He sways, slowly walks toward the shaman—the sword dragging slightly against the ground.

  The shaman scoffs. “What is this now? You look like you’re about to die.”

  Adanu Raksa’s voice is flat, hollow. “Just keep talking while you still can.”

  Ignoring the odd changes, the shaman jumps—slamming his staff down with full force.

  Adanu blocks with his sword, and…

  CLANG!

  A wave of pressure crushes his mind.

  His eyes squeeze shut. “Please, endure it.”

  The shaman looks curious, and then chuckles. “Begging now, are you?”

  He swings again. But this time—

  SHINK!

  Adanu Raksa counters. A sharp snap cuts through the air.

  The tip of the shaman’s staff is gone.

  The shaman stares, frozen.

  His weapon… was cut? Something that has never happened before—happens.

  “How?”

  A flicker of panic flashes in his eyes.

  He grabs an evil spirit, chews, and then blows its essence onto his broken staff.

  The wood glows.

  He slams it to the rocky ground, and…

  Trank!

  It weirdly sounds solid like a metal pole.

  The shaman exhales. “You imbue your weapon with spirit energy—same as me.”

  Adanu Raksa nods slightly. “You’re not as unique as you think.”

  And so, the battle resumes.

  But…

  Each time the weapons clash, a surge of pressure invades Adanu Raksa’s mind.

  Screams whisper through his skull. And at every collision, he closes his eyes.

  “Endure it.”

  He then steps back—not to retreat, but to create space.

  The shaman sneers. “Running away now?” He charges, confidently swinging his staff.

  Blinded by arrogance, the shaman fails to realize—Adanu Raksa has been luring him into this exact moment.

  He lowers his sword.

  Not surrendering.

  But waiting, aiming for the right moment.

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  And then—

  Swssh!

  He lets the staff slide past—ducks—and twists his blade upward.

  Slsh!

  A sharp gust of wind.

  A blur of steel.

  And—

  Silence.

  The shaman frowns. “What…?”

  He sees his staff—cut cleanly in two.

  And his arm floats. Severed.

  And—

  His head.

  And then—

  Pain.

  Unbearable, endless pain.

  His severed neck and head ignite in flame. Yet his eyes widen in horror.

  “Aaargh! DAMN YOU! How can I—”

  His once-arrogant, confident voice twists into a frantic, whining grumble.

  “How the hell did a weak stroke like that cut my head?! It hurts, you damn bastard! There’s no way a mere kid’s sword could do this to me!”

  The shaman writhes in agony, cursing and howling as his severed head burns with unholy fire.

  Adanu Raksa, however, simply stares, slack-jawed, his face a mix of amusement and disgust.

  “Fuck! How are you still talking?!”

  The shaman sneers, even through his pain. “That’s the difference between you and me, fool. You’re still too green to comprehend my nature. I am immortal! No mere sword can kill me!”

  His body rises, grasping blindly for its severed head. He struggles, hands shaking, trying to reconnect the head back to his burning neck.

  But—

  “Don’t even think about it!”

  Thud!

  Adanu Raksa’s boot slams into the head, sending it flying across the cliffside.

  “NOOOO!!!” The shaman’s shriek is almost pathetic.

  The head tumbles across the dirt, rolling like a discarded fruit.

  Adanu Raksa rushes after it and, without hesitation—

  Wham!

  He kicks it even harder. It smashes against a rock, bouncing back.

  “Fuck you, human!!!” the shaman bellows, his fury unabated. “You dare humiliate me this way?! I swear, I’ll—”

  “Shut up! You deserve it!”

  Adanu Raksa doesn’t stop there.

  With cold determination, he turns back to the shaman’s twitching body. His sword swings, severing limbs, slicing flesh, reducing the once-mighty sorcerer into scattered, bloody pieces.

  Yet, as he tosses chunks of the corpse into the ravine, the shaman’s head continues to scream.

  “PLEASE! Kill me!” The shaman's voice cracks with desperation. “Don’t leave me like this! Just stab my head and end it!”

  Adanu Raksa smirks cruelly.

  “No.”

  He tosses another piece of the shaman’s torn body into the abyss.

  “You reap what you sow, bastard. I’ll let you live—without a body. If you want to die, why don’t you just kill yourself?”

  The shaman’s eyes widen with horror. “How am I supposed to kill myself like this?!”

  Adanu Raksa shrugs. “Bite your own tongue, you idiot.”

  And with that, he turns away, sitting at the edge of the cliff, resting, waiting for dawn to come.

  Below him, the forest demons continue clawing up from the ravine. But with a few well-placed kicks and slashes, Adanu Raksa knocks them back down, one by one.

  Meanwhile—

  The shaman’s head sobs pathetically, still pleading for death.

  “I swear, I’ll never do anything bad again! I’ll even help people without asking for anything in return! But please, I beg you—JUST KILL ME!”

  Adanu Raksa scoffs. “What kind of request is that?” He leans back casually, smirking. “There’s no way you can help anyone if I kill you now.”

  Adanu Raksa looks so tired, exhausted. And the shaman’s pleading only makes him even more frustrated.

  But without him knowing…

  The shaman is muttering something between his pleas.

  A chant.

  A whispered incantation.

  Later, Adanu Raksa’s instincts scream at him. Something feels wrong.

  He suddenly stiffens. His eyes flick to the shaman’s head.

  But it’s too late.

  WHOOOOSH!

  A swarm of malevolent spirits appears before him.

  Not one.

  Not five.

  More than twenty.

  “Shit—!”

  A black tide of whispering death. Their ghastly hands latch onto him, gripping his head, clawing into his very being.

  A sinister chorus hisses into his mind.

  << Stop struggling, branded child. There is no point in fighting anymore. >>

  << Surrender. Let go. Accept your fate. It will be over soon. >>

  << Give us your soul, and you will find peace. >>

  << No more pain. No more suffering. Just… rest. >>

  As the malevolent spirits tighten their grip on his mind, Adanu Raksa feels himself slipping. His thoughts scatter, his consciousness fading into emptiness.

  But even after minutes of struggling, they still cannot reach his soul.

  They claw, they dig, but they cannot penetrate. His vessel is too deep.

  Then—

  A voice.

  Soft, warm, familiar.

  << Remember my words, Adanu Raksa. Do not let your desires blind you, no matter how noble your dream may be. Especially when your dreams involve another's life. >>

  Something deep inside him stirs.

  A past long buried beneath trauma begins to crack open, spilling into the present.

  The voices pull him under, deeper, further into the distant past.

  ***

  21 Years Ago…

  Inside a chamber dimly lit by flickering oil lamps, casting long shadows on polished teakwood walls carved with ancient reliefs.

  The air is heavy with the scent of burning sandalwood and aged incense, their smoky tendrils curling toward the rafters, where the faint shadows of bats stirred in the thatched ceiling.

  Inside it, a newborn’s cries echo through the chamber, raw and relentless.

  His mother is gone. Dead, not long after bringing him into the world.

  His father weeps too—but not as the baby does.

  His grief is silent. Drowning.

  Only he, and the devil whispering in his ear, can hear it.

  << You know what we are capable of. We can bring her back. But remember—every desire demands a sacrifice. >>

  “Shut up,” the man murmurs, clutching his head. “Shut up, shut up!”

  << Why not offer the child to us? He is worth enough to bring her back. After all, wasn’t it him who caused her death? >>

  The man’s gaze drifts downward.

  A kris lies before him—a dagger of intricate, wavy design. The air around it pulses, thick with something unseen.

  His trembling fingers hover over the hilt.

  Then, his eyes shift to the baby.

  Still crying.

  Still helpless.

  << Yes… Stab the kris into the floor. Summon the great carrion flower. Offer the child, and we will return your wife to you. >>

  Suddenly—

  A few knocks at the door.

  The man flinches, jolted from the devil’s grasp.

  “Who is it?”

  “Your Highness Jayantaka! It’s me, Arkadevi!”

  His expression hardens.

  Prabu Jayantaka strides to the door and pulls it open.

  A woman enters—a palace maid, her face lined with concern.

  “Your Highness, you look unwell.” Her eyes dart to the crib. The baby’s cries pull at her heart. “The child—he must be hungry. I can nurse him, if you wish.”

  Jayantaka turns back to his baby, lifts him into his arms, cradling him for a long, silent moment.

  Then, he turns to Arkadevi.

  “Arkadevi,” he says, his voice steady. “I know of your love for Rangkabhumi. Why don’t you marry him… and leave this palace with my son?”

  Arkadevi blinks. “Eh?”

  Jayantaka’s eyes darken. “Rangkabhumi is the man I trust the most. If not for his refusal, I would have made him Supreme Commander of my army.” His grip tightens around the baby. “You have my blessing.”

  “But—” the maid looks reluctant.

  “This is a decree from your king.” His tone is final. “Take the child. Leave the palace. And never return.”