Every desire demands sacrifice. And the most sinister desires often lead to pacts with the devil.

  Such is the fate of Adanu Raksa. At the tender age of six, he was sacrificed to the Carrion Flower Devil.

  Though he survived the ritual, the devil’s grip on him never waned. Sleep always eluded him, for every night, demons and malevolent spirits came hunting for his soul.

  And tonight is no different.

  “Come forth, you vile creatures!”

  Despite his shabby cloak, his features hold an elegance fit for nobles—smooth, lightly tanned skin that glows under the pale moonlight.

  The hilly wind tousles his unkempt, ear-length hair, making his worn cloak billow behind him. The same cloak he sleeps under now flutters like a tattered banner.

  The sun has long since set. A horde of forest demons and undead creep toward his small hut at the southern base of Mount Saringgih. The dense woods are bathed in eerie moonlight, casting shifting shadows over their twisted forms.

  Adanu tightens his grip on his sword. He isn’t afraid. But—

  “Damn it. If I fight here again, that old man will throw another fit.”

  Ki Bayanaka, the elderly sage who lives nearby, has made it clear that he despises the foul stench of demon carcasses rotting near his hermitage.

  As if on cue, a voice cuts through the night.

  “Did I not tell you to lure them away from my dwelling?!”

  Adanu groans. “Shit.”

  With a swift motion, he wipes his blade clean on a nearby bush, then wraps it in a tattered cloth. Dodging the demons’ attacks with practiced ease, he secures the sword at his waist and takes off running.

  “Apologies, Gramps! I’m handling it!”

  Bounding northward, he leads the creatures away from the hermitage and his own hut. He moves swiftly, pausing only for brief moments to catch his breath.

  Four hills, five valleys—a journey that would take an ordinary traveler an entire day passes beneath his feet before dawn threatens the horizon.

  Then, in the distance, a village emerges from the mist.

  Adanu slows, a frown tugging at his lips. If the demons follow him there, it will be a massacre.

  With a sigh, he turns to face his pursuers.

  “Can’t let you lot get any closer.”

  The white, translucent spirits among them waver, whispering in the wind. Without hesitation, Adanu unwraps the cloth from his black sword and secures it tightly around his left arm.

  The spirits shriek and lunge. He slashes through them effortlessly, their agonized cries echoing through the trees.

  “Tch. Your screams are worse than a crow’s at dawn,” he mutters, rubbing his ears.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then—

  A chill spreads down his spine.

  One of the spirits slips past his guard. An icy hand presses against the back of his head, draining the warmth from his body. A voice, ancient and insidious, slithers into his mind.

  << Stop resisting, branded child. Are you not tired of running? Embrace your fate. Let us take you to the Carrion Flower Devil. We shall release you from your suffering. >>

  For a moment, his vision blurs. His breath hitches.

  Then, a grin splits his face—a twisted, maddened grin.

  “Do I look tired to you?”

  With a vicious swing, his sword carves through the spirit, silencing its whisper.

  “I left my weakness behind a long time ago.”

  His voice is steady, but his eyes gleam with something far more dangerous.

  He turns to the remaining demons, and taunts. “Come. Taste the sweetness of my blade.”

  Though the night has drained hours from him, fatigue never touches him. His strikes remain swift and precise, slicing through the remaining creatures with ruthless efficiency.

  Even his tattered robe remains unstained, untouched by the blood and filth of his slain foes.

  This is his life. His every night.

  And it will not be his last.

  ***

  As dawn stretches across the sky, the surviving demons slink back into the shadows, vanishing into the depths of the forest.

  Adanu sheaths his sword, exhaling.

  “Damn… I went too far again, didn’t I?”

  He eyes the distant village. Returning home will be a hassle. He might as well grab some food before making the long trip back.

  At the village’s edge, a stone marker stands, etched with ancient Sanskrit carvings. Squinting, Adanu mutters the words under his breath.

  “Ku… lon… se… wu?”

  “Yes, this is Kulonsewu Village,” a voice answers from behind.

  Turning, he finds three young villagers eyeing him curiously. One of them yawns, rubbing his eyes.

  “It was a long night. Is there a food stall nearby?” Adanu asks.

  “Over there.” One of the boys points. “They have the best coffee in the northern part of Marajaya Kingdom.”

  “Perfect.” Adanu sighs. “A hot cup of coffee is just what I need.”

  The village is draped in morning mist. Thatched huts cling to the damp hillside, and in the distance, a rooster crows.

  Inside the humble tavern, the old man behind the counter greets him with a nod.

  “It’s quite early, sir. I’m afraid I don’t have food ready yet.”

  “A cup of coffee will do,” Adanu says, rubbing his shoulders against the morning chill.

  The rich aroma of fresh coffee soon fills the air. As the first sip warms him, he sighs in satisfaction.

  Then, three men step inside, thick-bearded and rough-looking, machetes strapped to their waists. Their eyes lock onto Adanu, sharp with suspicion. A foreigner. Alone.

  One of them steps forward. “What brings you to this village?”

  Adanu doesn’t even look up. He takes a slow sip, exhales, and sets the cup down.

  “Just here for the coffee.”

  The thug’s lips curl, but his eyes remain cold. He tilts his head slightly, letting the dim morning light catch the edge of his machete.

  “Then finish it quickly and leave.”

  Tension thickens the air.

  Adanu smiles. Without a word, he downs the rest of his coffee. Then, shifting his tattered robe aside, he reaches something on his waist.

  The thugs stiffen, hands hovering over their weapons.

  But instead of a blade, Adanu pulls out a gleaming gold coin—the official currency of the Marajaya Kingdom. With an easy flick of his fingers, he tosses it to the tavern owner.

  The old man catches it, eyes widening. “Sir, this is too much! I don’t have enough change—”

  “Keep it.” Adanu pats the old man’s shoulder. “Good coffee deserves the price.”

  Without another word, he turns and leaves.

  Behind him, the thugs exchange glances. They don’t need to speak to understand each other. Greed gleams in their eyes.

  ***

  Later…

  As Adanu walks into the misty forest, six men emerge from the underbrush, surrounding him. Machetes and swords gleam in the dim morning light.

  Adanu sighs. “Following me this far? That’s dedication.”

  One of them grins. “Wealth or life?”

  Adanu chuckles, tilting his head. “Aren’t you at least curious how a vagabond like me got this many coins?”

  The thugs lunge.

  But Adanu Raksa doesn’t even take them seriously. He sidesteps effortlessly, weaving through their attacks like a drifting leaf.

  A swift kick to the leg sends one man sprawling, while another is disarmed with a casual flick of his wrist.

  And soon, five flee in terror. The last one finds himself staring at his own machete—now pressed against his own throat.

  “Wealth or life?” Adanu asks with a smile.

  The thug stammers. “I-I have nothing!”

  Adanu hums. “Tough luck.”

  He throws the blade back at him and flips a gold coin into the air.

  “Consider it a reward for your persistence.”

  With that, Adanu climbs up a tree, stretches, and nestles into the branches for a good nap.

  But below, the thug glares at him, fists clenching. His eyes flick down to the coin—and greed, like a festering wound, blooms in his heart.

  ***

  An Hour Passes…

  Adanu remains deep in sleep.

  The forest is still. Only the occasional rustle of leaves stirs the morning mist.

  But soon—

  Srrsh!

  Footsteps creep through the underbrush. The thugs return—now twenty strong—led by a grizzled man standing casually behind them.

  A hushed whisper slithers through the air. “Cut down the tree. When he falls—take his head.”

  Silence emerges.

  Then—

  Srrraak!

  The tree groans as it collapses, crashing to the earth in a storm of leaves and dust.

  Adanu tumbles with it, landing in a heap on the ground.

  For a moment, he lies there—barely stirring. His black Damascus sword dangles loosely from his grip, his eyes half-lidded with drowsy confusion.

  The thugs cheer, convinced he’s injured.

  “Kill him!”

  “Now!”

  With a roar, they charge, eager to claim their prize.

  But disturbing Adanu Raksa’s sleep is the worst possible mistake. He hasn’t slept all night. And that is very bad.

  When awake, he can restrain himself. He can suppress the instincts honed by years of slaughtering demons.

  But in this half-asleep state… it’s a different story.

  Once the first thug steps into Adanu’s attack range, the air suddenly shifts—thickens.

  Then—

  Swssh!

  A head flies.

  Blood arcs through the air, painting the dirt red.