Malevolent.
Hungry.
Dozens of them.
Their sunken eyes gleam with unnatural hunger as they slither into the room, their whispers merging into a chorus of madness.
“A feast…”
“Our first in hundreds of years…!”
Their ghastly forms twist and coil, drawn like moths to a flame.
The mist thickens.
The air grows thin, like the room itself is suffocating.
The spirits do not speak in full sentences. They murmur, half-finished thoughts, slipping between languages long forgotten.
“So long… so long…”
“The hunger…”
“The feast…”
Their eyes, black pits, lock onto Adanu Raksa.
“…Mine.”
“…Mine.”
Drawn to the boy lying unconscious on the bamboo-woven bed.
To the cursed energy spilling from his broken soul.
“What are these things? Where did they come from?”
More malevolent spirits approach the house, seeping into the small gaps on the wooden wall.
On their way to the kid, a few of them latch onto Yodha, their incorporeal forms slipping into his body like mist.
Yodha’s sword trembles in his grip.
No resistance. No impact. The spirits pass through like smoke.
His hands grow numb. A cold voice whispers into his skull.
<< You are not the one we desire. But we will take you anyway. >>
A searing pain explodes in his skull.
Yodha grits his teeth, clutching his head as the invading spirits dig into his mind, draining his life force with each passing second.
“Yodha!” Hasya’s voice shakes with fear.
“Go quickly!” Yodha growls, his knees buckling under the mental assault. “I can’t do anything against these veil creatures. Bring Cakara here—”
His words cut off. A strangled groan escapes him as his vision darkens.
His body convulses, his strength fading until he finally collapses.
Hasya watches in horror. His breath comes in short, uneven gasps. His legs refuse to move.
“Cakara…” he barely whispers, frozen in place.
A moment later—
A hand grabs the back of his clothes and yanks him off the ground.
“Get the fuck out of the way, you coward!”
Hasya barely has time to react before he’s thrown aside, crashing against the wall.
He gasps, winded. His vision swims.
The man who tossed him aside—Agra.
Behind him, three more bandits storm into the room, blades drawn, faces twisted with fury.
They charge forward like lions ready to pounce. But the moment they see what lurks inside…
They freeze.
Their bravado dies in an instant.
“…What the hell is this?” One of them gasps.
Agra, the oldest among them—the man whose arrogance once filled every room—now stands silent.
His throat bobs with a hard swallow. His grip tightens around his sword, knuckles white.
But no matter how hard he wills his body to move…
The tip of his blade trembles.
For the first time in his life, he doesn’t know if swinging it will make a difference.
“Oh, God…”
Dozens of ghastly figures swirl above Adanu Raksa.
Ignoring the bandits’ present, their translucent bodies pulsate with eerie light.
One spirit, larger than the rest, drifts closer to the boy.
Its face—twisted, hollow—contorts into something almost reverent.
“At last… A feast after hundreds of years.”
Kanuragan – A term rooted in Javanese mystical traditions, referring to supernatural martial abilities or spiritual power cultivated through rigorous training, meditation, and ascetic practices. Practitioners of kanuragan are believed to enhance their physical strength, resilience, and combat prowess, often gaining immunity to weapons, heightened reflexes, or even the ability to manipulate unseen energies. In many folklore and historical accounts, kanuragan is closely tied to the mastery of inner force (similar to ki/chi) and is practiced by warriors, shamans, and mystical figures seeking both spiritual enlightenment and battlefield supremacy.
