Moments later…

  Hasya sits alone in the kitchen, staring at the flickering flames beneath the clay stove. His mind churns, restless.

  Cakara and Agra.

  They built the Band of the Enchanted Dagger together—side by side, through blood and hardship.

  And now?

  “It’s falling apart…” Hasya mutters to himself, jaw clenched. “Because of that cursed kid.”

  The thing is, Cakara has never defended anyone this fiercely before. Not even when Agra refused to accept Hasya into the group in the past.

  And now, a slow-burning envy crawls up Hasya’s spine.

  He has idolized Cakara since the day the man saved his life. And now? It feels like his place is slipping away.

  To make things worse—he’s the one stuck taking care of Adanu Raksa.

  Later, as he returns to Cakara’s room with warm water, he finds Adanu Raksa tossing and turning on the bamboo bed, his body drenched in sweat.

  “No! Don’t hurt her!”

  “Please, stop it!”

  “Don’t hurt my mom!”

  His voice is weak, yet desperate—like a wounded animal. Even in his nightmares, he begs.

  Hasya exhales sharply.

  He was ready to hate this boy.

  But now, sitting beside him, watching his fragile body convulse under unseen horrors—

  Something shifts inside him.

  A flicker of sympathy.

  “I wonder what happened to him?”

  In the end, he stays.

  He presses a damp cloth to Adanu Raksa’s burning forehead, fingers lingering, feeling the heat radiate off his skin.

  His back hunches, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Watching him, listening to the broken whispers—fragments of terror, pleas for a mother who would never come.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Nothing good comes out of Adanu Raksa’s mouth.

  And yet—

  Hasya remains.

  Fighting fatigue.

  Ignoring the weight pulling at his eyelids.

  By himself.

  All night long.

  Until then…

  “Woohoo! What a haul!”

  The bandits’ cheers shake Hasya fully awake. The camp buzzes with celebration.

  “With this much loot, we could buy a whole armory and switch to mercenary work!”

  The voices outside pull Hasya from his half-sleep. He stretches, glancing toward the shattered wall Agra destroyed.

  Sunlight pours through the broken gap.

  He looks surprised.

  It’s already noon.

  Looking around, he notices—Yodha and the others are gone. Only he and Adanu Raksa remain.

  Curious, he presses a palm to Adanu Raksa’s forehead.

  “…Ng?”

  Adanu Raksa stirs. His eyes flutter open, hazy at first—then sharpening as they lock onto Hasya.

  For a long moment, he just stares.

  Two large, dark eyes.

  Framed by an absurdly beautiful face.

  Hasya blinks. “Are you okay?”

  Adanu Raksa jerks back, as if he’s seen a ghost, pushing himself away with his feet.

  Hasya tilts his head, amused. “No need to be scared! My name is Hasya. I took care of you all night, you know.”

  “…Eh?”

  Adanu Raksa squints, still dazed.

  Something about Hasya is… off.

  His tone. His movements. The way he speaks. Even his name—

  It’s boyish.

  But his features, his skin, the way his eyes softly glow in the light—

  “…Are you really a boy?” Adanu Raksa blurts out.

  Hasya’s face drops. “What?”

  “Nothing!” Adanu Raksa waves his hands frantically, looking away. “Where am I? What happened to the wall? How did I get here?”

  Hasya sighs, standing up. “Just rest here—I’ll get some food.”

  But before he can leave—

  Cakara’s voice booms outside.

  Loud. Angry.

  Hasya’s eyes widen.

  Cakara is arguing with Agra.

  Worried, he rushes toward the broken wall.

  “Stay here!” he calls over his shoulder.

  But—

  Adanu Raksa doesn’t listen.

  Still curious about Hasya’s strange appearance, he crawls out of the room, moving silently.

  His steps are tense, deliberate—every inch forward feels like stepping into the unknown.

  He presses himself against the wooden wall, heart pounding.

  Then—a deep breath.

  He peeks around the corner.

  And what he sees makes his blood run cold.

  Scarred faces. Thick beards. Cold, hardened eyes.

  The men outside look nothing like Hasya.

  Then—his gaze locks onto Cakara.

  The bandit leader stands firm, his face twisted in frustration. Despite everything, he still looks good.

  “How many times have I told you?” Cakara’s voice is sharp with fury. “Take what you need—but don’t kill anyone!”

  But Agra—he is nothing like Cakara.

  Thick-bearded. Scarred. His presence radiates violence.

  “You’re too soft. They would’ve hunted us down. Killing them was the safer choice.”

  Cakara’s fists clench. “Killing the women? Even the children? Was there any need to go that far?”

  Silence emerges.

  Agra simply wipes his blade on his sleeve, completely unfazed.

  But his gestures send chills down Adanu Raksa’s spine.

  The boy stiffens. His breath catches. His heart pounds violently against his ribs.

  A sharp tremor runs through his body.

  His knees buckle.

  The women.

  The children.

  All dead.

  He drops lower, pressing himself behind a woven chicken basket. His heart pounds violently against his ribs.

  The way they speak—how casual, indifferent—as if slaughtering women and children meant nothing.

  A pitiful whimper escapes his lips.

  “…Mom. I’m scared…”

  His small hands clutch his chest, his breathing shallow, uneven.

  A lone kid, surrounded by mountain bandits.

  Though, he’s not the only one.

  There’s Hasya—his frame even frailer than Adanu Raksa’s, with a girlish face that almost doesn’t belong in a place like this.

  At the moment, Hasya busies himself sorting through the looted goods, half-listening to the chatter around him.

  Then—something unexpected catches his eye.

  Fine clothes. Clean, well-made, stitched with care—the kind of fabric he could never have afforded in his old life.

  His fingers brush against the smooth fabric. For a moment, everything else fades.

  And then—

  “Hey, Cakara! Can I have these?” he calls out, excitement flickering in his voice.

  Cakara glances over, offering an easy grin. “Sure! No one else can wear them but you. By the way, what about the kid?”

  “He’s awake and seems fine.” Hasya barely registers the words, too fixated on his newfound prize.

  “Good. Share some with him too. Starting today, he’s one of us,” Cakara declares, his voice firm.

  He makes sure everyone hears him.

  All the bandits exchange glances, the thought lingering—what if this boy brings disaster upon them?

  Agra, however, makes no effort to hide his contempt. “What’s next? Turning our hideout into an orphanage?”

  He spits on the ground, then turns on his heel, walking away—completely ignoring Cakara’s displeased gaze.