The forest wasn't silent anymore.
It hummed—low and dangerous, like a warning crawling beneath the bark of every tree. The wind twisted through the branches, whispering secrets too old for human ears. Leaves trembled not from breeze, but from dread. Even the birds had vanished. No chirps. No fluttering wings. Not even the distant howl of a wolf or the rustle of a squirrel.
Nature knew what was coming.
Man didn't.
Branches snapped. Crunch. Crack. Crunch. Black boots moved in single file across the damp soil, crushing old leaves and tiny bones of forgotten creatures. Twelve men in full tactical gear. Kevlar vests tight against their chests. Black masks concealing their expressions. Red-dot lasers danced across the trunks like hunting wolves sniffing out prey.
The FBI.
But not the kind that took notes in courtrooms or chased hackers from behind glowing monitors. These were shadow men—cleaners, hunters, ghosts wrapped in government funding. The kind that arrived after something unexplainable happened, and then made sure no one ever asked about it again.
Their orders were simple.
Terminate on sight.
"Target is close," one of them whispered into his throat mic, breath fogging his visor.
The squad leader raised a hand, commanding silence. He was a grizzled man with a jagged scar slicing down through one thick eyebrow and continuing to his cheek. A survivor of too many missions, too many nights like this one.
He dropped to a knee and ran gloved fingers through a patch of wet dirt.
Fresh footprints.
A smudge of red nearby.
"Blood," he muttered. "Still warm. He's close… and he's hurt. Let's move."
Twelve men fanned out, advancing like shadows come to life. Each movement was fluid, trained, silent. No shouts. No questions. Just the measured, professional precision of killers on assignment.
They thought they were hunting a boy.
But this wasn't a hunt.
It was an execution.
They breached the ruined temple together—ancient stone walls, cracked pillars wrapped in vines, broken statues with faded carvings of forgotten gods. Moss crept through every crack like nature trying to reclaim what time had left behind. The place felt… off. Heavy. Like something beneath it pulsed with a heartbeat older than the Earth.
In the center of the chamber, beneath a shattered stone arch, lay the target.
Hitachi.
He looked dead—arms limp, skin pale, lips tinged blue. Blood stained his side from a gash that had torn through his shirt. His breathing was shallow, almost non-existent. His eyelids fluttered, like something within was dreaming—no, not dreaming. Waiting.
The first agent knelt, lowering his weapon just slightly. "Target in sight," he murmured. "He's unconscious. Easy tak—"
He never finished.
Because the boy's body snapped upright—too fast, too sudden, like a puppet jerked by unseen strings.
His arms hung limply at his sides. Head tilted slightly down.
Eyes still shut.
But something else looked out from inside that body.
The air shifted.
A slow red glow began to bleed through the cracks in the stone. Dust floated upward instead of falling down. The shadows on the walls writhed and slithered, moving where there was no light.
The temperature dropped.
The scent of blood became metallic and sweet, like something rotting under the floor.
The boy opened his eyes.
And they weren't his.
Glowing crimson orbs, pupil-less, pulsing with an inner fire that looked alive. Not human. Not even demonic. Worse. Like something ancient, forbidden, exiled from reality itself.
Malakar had awakened.
"OPEN FIRE!" the captain roared.
Gunfire exploded.
Shells clattered to the floor.
Muzzle flashes flickered like strobe lights at a party hosted by death itself.
But the bullets never touched him.
They stopped mid-air, hanging like dead insects frozen in amber.
And then… they dropped.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Silence.
The soldiers didn't understand what they were seeing.
Until the screaming started.
Not from pain.
From terror.
The first agent's chest caved in—not from an explosion, not from a bullet, but as if something inside him tried to escape, breaking bone and flesh in the process. He flew backward, spine cracking on impact, eyes wide open as blood gushed from his mouth.
The second rose into the air—arms stretched outward like a crucifix. He screamed as his joints twisted backwards, bones snapping in places that weren't meant to bend. Then, with a final, sickening crunch, he was flung across the temple like trash.
The third aimed.
His gun bent backwards in his hands, the barrel twisting like a vine. A second later, it misfired into his own face, erasing it in a spray of red mist.
Malakar didn't run.
He walked.
Slowly.
Casually.
Like a king surveying a battlefield that had already been won.
Every step echoed, deep and heavy, as though the Earth groaned beneath his heel. With each breath, the stone floor cracked. Blood dripped from the ceiling. Screams were muffled by their own throats closing.
A man tried to beg. His voice turned to choking sobs as his tongue turned black and withered inside his mouth.
Another tried to crawl. His legs shattered as if crushed by an invisible weight. His scream didn't last long.
Some tried to pray.
God didn't listen.
Because this was not God's place.
Malakar passed through them like a hurricane of shadow and rage. A red mist filled the temple—hanging thick and heavy, like the walls themselves were bleeding. Bones snapped. Skulls caved in. Flesh split like paper.
Twelve came in.
Only one remained.
She was on her knees.
Shaking.
Jessica.
Her helmet had fallen off. Her gun was ten feet away, discarded when the killing started. She wasn't even trying to fight anymore. Her blonde hair clung to her blood-smeared cheeks. Her eyes, filled with tears, stared up at the boy—the monster—the thing walking toward her.
Malakar paused.
He stood over her, red light seething from his body like steam.
She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
He raised a hand.
And for one second—one brief, flickering second—he hesitated.
The light in his eyes dimmed. A crack in the mask. A flicker of something human beneath the fire.
Jessica didn't scream.
Didn't beg.
She just whispered, "Please."
Silence.
Malakar lowered his hand.
He turned.
And walked away.
She collapsed in a heap, sobbing. Trembling. Alive.
But not untouched.
No one came out of this untouched.
Minutes passed.
Then the boy collapsed, body falling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
---
The sun rose.
Shy. Quiet. As if even the daylight was afraid to touch this place.
The temple was a massacre.
Corpses strewn like garbage. Blood dried across the stone in thick patches. Limbs twisted. Eyes wide open, lifeless.
And in the center, two figures.
One lay unconscious, curled on the floor, his skin pale and breath shallow.
Hitachi.
The real one.
The boy, not the demon.
His fingers twitched.
Then his eyes fluttered open.
He sat up slowly, confusion etched across his face. He touched his chest. Looked at his bloodstained hands.
"What… what happened?"
His voice cracked.
He looked around—and froze.
The scene was beyond comprehension. He wanted to scream, but his voice caught in his throat.
And then he saw her.
Jessica.
She was lying beside him, curled like a child, breathing softly.
Alive.
The only one.
He crawled closer, heart pounding.
She opened her eyes.
Their gazes met.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
The temple was quiet again.
But nothing would ever be the same.