Adanu Raksa sways, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. His breath is slow, measured. His black Damascus sword hangs low, its tip grazing the damp earth.

  The rainforest hums around him, alive with the whisper of rustling leaves and the distant call of a mourning bird. The air, thick with moisture, clings to his skin.

  The remaining thugs do not move. A suffocating silence grips the clearing, heavier than the mist itself.

  Then—

  A single misstep. A breath too loud.

  Two men break from their fear, arrogance clouding their judgment.

  With a battle cry, they rush forward, blades flashing—

  Unaware they have already sealed their fate.

  Swssh, swssh!

  Two more heads fly in the air.

  The remaining thugs freeze.

  On the other hand, Adanu Raksa doesn’t even seem fully aware of what he’s doing. His blade moves by instinct alone.

  His head then tilts slightly, as if waking from a dream. And just like that—the bloodlust disappears.

  His eyebrows furrow. “Shit. How did I get down here?”

  He looks around, still swaying, barely processing the scene until his eyes land on the fallen tree.

  “Wait… Did you cut down my tree?”

  His voice carries no anger, no malice—just drowsy confusion. But the surviving thugs are too terrified to move.

  Adanu Raksa rubs his eyes. His exhaustion weighs heavier than any blade.

  He needs sleep—not just from fatigue, but because nightfall will come again.

  And with it, the demons.

  “Damn it! Can’t you let me sleep just for a while?”

  His words piqued the thugs’ curiosity, noticing his exhaustion.

  With a heavy sigh, Adanu Raska turns on his heel and decides to run away, abandoning the fight.

  Somehow, the thug leader’s fear fades. “Split into three groups and follow him!”

  Whether out of naivety or overwhelming greed, they give chase, believing Adanu Raksa is fleeing in fear.

  “Look for a chance to ambush that man!”

  And so, after a long night of battle, Adanu Raksa finds himself on the run once again, reluctant to waste energy on these people.

  At first, he thinks he can outrun them. But exhaustion clings to his body like chains. Every step drains him further.

  After running for a while, he starts catching up to his own limits. A deep scowl forms on his face as realization settles in.

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  “Seems like there’s really no other choice.”

  He stops running and turns around, his gaze sharp with irritation.

  The thugs slow their steps, moving cautiously until they form a circle around him.

  The leader steps forward, a smirk curling his lips. “Why not just hand over those gold coins?”

  Adanu Raksa snorts. “Why should I?” His voice drips with sarcasm. “Did you think you’ve already cornered me? You really believe I led you here without a reason?”

  The thug leader narrows his eyes. “And what exactly is your reason?”

  Adanu Raksa smirks. “Because here, I can kill you all without disturbing the people of Kulonsewu Village.”

  A few of the thugs exchange uneasy glances. The memory of their fallen comrades still lingers, making them hesitant.

  But their leader—a warrior wielding twin poignards—remains calm, stepping closer. “You’re no ordinary vagabond,” he observes. “Who are you? Which school do you belong to?”

  Adanu Raksa raises an eyebrow. “What’s the point of asking that now? Oh, wait—you’re one of those honor-obsessed warriors, aren’t you?”

  The man grins. “Rada Nayaka. The most famous warrior of the north coast. These twin poignards are my signature weapons.” He then taps the hilts of his blades. “Judging by what you just did, your name—and your head—are worth quite a lot to me.”

  Adanu Raksa chuckles dryly. “So, you’re just looking for a way to boost your reputation, huh?” He sighs and shrugs. “Too bad for you, I’m just a vagabond named Tole from the south of Mount Saringgih. Never had a master, never been anyone’s disciple.”

  Rada Nayaka’s expression falters. His excitement dims.

  A nameless vagabond? No reputation. No glory. No reason to have a fair duel.

  For a moment, he seems disappointed—until his gaze drifts back to the gold coins.

  His expression hardens. “Don’t be afraid,” he calls out to his men. “He’s injured from the fall earlier. I bet he’s completely drained.”

  Adanu Raksa lets out a tired laugh. “You know what? You’re right.” He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “I am dead tired… and that’s exactly why I won’t hold back anymore.”

  The next second, madness unleashed. The thugs rush in, raising their weapons.

  Adanu Raksa’s expression twists into something unhinged. His entire presence shifts—his exhaustion forcing him to the edge of sanity.

  His sword swings without restraint—harsh, brutal, merciless. The smooth precision from before is gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered violence.

  CLANG!

  A thug’s machete shatters.

  And then…

  Crssh!

  A face is cut, followed by wild scream.

  The blood-drenched ground soaks into their sandals. Five men fall within three swings of Adanu Raksa’s blade.

  One thug remains standing—even though his head has already been severed.

  “Demon spawn!”

  “Where the hell did this man come from?!”

  “Don’t be afraid! He is clearly exhausted!”

  Rada Nayaka pushes the headless body forward, using it as a shield while aiming a sneaky attack from behind it.

  Adanu Raksa chuckles amusedly. “That’s child's play on a battlefield.”

  His grip tightens on his hilt. Soon, the air ripples around his sword. A faint white plasma-like energy swirls around the black Damascus blade as he lifts it high.

  And then—

  Slssh!

  The headless body is cut clean in half.

  Rada Nayaka, who was hiding behind it, stumbles backward, face pale.

  “Shiiit.”

  He raises his twin poignards, crossing them to block.

  But…

  Snap!

  Rada Nayaka’s twin poignards snap.

  He stares at the broken hilts, breathless.

  A thin, burning line appears across his chest—too shallow to kill, but deep enough to remind him of what could have been.

  The reality dawns slowly. His mind races. Adanu Raksa’s blade… shouldn’t have reached him.

  Yet it did.

  A heartbeat of silence.

  Then terror.

  “How?” he mutters.

  Adanu Raksa grins, exhaustion barely masked behind his amusement.

  “Wanna find out?”

  Rada Nayaka’s breath hitches. Then—he remembers something.

  Adanu Raksa mentioned South of Mount Saringgih earlier. Which means, there’s only one possibility.

  “Are you…” Rada’s lips tremble. A cold shudder runs through him. “Are you… one of Ki Bayanaka’s disciples?”

  Adanu Raksa raises an eyebrow. The thug’s terrified reaction tells him everything.

  Soon, a stupid thing suddenly crosses his mind, and a joyful smirk occurs adorning his innocent face.

  “Yeah, I’m one of his disciples. Junior to the Great Tarendra Trisatya.”

  His tone is playful, but the two names he mentioned send terror down Rada Nayaka’s spine.

  Immediately, Rada Nayaka bows.

  Not once.

  Several times.

  “Mercy! Please, forgive us! I want no trouble with the great hermit of Mount Saringgih—nor with the King of Marajaya!”

  The other thugs stare in confusion, until their leader snaps at them.

  “Bow, you idiots!” Rada Nayaka hisses.

  The thugs immediately follow his lead, prostrating themselves in submission.

  With a sigh, Adanu Raksa simply waves his hand lazily. And so, they scramble away, vanishing into the trees.

  The moment they’re gone, Adanu Raksa exhales. “Damn. I should’ve used that old man’s name sooner.” His smirk lingers, but exhaustion creeps into his expression. “Well, he’s gonna be pissed when he finds out I used his name again.”

  Adanu Raksa isn’t lying out of fear—he simply doesn’t want to waste time and energy to fight the entire gang, because once night falls, he’ll be on the run again.

  He ascends the hill, weaving through the trees until he finds a small river. With a tired sigh, he kneels by the water’s edge, washing the blood from his shabby robe.

  “It’ll be a problem if I don’t sleep before dark.”

  Finish with that, he spreads the robe across a rock to dry, then glances at the sky.

  The sun is already tilting west. Knowing he’ll have to stay awake all night, he lets himself rest right there beside the river.

  ***

  Meanwhile, rumors of a disciple of Ki Bayanaka begin spreading. But Adanu Raksa sleeps through it all until the night comes.

  After years living as an exile, weirdly, no demons come to him tonight.

  No undead. No evil spirits.

  He sleeps too deeply.

  At least, until something shakes him awake before dawn. His body jerks upright. His breath is ragged.

  “Shit, what was that?”

  His heart pounds, though he doesn’t know why. He can still feel the weight of a nightmare pressing against his chest—but he can’t remember it.

  The forest is silent. Too silent.

  His gaze flicks toward the sky. A pale crescent moon hangs behind thick clouds.

  He throws his robe back on, a sudden unease creeping over him.

  “…Weird. Where’d those ugly demons go?” He glances around, frowning. “Don’t tell me they finally lost interest. That’d hurt my feelings.”

  The air feels wrong.

  It’s calm.

  Too calm.

  He grips his black Damascus sword tightly, hugging it close as he leans against a tree.

  “It’s too damn quiet…”

  For years he has spent every night running from demons. This is the first time he has rested without being hunted. And it unsettles him more than any monster ever has.