He then turns toward the door, taking his leave in a rush.

  But—

  “Wait.”

  Barja catches his wrist.

  Adanu Raksa looks up, confused.

  “Stay the night,” Barja says firmly. “It’s too dangerous after dark. I’ll take you to Talang Asri first thing tomorrow.”

  Adanu Raksa shakes his head. “But... My mom… She is…”

  “I know, son! But this place is dangerous. What if you meet some beast out there?” Barja tries to reason with him.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Adanu Raksa insists, pulling his hand away. “My mom is… she is…”

  His breathes suddenly turn ragged. The terror and nightmare from last night slowly creeps into his weak mind.

  His vision sways. The room suddenly tilts. His knees buckle.

  Luckily, before he collapses, the old man catches him just before he hits the ground.

  “Poor boy. He fainted again.”

  Barja sighs, lifting the boy easily into his arms.

  Ratih watches, her fingers clutched tightly over her heart.

  “Please, Barja! Let me care for him,” she whispers. “We’ve been alone too long. He doesn’t have to be Tole… but he can be our child.”

  Barja meets her gaze, eyes heavy with understanding.

  But he shakes his head.

  “He still has a mother waiting for him,” he says gently. “We must take him home.”

  Ratih swallows hard, then nods.

  Barja carries Adanu Raksa to their small bedroom, laying him carefully on their only bed.

  As they step outside, leaving him to rest, an eerie stillness settles outside over the woods.

  Unseen, deep in the trees—

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  A presence stirs.

  Something is coming.

  ***

  Not long after they leave the room, Adanu Raksa begins to mutter in his sleep. His small body trembles. Sweat beads across his forehead, soaking into his dirt-streaked hair.

  “Get away… Get away from me…!”

  His voice is weak, but thick with distress.

  “Leave her alone…! Don’t hurt my mom…!”

  The scar on his left calf begins to reopen. Dark blood seeps from the wound—a grotesque bite mark, left by the flesh tendril that had tried to devour him.

  But it’s not just blood that escapes—wisps of pale energy, a strange white aura, begin to leak from the wound, twisting into the air.

  And within it, something darker writhes.

  Ratih notices his worsening fever. Hearing his delirious cries, she hurries back into the room, concern knitting her brows.

  But she cannot see what is truly happening. The aura—the tainted, corrupting energy seeping from his body—is beyond the sight of ordinary humans.

  “Barja!” she calls, panic sharpening her voice. “Come quickly! Something is wrong with the child!”

  Heavy footsteps echo from the other room. Barja rushes inside, crouching beside the boy. He presses his palm to Adanu Raksa’s forehead—

  And immediately pulls away.

  Fear flickers across Barja’s face. “We need to bring his fever down. If this keeps up, he won’t survive the night!”

  He stumbles out of the room, heading to the kitchen, frantically searching for water. Ratih hears the commotion in the kitchen but forces herself to remain by Adanu Raksa’s side.

  But then—

  CRASH! CLATTER!

  The sound of Barja fumbling through the kitchen jolts her.

  She rushes to the kitchen, finding her husband struggling with the clay pot, his hands trembling in his urgency.

  “Barja! I’ll do it—just bring me some water!”

  As they prepare the warm water together…

  Syuuuu!

  A presence.

  Something shifts in the air.

  The candlelight flickers violently, shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls.

  Later, once Ratih gets back to the bedroom with a pot of warm water…

  She freezes.

  Her blood runs cold.

  Floating above the boy’s body is a spirit—translucent and grotesque, with a gaunt, hollow-eyed face and long, matted hair.

  Its chapped lips curl back in a twisted expression of euphoria as it hovers greedily over Adanu Raksa, inhaling the cursed energy leaking from his wound.

  For a second, Ratih is frozen.

  Then—

  “Kyaa!!!”

  A scream rips from her throat, piercing the night.

  The clay pot in her hands slips and shatters on the wooden floor.

  Barja rushes back, eyes widening at the sight. His wife is pale, her body trembling as she points toward the floating abomination, its disfigured face twisting into a grotesque smile.

  “Barja! W-what is that?!”

  Barja doesn’t answer. His throat tightens with fear.

  The malevolent spirit ignores them both, still fixated on the boy. It inhales deeply, shuddering with pleasure as it feasts on Adanu Raksa’s corrupted essence.

  Barja grits his teeth. He refuses to stand by.

  “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” he bellows, lunging forward.

  But the spirit does not flinch. It barely acknowledges him.

  Desperate, Barja scoops Adanu Raksa into his arms, yanking the boy away from the entity.

  That one finally gets a reaction.

  The spirit’s head snaps up. Its blackened, empty sockets bore into him.

  Then—

  “You lowly human,” it snarls, its voice a wet, guttural hiss. “How dare you interfere?!”

  A violent chill rips through Barja’s spine. His grip tightens around Adanu Raksa.

  “Give him back,” the spirit rasps, its form twitching unnaturally. “Give me the child!”

  Barja stumbles back.

  He doesn’t know what this thing is. He doesn’t know what it wants.

  But he knows what to do. Clutching the boy tighter, he pulls his wife toward the door.

  Once they get outside—

  They stop dead.

  Figures emerge from the treeline.

  Ratih exhales in relief. “Thank the gods! The kingdom’s soldiers—”

  “No.” Barja’s voice is strained. His fingers dig into her arm. “Ratih—don’t go near them.”

  Something is wrong.

  At first glance, they look human—soldiers of Chakradwipa, clad in tattered uniforms, their bodies covered in dirt and dried blood.

  As the figures step closer, the torchlight illuminates rotting flesh. Hollow eye sockets. Torn throats, pierced by broken arrows.

  And a stench so foul it burns his nose.

  Not soldiers.

  Corpses.

  Walking corpses.

  Barja staggers backward, bile rising in his throat. “Dear gods… where did these demons come from?”

  The undead move awkwardly, their steps slow and unsteady.

  But as they get closer to the hut, they are getting faster, wilder.

  One trips over a fallen branch, tumbling to the ground—dragging another down with it.

  But they do not stop.

  They rise, crawling over each other, eyes locked onto the child.

  “We can't stay here!” Barja’s voice trembles with panic.

  He grips his wife’s wrist and pulls her toward the backyard.

  “We need to ask for a shaman's help in Rejo village!”

  But the moment they round the corner, again they stop dead in their tracks.

  The same corpses.

  Dead people, but moving.

  Marching.

  Approaching his hut from every corner.