The temple was carved not from stone, but from shadow itself.
Aryasa stepped into its halls, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. The walls shimmered with darkness, bending and twisting as though alive. Every step he took echoed, not with sound, but with silence that pressed against his chest, heavy and sharp.
Mangku Gede's words lingered in his mind: "The temple does not hide. It remembers. And memory is heavier than silence."
Aryasa pressed forward. The floor pulsed beneath his feet, each step resonating with rhythm that was not his own. He closed his eyes, and the world shifted. He saw visions—faces of guardians long gone, their voices fading, their bodies collapsing. He saw Rangda, her laughter sharp, her hands tearing silence from the air. He saw his father, standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes heavy, his voice trembling.
"You are chosen."
Aryasa gasped. He opened his eyes. The temple shimmered. The shadows screamed.
The shadows were not empty.
Figures rose from the walls, cloaked in darkness, their eyes glowing faintly. They circled Aryasa, their voices sharp, mocking.
"You cannot carry us. You cannot silence us. You cannot remember us."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The shadows surged. The temple screamed.
The battle began.
Aryasa struck, each blow guided not by strength, but by rhythm the rhythm of memory, the rhythm of silence, the rhythm of the veil itself. The kris sang. The shadows screamed. The world pulsed. The temple faltered.
But the darkness did not vanish. It remained. Waiting. Watching.
Aryasa fell to his knees, breath ragged, chest burning. The ground shimmered faintly. A single ember rose from the shadows, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
he gasped. "The shadows."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried them. You remembered. But the shadows are endless. And you cannot carry them alone."
Aryasa looked at the kris. He was no longer just a boy with a blade. He was the wound. He was the memory. He was silence reborn.
And tonight, the veil trembled.
Aryasa rose from the temple, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was confrontation
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has carried the shadows," he said
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.