"If one day your heart shatters… open this scroll."
"Why are you speaking like—"
"Because tonight, the wind carries the scent of death."
Those words struck Ajin harder than any strike he had ever received.
His eyes locked on the object in the elder's hands.
The black scroll radiated a chilling aura—so cold it felt like frost crawling up his spine.
"What… what is this, Elder?" Ajin asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
"The Forbidden Scroll of Rogo Pavilion," Elder Rogo replied. His voice was deep and heavy, carrying the weight of decades.
"Baja Angkara Batin."
He placed the scroll onto the wooden table.
The old table creaked under its weight—though the scroll itself wasn't physically large.
It was the presence it carried that felt heavy.
The leather bindings were cracked.
Dried blood, dark brown like old rust, seeped around the edges of the seal.
The air around it felt… wrong. Distorted. As if something slumbered beneath it.
Ajin unconsciously stepped closer, unable to look away.
"This is real…?" he breathed.
"Very real," Elder Rogo said.
"Baja Angkara Batin is a body-forging art. Created by the first founder of Rogo during the ancient wars that ravaged Nusantara."
He circled the table slowly, as though wary of waking a sleeping beast.
"A technique that hardens flesh beyond steel. Thickens skin into armor. Turns bones into weapons."
Ajin's heartbeat hammered in his chest.
This wasn't a martial art.
This was… a curse.
"But such a technique demands a price," the elder continued, his voice dropping to a trembling whisper.
"Many of our students once tried to learn it. Not one survived."
Elder Rogo stopped walking.
"They could not endure the transformation. Their bodies… collapsed from within."
He closed his eyes, as if recalling sights he wished he could forget.
"Their blood boiled.
Their veins burst.
Their bones shattered into dust."
Ajin flinched, nausea climbing up his throat. The room seemed to shrink around him, thick with invisible dread.
"Then why was it created at all…?" he asked, his voice weak and frightened.
"Because in those days, Rogo was the final shield," the elder murmured.
"Pirates, rebels, rival sects, corrupt soldiers—chaos ruled the land.
The founder created Baja Angkara Batin so the powerless could survive."
But the elder shook his head.
"The cost was too great. The deaths… too horrific."
His eyes hardened.
"And so, the scroll was sealed away. Forbidden. Erased from history."
Ajin swallowed.
"Then… what does it require? Strength? Talent? Willpower?"
Elder Rogo's answer cut through the tension like a cold blade.
"It requires nothing," he said.
"Nothing except one thing."
He stepped forward.
"A broken heart."
The candle flickered violently.
The air turned colder.
Elder Rogo pushed the scroll toward Ajin.
"Take it."
Ajin recoiled. "No. Please, Elder… I can't. I'm not strong, I'm not… anything. I'm just a weak teacher—"
"Exactly!" Elder Rogo burst out, startling Ajin.
"Strength means nothing to this scroll."
"It chooses not the powerful… but the shattered."
Ajin froze.
His breath shook.
Elder Rogo approached him, gripping the back of his hand gently.
"I never wanted this fate for you," he whispered.
"If I could, I would let you die as a kind, weak teacher."
His eyes softened—grief swimming in them.
"But life is cruel, child. And the world beyond our gates is far more merciless than you can imagine."
He placed the scroll firmly into Ajin's trembling hands.
The leather was ice-cold.
Much too cold for something that had been stored indoors.
"Keep it hidden inside your robes. Always," Elder Rogo ordered.
Ajin nodded shakily and tucked the heavy scroll against his waist beneath his clothing. It felt like hiding a gravestone—heavy, suffocating, cursed.
TRANG!
TRANG!
TRANG!
The warning bell of Rogo Pavilion shattered the silence.
Ajin's head snapped toward the window.
That bell was never rung unless—
Unless the pavilion was under attack.
Heavy footsteps followed.
Dozens of them.
Marching in sync.
Too heavy to be ordinary travelers.
"What is that…?" Ajin whispered, panic rising. He headed for the door—
SLAM.
The elder's palm hit his chest like iron.
"Do not go out there," Elder Rogo commanded, voice razor-sharp.
"But Elder—"
"Listen to me carefully, Ajin."
The elder cupped Ajin's cheeks, forcing him to meet his gaze.
He had never done something so intimate—so desperate.
"They're here."
Ajin's body went rigid.
"The ones who seek this scroll," Elder Rogo continued. "The ones who burn pavilions. The ones who slaughter without mercy."
Ajin swallowed hard. His fingertips went cold.
"But… the children… the others—"
"They're not after you," Elder Rogo said firmly. "They're after ME. And the scroll you now carry."
He tightened his grip on Ajin's shoulders.
"You are weak. You cannot fight them. If you run toward danger now, you will die pointlessly."
His voice trembled—not with fear for himself, but for Ajin.
"Go to the town," the elder ordered.
"Buy rice. Buy herbs. Buy anything. Pretend you know nothing. Do not return until dawn."
"But Elder, I—"
"THIS IS AN ORDER!"
Ajin flinched as the elder raised his voice—something he almost never did.
"If you return tonight… you will die," Elder Rogo whispered.
"And then everything I protected will be for nothing."
Ajin's vision blurred.
Tears slipped down without permission.
"I… I don't want to leave," he choked.
The elder smiled weakly.
It was a smile filled with sorrow—too heavy for his old face.
"Go, child."
"Go… before my resolve breaks."
Ajin climbed out the back window, landing on the damp grass behind the pavilion. His feet slid slightly on the wet earth as he steadied himself.
He looked back once.
Elder Rogo stood at the window, illuminated by a small oil lamp.
His figure looked frail, aged, and infinitely tired.
It was not the expression of a grandmaster.
It was the expression…
…of a father saying goodbye.
Ajin's throat tightened painfully.
He wanted to run back.
To stay.
To fight.
To protect.
But the elder's eyes held a message more powerful than any words.
Go. Live.
Ajin turned and ran toward the side gate.
Then—
he froze behind one of the wooden pillars.
Because from that angle…
he could see the main gate.
And what he saw…
stole every breath from his lungs.
Three men stood at the entrance of Rogo Pavilion.
Tall. Motionless.
Their backs facing Ajin.
They wore dark uniforms—nothing that belonged to any known pavilion.
And on their backs—
A black dragon emblem.
Eyeless.
Fanged.
Carved like a shadow that devoured light.
Ajin's heart dropped.
He had seen drawings of that emblem in old rumor scrolls.
He had overheard whispers of it in the marketplace.
The symbol that made even ruthless merchants lower their voices.
Bayang-Purwa.
The King's secret enforcers.
The hunters.
Burners of pavilions.
Executioners of rebels.
Collectors of forbidden arts.
One of the men raised his hand slowly, as if tasting the air.
"There's a scent," he murmured.
"A very old blood."
His voice was calm, icy, and devoid of humanity.
Another replied with equal coldness,
"The Elder should be inside. We begin."
They stepped forward.
Ajin pressed his back to the pillar, covering his mouth, trembling violently.
This was why Elder Rogo forced him to leave.
This was what the elder meant by 'the scent of death.'
This was the night Rogo Pavilion would fall.
Tears slid down Ajin's cheeks as he turned and fled toward the dark forest path leading to town.
Each step felt like betrayal.
Each breath tasted like guilt.
Behind him…
the sound of armored boots crossed the threshold of the pavilion.
And Ajin knew—
Nothing would ever be the same again.
Not for him.
Not for the children.
Not for Rogo Pavilion.
Tonight…
everything would burn.