Abimana’s presence alone forces the remaining enemy forces to retreat. Even Galuguh’s reinforcements hesitate to advance.

  The next day, the name Abimana the Wise spreads like wildfire, striking fear into every kingdom across Jawadwipa.

  The Chakradwipa Kingdom, once peaceful, now declares war.

  And with swift, merciless precision—within a single week—three Galuguh fortresses are annihilated.

  Not conquered. Not occupied. Destroyed.

  A message written in fire and blood.

  ***

  Meanwhile, in the sacred cemetery of Talang Asri, the air is thick with grief.

  A crowd gathers around six fresh graves—Rangkabhumi and his five commanders.

  “Rangkabhumi was a hero,” the village chief proclaims. “He gave his life so that we may live. If ever you need anything, do not hesitate to ask us.”

  Arkadevi remains silent. She offers no tears, no words of gratitude.

  Her face is blank, numb. She is not mourning. She is disappointed.

  Rangkabhumi had been gone for so long—and when he finally returned, it was only to leave her forever.

  After the mourners leave, Arkadevi kneels before her son, brushing her fingers gently through his hair.

  Her voice is soft, yet firm. “Remember my words, Adanu Raksa.”

  The boy looks up at her, listening intently.

  “Do not let your desires blind you, no matter how noble your dreams. Especially when your dreams involve another’s life.”

  “Yes, Mom!” he chirps, his chest swelling with pride.

  Unlike Arkadevi, Adanu Raksa does not grieve. He has listened to the stories—how his father stood against an army alone, how he died a hero’s death.

  And to him, there is no greater honor.

  But life does not wait for the grieving to heal.

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  As night falls, darkness creeps closer.

  ***

  By the time Arkadevi returns home, the sky is bruised with twilight, the last embers of sunlight fading behind the distant hills.

  Adanu Raksa rushes to a place where he left his cows. On the other hand, Arkadevi simply goes straight to her house.

  “Get back soon, Adanu Raksa! It’s going to get dark.”

  “Yes, Mom!”

  But then, as she steps inside the house, her body stiffens.

  She pauses at the doorstep, her skin prickling.

  The house is dark. Silent. Too silent.

  A shadow sits in her living room.

  The dim light from the hearth barely outlines his shape, but she knows who he is before his face emerges from the darkness.

  “Bramasti?”

  He sits leisurely, one leg crossed over the other, as if he belongs there. His eyes flick up, glinting like a predator’s.

  Arkadevi’s breath hitches. She knows for sure. He has been waiting for this moment.

  “Get out.” Her voice is sharp, unwavering. “Leave now, or I’ll call the villagers and tell them you’re a thief.”

  Bramasti rises slowly, too slowly, stretching his limbs like a tiger waking from slumber.

  He walks toward the door, his steps casual—deceptively calm.

  Then—

  Tluk!

  Instead of leaving, he closes the door, and locks it.

  Arkadevi’s stomach drops.

  A slow grin creeps across Bramasti’s face.

  “No one’s coming,” he murmurs. “Not even your husband.”

  Something primal, something cold and ugly, spreads through Arkadevi’s chest.

  Without thinking much, she runs.

  Dashing toward the kitchen, she lunges for the back door.

  But behind her, Bramasti laughs. A wet, slithering sound fills the air.

  He draws his cursed kris, stabbing it into the wooden floor.

  In that instant…

  Throb!

  The house shudders.

  And then—

  It begins to breathe.

  From the floorboards, something pulsates—thick, veined masses of flesh bubbling up like tumors, spreading across the walls.

  A horrific squelch fills the air as flesh tendrils slither like living veins, crawling fast—too fast—toward her.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  The tendrils lash out, reaching for Arkadevi’s ankles.

  Outside, Adanu Raksa pats his cows one last time, securing them in their byre.

  “See you tomorrow, Bejo!”

  But then—

  Blak!

  The back door bursts open.

  His mother comes sprinting out—barefoot, disheveled, her breath ragged, her face drained of color.

  “Mom?” Adanu Raksa tilts his head. “What’s wrong?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  She simply grabs his arm, her grip like iron, and pulls him away from the house. Her frantic silence is more terrifying than any scream.

  Adanu Raksa’s heart pounds. He looks confused.

  But before he can voice another question…

  Grooooo!!!

  A deep, inhuman growl rumbles from the depths of the house—like something massive, something ancient, stirring from its slumber.

  The earth quakes beneath them. A shuddering crack splinters through the ground.

  “Kyaa!!!”

  “Mom! What’s happening?!”

  “Hold onto the fence! NOW!”

  But the tremors grow violent—the fence posts splinter, the ground tilts beneath their feet.

  Then—

  Shhlckt!

  From the cracked earth, slimy tendrils burst forth, wrapping around Adanu Raksa’s legs.

  “Mom! HELP ME!”

  “NO! ADANU RAKSA!!!”

  Arkadevi lunges, wrapping her arms around him—but the tendrils pull harder, dragging him backward toward the house

  Toward the gaping maw of the darkness inside.

  Adanu Raksa screams, his nails digging into the dirt, desperate to crawl away.

  Arkadevi does the unthinkable—

  She bites down on the tendrils.

  Hard.

  Her lips split, blood mingling with the disgusting, rubbery texture of the pulsing flesh.

  One by one—she tears them apart.

  Finally, he is free.

  “Come quick! We need to leave!”

  But before they can run—

  More tendrils surge from the kitchen, twisting toward them like starving serpents.

  “KYAAAA!!!”

  “Somebody! HELP US!”

  Screaming is all they can do.

  But their cries are drowned by earth’s relentless fury.

  The earth trembles hard, splitting and twisting into something grotesque.

  The ground around the house pulses, transforming into giant, fleshy petals—throbbing, twitching, each veined surface glistening with a slick, unnatural sheen.

  They shudder with a sickening squelch, their movements sending deep tremors through the earth.

  And then—

  They begin to close.

  Like the petals of a monstrous carrion flower, they fold inward, swallowing the house whole.

  Inside the house, the scene is nightmarish.

  The wooden floor is no longer wood—it’s covered by writhing, living flesh, slick and warm, pulsating as if it has a heartbeat.

  The walls stretch and twist, shifting between solidity and something disturbingly organic.

  The air is thick with the rancid stench of rot and blood.