The air is thick with whispers, guttural and hungry.

  Hasya sees the color drain from Agra’s face.

  The three men hesitate near the doorway, their hands trembling over their weapons.

  One of them suddenly spots Yodha’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor.

  “Shit—Yodha!”

  Without thinking, he rushes inside.

  The other two follow, slashing wildly at the spirits, trying to drive them away. But they barely last a few seconds.

  The moment the spirits touch them, they collapse just like Yodha. Their bodies crumple, their strength completely drained.

  Agra, still near the door, doesn’t move. Sweat trickles down his temple.

  He wants to run.

  But his legs refuse to obey.

  One of the spirits floats past him, its hollow gaze empty and cold.

  Panicked, Agra swings his sword instinctively—

  Shnk!

  The blade slices through air.

  But the spirit doesn’t even acknowledge him. It looks hypnotized by Adanu Raksa’s present.

  Agra stares at his useless weapon, his hands trembling.

  “They… they’re ghosts,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “We can’t hurt them…”

  A wave of dread churns in his gut.

  On the other hand, Hasya clenches his jaw, forcing himself to move past his fear.

  His fists tighten. “Do something, damn it!” he snaps.

  Then—

  A strong arm wraps around him from behind, pulling him back.

  Hasya yelps in surprise—

  Only to find Cakara standing behind him.

  “Easy.”

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  His voice is calm, steady—completely unfazed.

  Hasya turns to face him, eyes pleading. “Cakara! Yodha and the others—”

  “They’ll be fine,” Cakara reassures, offering a calm, almost lazy smile. “As long as you don’t get too close to those spirits, they won’t hurt you.”

  Hasya hesitates.

  His fear doesn’t disappear, but there’s something in Cakara’s voice—a quiet confidence—that makes him trust the leader.

  Cakara releases him and steps forward. With deliberate ease, he draws his weapon—a short Damascus black sword, its surface etched with intricate, ancient patterns.

  He watches the spirits for a moment, then swings.

  Shnk!

  The blade cuts clean through the misty figures.

  But nothing happens.

  The spirits remain untouched.

  Still ignoring their present.

  “So it’s true…” Cakara mutters, adjusting his grip. “Normal attacks won’t work.”

  His eyes glint with curiosity.

  “Then let’s see if this will.”

  Cakara tightens his grip, inhaling sharply as he forces his spirit energy into the blade. The sword trembles, resisting—his arms ache, his pulse pounds.

  Slowly, white plasma-like aura flickers, unstable, wavering.

  The energy shifts, solidifying around the blade’s edge.

  Then—

  He swings.

  Shhhnk!

  The sword cleaves through the spirits.

  And they scream.

  Their twisted, malformed faces contort in agony as their bodies begin to disintegrate, unraveling into wisps of nothingness.

  Cakara smirks. “It’s working.”

  Agra, watching in stunned silence, grips his sword and swings again.

  But sadly, nothing happens. And his face is immediately clouded with confusion.

  “Hey, Cakara. How did you…”

  Cakara barely has time to react before the remaining spirits turn toward him—

  And snarl.

  “You lowly human…”

  “How dare you ruin our feast?!”

  “You have no idea how long we’ve waited for this!!!”

  They swarm him.

  “Oh, shiiit!”

  Cakara steps back, instinctively yanks Agra backward while swinging his sword around.

  But—

  Pain sears through his right arm.

  The spirits’ touch leeches his energy.

  His fingers go numb.

  His sword slips from his grasp.

  “My arm…!” Cakara grimaces.

  “Forget about that kid!” Agra snaps. “We need to get out of here! I don’t know where you found him, but I bet these things came for him!”

  Cakara’s gaze flickers to Adanu Raksa. Those spirits cling back to his leg, their mouths latched onto his skin, feeding.

  Something is wrong with them.

  So wrong.

  But before Cakara can think—

  A spirit lunges.

  Cornered, he reaches for his waist.

  Shnk!

  A blade flashes.

  Not his sword—

  The kris.

  The Devil’s Kris.

  Without exerting any energy, Cakara slashes—

  And the spirit lets out an ear-piercing shriek.

  Kyaaaa!

  A violent shudder ripples through the air as the spirit’s form cracks—splinters—then disappears.

  The entire room falls into a stunned silence.

  The other spirits stiffen, noticing danger, far more terrifying then their own presence.

  Then, panic erupts.

  “The Devil’s Kris…!”

  “H-how did he get that cursed blade?!”

  “He wields it—with ease!”

  Cakara’s fingers tighten around the dagger’s hilt. His gaze narrows. Curiosity creeps inside him.

  And then…

  The spirits scramble, scattering around in chaos.

  “No! This must be a trap! The devil is toying with us!”

  “Forget the boy! He’s not worth it!”

  “Run! Run before he offers us to the abyss instead!!!”

  The once-ravenous spirits flee, their whispers turning into wails of terror. They go from ravenous predators to terrified prey.

  And within moments—

  They are gone.

  Leaving only the unconscious boy behind.

  Cakara blinks in confusion.

  The fear on their twisted faces—was it directed at him?

  No… It’s something else.

  His gaze lowers to the dagger in his grasp. Its cold metal hums against his palm, pulsing with an unnatural presence.

  Then—

  A voice slithers into his mind.

  It sounds like his own, yet he knows it isn’t.

  << Name your wish. Offer the boy as sacrifice, and I shall make your dreams reality. >>

  Cakara suddenly feels a split-second hallucination, feeling his own desires whisper back at him.

  His vision blurs, his fingers twitch involuntarily.

  As a surge of possibilities dawn on him, his eyes slowly drift toward Adanu Raksa.

  A stillness overtakes him.

  For a fleeting moment, the world around him fades.

  Then—

  A hand grips his arm.

  “Cakara! What’s wrong?” Hasya’s voice is urgent, shaking him roughly.

  Cakara’s eyelids flutter. “…Huh?”

  Hasya looks at him, face filled with worry. “You just froze. Anyway, didn’t you feel it? They were afraid of you.”

  “They weren’t afraid of Cakara.” Agra’s voice cuts in—eyes sharp, fixated on the weapon in Cakara’s grasp. “They were afraid of that thing,” he mutters darkly.

  The words send a ripple through the group. Several men at the doorway stiffen, their gazes locked onto the dagger with a mix of awe and unease.

  Cakara sees the shift in their expressions—the barely contained greed flashing across their faces.

  For a while, he has been aware of an unsettling power emanating from the dagger.

  And now, a new fear grips him.

  Fear that the others have sensed it too.

  Fear that his men might be feeling the same creeping temptation.

  The same urge.

  The same desire—to claim the dagger for themselves.