The morning mist clung to the jungle like a secret. in the village of Tenganan, wheere the trees whispered in languages older than memory, a boy named i wayan aryasa woke from a dream that felt too real to ingore.
He had seen it again the smae vision that haunted him for three nights. A massive banyan tree, pulsing like a living heart. Beneath its roots, a creature emerged: golden, masked, and glowing like fire trapped in flesh. it didn't speak, but its eyes burned with a message Aryasa couldn'y yet understand.
He sat up, breath shallow, sweat cooling on his skin. Outside, roosters crowed and incense smoke curled from the temples. But inside Aryasa's chest, something stirred something ancient.
Aryasa lived with his uncle, Mangku Gede, The village priest and keeper of the Pura Dalem. their home was modest, built from stone and wood, with offerings lining the windowsills. Mangku Gede was a man of silence and ritual, but he watched Aryasa wotj eyes that saw more than they revealed.
"You dream again," Mangku said, not as a question but a truth.
Aryasa nodded. "The same tree. The same creature. it's callling me."
Mangku didn't flinch. He placed a small bowl of holy water on the table and lit a stick of sandalwood. "Tonight, we go to the forest. There is something you must see."
That evening, as the sun dipped behind Mount Agung and the jungle turned gold, Mangku led Aryasa down a narrow path few dared to walk. The air grew heavy. The trees leaned closer. Birds fell silent.
They arrived at a clearing where a banyan tree stood like a monument its roots tangled like veins, its trunk wide enough to shelter a family. Aryasa froze. it was the tree from his dream.
Mangku knelt and whispered prayers. Aryasa stepped forward, drawn by a force he couldn't name. as he touched the bark. a pulse ran through his fingers. The world dimmed. The air thickened. And then he saw it.
A flicker of light beneath the roots. A pair of eyes. A mask.
The creature emerged slowly, not from the earth but from the space between moments. Its body shimmered with golden fur, its face carved like a sacred mask half lion, half dragon, all divine. It was Barong, the guardian spirit of balance.
Aryasa stumbled back, heart racing. But Barong didn't attack. It bowed its head.
"You are the last," a voice echoed not from Barong's mouth, but from the space around them. "The veil weakens. The realms bleed. You must remember."
Aryasa tried to speak, but the light engulfed him. Images flooded his mind temples burning, shadows rising, a woman with eyes like fire. And then, silence.
He woke in his bed, the morning light soft and forgiving. Mangku sat nearby, eyes closed in meditation.
"What happened?" Aryasa asked.
"You touched the veil," Mangku said. "Barong has chosen you."
Aryasa's hands trembled. "Chosen for what?"
Mangku opened his eyes. "To protect what remains. To restore what was lost. The Hidden Realms are breaking, Aryasa. And only the Satria Barong Cahaya can hold the line."
Aryasa looked out the window. The jungle seemed different now alive, watching. He didn't feel ready. He didn't feel brave. But something inside him had shifted.
He wasn't just a boy anymore. He was a bridge between worlds.
That night, as the stars blinked above the jungle canopy, Aryasa sat alone beneath the banyan tree. He didn't speak. He didn't pray. He simply listened.
And in the silence, the whispers returned.