Bramasti watches, his face twisted in euphoric ecstasy.

  “Kukuku… Geahahaha!!!”

  His laughter echoes through the throbbing chamber of flesh—drowned only by the monstrous growls of the thing slowly swallowing Adanu Raksa’s legs.

  But then—

  Something is wrong.

  His laughter falters, cracking into silence.

  Arkadevi does not scream. She does not beg. She does not break.

  Her face remains locked in defiance, her stare like a blade against his skin.

  Bramasti’s grin flickers. The pleasure dims.

  He expects fear, expects submission—expects her to shatter beneath his cruelty.

  But instead… she denies him.

  His excitement rots into frustration.

  His breath grows uneven. His hands clench into fists.

  Then, slowly, his expression fades into something hollow.

  Disgusted. Bored.

  “…Tch. It’s no fun anymore.”

  He turns his gaze away, the thrill drained from his veins.

  Meanwhile, the massive flesh tendril continues its slow, suffocating crawl up Adanu Raksa’s body. His legs are already swallowed, his torso now ensnared in its grotesque grip.

  Terror has long since stolen his voice.

  Not when his mother is being torn apart before his very eyes. Not when he is powerless to stop it.

  “Somebody… please help my mom…”

  His plea is weak. Barely a whisper. And no one answers.

  His mind begins to crack under the horror. The weight of it is too much for a child to bear. His vision blurs, his senses dull.

  And then, his body surrenders.

  His brain shuts itself down, protecting what little sanity remains.

  Even as his eyes stay open, his world fades into nothingness.

  “Hey, kid! Are you still alive?”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Bramasti pats Adanu Raksa’s cheek. Even slaps him hard.

  But there’s no response from him.

  Once he shifts his attention back to Arkadevi, that pitiful mother can no longer keep her hateful stare.

  She begins to let out lowly groan.

  But still…

  There’s no pain in her face.

  She no longer has any power to endure, not even to scream.

  Still twitching.

  But so lifeless, like a body without a soul.

  Bramasti feels so empty.

  No satisfaction.

  Only regret for losing his way to use Adanu Raksa to gain status and power in Chakradwipa kingdom.

  But…

  “Wait?”

  His attention snaps to the cursed dagger.

  Maybe he can stop it.

  Maybe he can cancel the offering, and save the kid’s life.

  “I need to pull it out before it’s too late.”

  Unfortunately…

  CRASH!!!

  The ceiling shatters.

  A shadowed figure descends like a phantom, a gleaming Damascus short sword clutched in his hand—

  JLEBS!!!

  The blade drives clean through Bramasti’s skull.

  The sickening sound of metal slicing flesh and bone fills the corrupted house.

  Bramasti’s body convulses.

  His fingers twitch, his lips part—too stunned to process his own death.

  And then—

  He slumps forward, lifeless.

  The betrayer dies in silence.

  No words.

  No last breath.

  Nothing.

  ***

  Despite Bramasti’s death, the house still breathes.

  The mysterious man exhales sharply, his eyes scanning the room.

  His gaze sweeps over the grotesque scene before him. The writhing walls, the pulsing, slimy floor—

  And then—

  His stomach clenches.

  Arkadevi. Her mutilated body, broken and lifeless, stripped of everything—of dignity, of humanity.

  “Oh, God…”

  He turns away before his mind can trap the image forever.

  But the house is no better.

  It is a nightmare made flesh. The walls twist, the air is thick with the stench of blood and rot. Veins pulse across the fleshy surfaces, and the grotesque tendrils writhe.

  His eyes then fall on the kris—still embedded in the floor, its cursed aura pulsating with malevolent energy.

  “Let’s secure this thing first.”

  He picks the sheath from Bramasti’s dead body, and yanks the cursed dagger free.

  At once—

  Grroooo!!!

  The entire house convulses. SCREAMS.

  The living flesh recoils.

  The writhing tendrils screech as they are sucked back into the ground, disappearing into the abyss from which they came.

  The grotesque petals outside begin to wither, their pulsating flesh turning back into lifeless earth. They collapse, sinking back into the soil, taking with them every trace of the nightmare.

  Inside the house, the grotesque and nasty fleshes slowly retreat to where they come from.

  The mysterious man approaches his sword stuck in Bramasti’s head. But before retrieving the sword, his attention shifts to something else.

  The boy.

  Adanu Raksa, still half-swallowed by the dying tendril, his blank eyes staring at nothing.

  “No way… Don’t tell me—”

  The man curses, gripping the hilt of his Damascus sword. Without hesitation, he rips it from Bramasti’s corpse, sending blood and brain matter spilling onto the floor.

  He swings.

  Crash!

  The massive tendril is severed in one clean stroke before it manages to pull Adanu Raksa into the abyss.

  The man stares down at him, heart pounding. The boy’s face is pale, his lips slightly parted—his breath so shallow, it is almost undetectable.

  Then—

  A cough.

  “Oh, shit! He’s still alive?!”

  He kneels, slapping the boy’s cheek lightly. “Hey, kid! You still in there? Wake up!”

  Adanu Raksa’s eyes flutter slightly—

  “…Mom!”

  Then close again.

  But he is breathing.

  The man sighs in relief, but there is no time to relax.

  The sky is darkening. But people will come. They will find this place.

  And if they see him standing over the ruins, holding the boy?

  They will assume he is the one who did this.

  Without another second of hesitation, he lifts Adanu Raksa onto his shoulder. With a swift leap, he disappears into the hole he created on the roof.

  He moves swiftly through the dense jungle, leaping from branch to branch with practiced ease. Despite the extra weight on his shoulder, his movements remain fluid, precise.

  “Cough, cough!”

  “Hanging in there, kid! You can’t die here! There’s still so many good things in this life.”

  By midnight, he reaches the southern border of Chakradwipa. A journey that would take peasants more than two full days on foot—he has made in mere hours.

  He does not stop.

  He climbs higher, ascending the slopes of Mount Sangkala, where only outlaws dare to tread.

  And finally—

  He arrives.

  A secluded settlement of stilt houses, six in total, hidden deep within the forest.

  As he lands, several men immediately unsheathe their swords, their eyes flashing with suspicion.

  “Who the hell are you?!” one of them demands, blade poised at the man’s throat.

  The man exhales. He pulls back his hood, revealing a sharp, charismatic face under the moonlight.

  Recognition dawns.

  “Boss?!”

  “Cakara! Where the hell have you been?!”

  “We’ve been looking for you for a week!”

  These are no ordinary villagers. They are mountain bandits.

  And the man who just saved Adanu Raksa—the name is Cakara, the leader.

  One of the bandits named Hasya, a wiry kid with a bow slung over his shoulder, scowls as he steps forward.

  “Oi, Cakara,” he sneers. “Whose brat is that? Don’t tell me we’ve gone from robbing nobles to kidnapping kids.”

  Cakara ignores him. He strides toward the largest house, his voice cuts through the night.

  “Stop asking stupid questions!”

  His men go silent. Even the boldest of them flinch.

  “This kid has a fever. Prepare some warm water—and take it to my room!”

  Hasya raises an eyebrow.

  He doesn’t know who the kid is.

  But Cakara has never looked this serious before.