The rain poured down in torrents, turning the Kalimantan jungle into a blur of green shadows and black soil. Lightning slashed the sky, casting Arya's silhouette in sharp relief at the mouth of the ancient cave. The silver locket around his neck gleamed faintly—inside, the photo of him and Bayu smiling on graduation day remained untouched by time, an anchor against the storm of change within him.
His black-veined arms pulsed with a double heartbeat—his own and something older, alien. Anima Terrae.
He had returned to this cave not by accident. Something inside him—a whisper in the blood, a tug in the bones—had pulled him back here. The source. The beginning. The truth.
Inside, the cave walls shimmered with mineral veins and carvings older than memory. Half-human figures were etched into stone, their limbs warped, their eyes glowing with impossible knowledge. The air was dense and damp, but alive—each breath Arya took felt like inhaling memory.
Then he heard it.
Bayu's voice.
Not from outside, but within.
"You had to come back. This is where it started… where it chose us."
Arya swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the locket.
"I don't want to be chosen," he muttered. "I wanted to save you. That's all."
"You did save me," Bayu said softly. "You gave me peace. And now… we're part of something greater. Whether we like it or not."
Arya pushed deeper into the cave, his flashlight sweeping over ancient writings—symbols like spores, spiraling and pulsing with meaning. The tunnel sloped downward until it opened into a vast underground chamber.
At its center was a black pool, still and silent. Not water—something denser, more alive. The same substance that had altered him, that had taken Bayu, that had made monsters.
Anima Terrae's essence.
Arya stepped closer. The veins in his arms writhed, reacting to the pool's presence. The air trembled. The parasite inside him stirred, and a voice followed—ancient, vast, like stone grinding beneath the earth.
"Through you, we rise."
The voice echoed in every direction, bouncing off the crystal walls like thunder.
Arya fell to his knees, breath ragged. His skin burned. His scars pulsed. And in the pool's reflection, he saw not himself—but a thing with red eyes, membranous wings, and a smile that did not belong to him.
"You're not me," Arya hissed.
"You're not Bayu."
"Not yet," the voice rumbled. "But soon."
"No." He drew a breath sharp as a blade. "I'm not your vessel. I'm not your goddamn bridge."
Behind him, a stone altar came into view. On it lay a tattered leather journal. Arya opened it with trembling fingers. Inside were notes—some ancient, some modern. One page showed a world map, cities marked in red. Singapore. Tokyo. New York. London. It wasn't just about Indonesia.
It was global.
Project Phoenix was never the end. It was just phase one.
Bayu's voice returned, steadier now.
"They're going to spread the spores. Worldwide."
Arya stared down at the map, cold rage hardening his resolve.
"We stop them in Singapore."
Then the pool exploded.
Dark liquid splashed over him, burning through clothes and flesh. He screamed, dropping the book. His back tore open, bones cracking, black wings sprouting from ragged flesh. His arms split with pain as his veins expanded, writhing like roots beneath the skin.
"Surrender," Anima Terrae roared, now everywhere and nowhere.
"Become perfection."
But another voice broke through—familiar, human, unshakable.
"Arya!" Bayu's voice, fierce and desperate. "Hold onto me! Remember Poso—our promise. We go home together or not at all!"
Arya screamed. Not in pain—but in defiance. He dug his fingers into the dirt. He saw Bayu's face in his mind, clear and sharp, like fire in the dark.
"We go home together," he whispered.
With every ounce of will, he crawled out of the pool, black blood trailing behind him. His wings were half-formed and bleeding. His body ached with the weight of something not meant for mortals.
But he stood.
Still Arya.
Still fighting.
"Bayu," he whispered, his voice raw. "You still with me?"
"Always."
Arya staggered to the cave entrance. The jungle outside waited, drenched in rain and shadow. Somewhere far across the sea, Singapore waited—Serambi Nusantara's last stronghold.
This wasn't the end.
It was the beginning of war.