Arya stood at the edge of the jungle, staring toward the storm-choked horizon. Lightning split the sky in jagged flashes, like a silent warning. Tucked in his backpack, the ancient notebook's map burned in his mind—Singapore, the heart of Serambi Nusantara's twisted dream. The black veins on his arms throbbed with unnatural life. Anima Terrae whispered promises of evolution, eternity, power.
But Bayu's voice cut through it all, fierce and familiar.
"We're the Two Eagles, Arya. We fly. We fight. We win."
With steady breath and burning resolve, Arya vanished into the night—toward the final war.
The vents above the Singapore lab were narrow, humid, and reeked of metal and chemicals. Arya moved through them like shadow incarnate, his body a blend of predator and man. The parasite enhanced his every sense—he could feel the tremor of servers humming below, hear the breath of guards pacing two floors down, sense the security lasers pulsing like invisible veins.
Anima Terrae spoke constantly.
"Merge with us. Abandon your shell. Become perfect."
Arya bit down on his lip until it bled, the pain anchoring him in his own skin. The silver locket around his neck, slick with sweat, pressed into his chest like a heartbeat.
"Not yet," he whispered. "Not today."
Below, the observation window overlooked a cathedral of steel and science. Glowing vials lined the walls like stained glass—each filled with bluish-green liquid: pure, weaponized Anima Terrae. At the center of the room pulsed a towering dispersal engine, humming like a mechanical god about to awaken.
Lena Wijaya stood before it all—elegant, cold, and mad. Her silver hair gleamed under the sterile light, and in her hands, she held a tablet displaying a world map. Red dots blinked like targets waiting to fall.
"I know you're there, Arya," she said aloud, not turning.
Her voice slithered through the air like silk hiding a knife.
"Come down. Let's talk—before you waste your final breath."
Bayu's voice echoed in Arya's mind, sharp and steady.
"She's stalling. Don't give her the opening."
Arya dropped from the vent like lightning.
He landed without a sound, Glock drawn, karambit gleaming. His red eyes met Lena's.
"This ends now," he said.
Lena smiled—wide, radiant, deranged.
"You're magnificent," she purred. "A perfect vessel. The world will worship what you've become."
Arya stepped forward. "You murdered Bayu. You twisted everything we stood for. And now you're going to pay."
"You think you're still human?" Lena gestured to the vials.
"You're already ours, Arya. All that's left is surrender."
A button press. The machine roared. Vials cracked. Spores spilled like smoke.
Guards flooded in.
Bullets flew. Arya moved.
He danced through chaos, claws slicing, wings bursting free, eyes burning with fury and grief. His skin hardened under gunfire, the parasite's gift and curse alike. He moved not just with rage—but with purpose.
And Bayu's voice guided every step.
"Left flank. Three incoming. You've got this."
Across the battlefield, Lena moved toward him, syringe in hand—glowing with a concentrated form of the parasite.
She lunged.
Arya caught her wrist and snapped it.
She screamed. The syringe clattered.
"You wanted a god," Arya growled. "You got a reaper."
And he buried the karambit in her chest.
For Bayu.
For every soul Serambi Nusantara had destroyed.
The machine roared louder—unstable, bleeding energy. Arya turned to the console and emptied his Glock into it. The core cracked. Alarms blared. The dispersal was halted. But the cost was high.
Spores clouded the room.
Anima Terrae surged.
"Merge. Become us."
Arya fell to his knees, vision splitting with ancient memories—dying gods, burning forests, parasite empires long buried.
"Arya, focus!" Bayu shouted in his mind, desperate. "Remember who you are!"
Arya's fingers found the locket.
He held it to his heart.
And roared.
Not in surrender—but in defiance.
With the last of his strength, he ripped through the machine, clawing wires and steel and tubes apart until fire erupted.
The lab crumbled behind him as he stumbled out into the rising dawn.
Sirens screamed across the city.
Arya limped into a narrow alley, bloodied and half-broken, his black veins pulsing with unstable power. The locket was warm in his grip.
Bayu was still with him.
The parasite still lived inside him.
The world would call him a monster.
But he'd made his choice.
And tomorrow, when the fires stopped burning, he'd rise again.
Because the fight wasn't over.
Not yet.