The battlefield had fallen into a dreadful silence. Only the wind dared to speak now, whispering across the bloodied ground, rustling torn banners, and stirring lifeless dust. The clang of steel, the cries of battle—all of it had faded, leaving behind the coppery scent of spilled blood and the soft, haunting groans of the wounded.
Jaka stood frozen in the middle of it all.
His fingers twitched at his sides, slick with sweat, grime, and the faint residue of panic. Around him, corpses sprawled like discarded dolls—some with eyes still open, staring at nothing. Broken blades glinted beside limp hands. The air felt thick, every breath like inhaling ash.
His chest rose and fell, fast, shallow. Each inhale cut into his ribs like knives.
This wasn't training. This wasn't a simulation. This was war.
His heart pounded against his ribs, screaming at him to run, to hide, to undo this entire moment. But his legs wouldn't move. His body was anchored—by fear, by shock, by something heavier than both.
His eyes darted toward Arya, who was still locked in brutal combat with the bandit leader at the heart of the carnage. The man moved like a beast unshackled, every swing of his massive sword driven by a fury older and deeper than any battlefield rage.
"You think I'm just another nobody?" the bandit leader roared, his voice tearing through the stillness like thunder. He parried Arya's strike with a savage snarl. "I was a commander! I led my people! I defended my village from Majapahit's greed before your kind slaughtered us all!"
Arya's eyes darkened. "What are you talking about?"
The man's face twisted in agony and rage. "Kidung Palapa. Ra Kuti's elite team. You were part of them, weren't you? You don't even remember, do you?"
Arya's grip tightened on his sword, knuckles turning white.
Nala moved into view, flanking Arya with practiced calm. Her voice was cold. "We were soldiers. We followed orders to end uprisings threatening the kingdom."
The leader spat, eyes burning. "You call it an uprising. We called it freedom. Majapahit branded us rebels, sent Ra Kuti to burn our homes. When you came through my village, you left behind only ashes and corpses. My wife... my boy..."
His voice cracked.
"I survived," he whispered. "I buried them with my own hands." His eyes, bloodshot and gleaming, stared at Arya with naked hatred. "And I swore I'd live long enough to return the favor."
Arya hesitated, just for a moment, then dropped into a stance—silent, resolute.
The final exchange was brutal. Blades clashed with ringing force. Sparks flew into the air, dancing like fireflies over the dead. The bandit leader lunged, roaring with grief and fury, but Arya's blade moved faster. Cleaner. Truer.
Steel met flesh.
A single stroke.
The man staggered, blood blooming across his chest like a red flower. He looked up one last time, eyes wide with pain—and something like satisfaction.
"Someone paid me," he murmured, barely above a breath. "Said if I taken control over this village, Kidung Palapa would come. Hehehe, they were right."
He collapsed but still alive, with final resting strength he says... "My dear... my son... I'm coming to you." Then the dust rose to swallow him whole.
A hush fell again.
The battle, it seemed, was over.
But evil doesn't always die with its master.
From the smoke, a single bandit stumbled into view—bloodied, limping, eyes crazed. His gaze locked onto Dyah Netarja, who knelt just a few paces away, tending to a wounded villager. Her hands were steady. She hadn't seen him.
"Netarja!" Jaka screamed, his voice cracking.
The bandit roared, blade raised, madness in his eyes.
Jaka's body moved before his mind could catch up. His hands closed around a fallen sword—its hilt sticky with another man's blood. It felt too heavy, like it belonged to someone else. But he ran.
No thoughts. Just motion.
He threw himself forward. Steel whistled through the air.
Then—impact.
The bandit's head flew from his shoulders.
A wet, sickening thud. Blood sprayed the dirt like paint on a canvas.
The sword slipped from Jaka's grip and clattered to the ground.
He stood still, as if frozen in time.
The severed head rolled to a stop at his feet, face twisted in mid-scream. The body crumpled beside it, twitching once, then still.
Jaka stared, at the blood, at the body.
At his own hands—trembling, crimson-streaked, no longer innocent.
Then it hit him.
A rush of bile surged up his throat. He doubled over, vomiting violently into the blood-soaked earth. His body shook, not just from exertion—but from the raw, soul-rattling horror of what he had done.
He gasped for air, choking between sobs and retches. His vision blurred.
He had killed someone.
Not in a cutscene. Not in a scripted, noble battle. Not for glory or XP. Not in a game.
This was real.
The sword had been real. The scream. The blood. The death.
A life had ended by his hand.
He collapsed to his knees, hands hovering before his face like foreign objects. The red stains wouldn't wash off, not even in his mind.
"Jaka!" a voice called distantly—Dyah Netarja's, shaken—but he couldn't answer.
His ears rang. The world faded to muffled echoes and distorted movement. He stared at the body. Then at his own chest, rising and falling like he was drowning on dry land.
Was this survival?
Was this what it took?
"I killed him," he rasped, his voice barely audible over the wind. "I… I killed him…"
Arya and Nala stood in silence nearby. Not judging. Just watching. But even their silence felt heavier now. He saw it in their eyes—the weight they carried, the part of themselves they had already lost long ago.
He had joined them.
Whether he wanted to or not.
The breeze swept through the ruined village again, colder than before. It carried the scent of blood, of smoke, of something broken.
Jaka looked at the fallen sword, then at the sky.
He had always loved stories. Games. Worlds where you could be the hero. Where you could fight the evil and win, walk away with scars that only ever made you stronger.
But this wasn't that.
This wasn't a world he could control with choices or strategy.
This was a world of steel and bone. Of screams and finality. A world that demanded not imagination—but action. Brutal, irreversible action.
He had drawn blood.
He had made a choice.
He had entered a line his moral refused to cross.
And there was no going back.
A gust of wind blew past, lifting a torn banner and slapping it against a nearby post. The symbol on it—a sunburst—was stained, barely recognizable beneath the gore.
Jaka shivered.
Not from cold.
From the dawning truth that he wasn't just the creator anymore.
He was part of this world.
And tomorrow?
He didn't want to know how many more would have to die in his hand just so he could see another sunrise.
But something deep inside whispered that he would do it again.
Survival always came at a price.
And he had just made his first payment.