Silence—not the comforting kind, but the kind that suffocates.
As if nature itself was holding its breath.
The air dared only to move in faint wisps, whispering through the trees of the forbidden forest in Bali—as though fearful of waking something that watched from within.
From the open field, black fire crept forward—not burning with heat, but with quiet. Its crackle sounded like the hush of a curse, too soft to understand, yet sharp enough to fracture the nerves of any who stood too near.
No birds. No insects. Even fallen leaves touched the earth without sound.
The sky hung in a colorless gray, as if painted without light.
Each inch of the air felt heavy, steeped in the scent of damp soil and ash. Something wrong pulsed up from the ground, crawling into the bones of those sensitive enough to feel it—a vibration, not of earthquakes, but of something older. Something ancient.
Through trees frozen in hush, the black flame slithered like a wound refusing to close, consuming grass without glow or blaze. Only embers. And silence.
As far as the eye could see, nothing dared to live here.
Even the wind took a long detour—leaving this place alone… with something that had not fully awakened.
There—at the heart of it all—Alina stood still, her eyes fixed with hesitation on the Blade of Ranah embedded in the soil before her. Its ancient, blue-ranah glow pulsed softly, a gentle flicker that seemed to beckon the half-Dutch woman.
Beside her, Windah kept his gaze locked on the masked man across the clearing. The stranger had already assumed a battle stance, his dark longsword wreathed in black fire, lifted to head level—ready to strike at any moment.
"Alina," Windah whispered, his voice urgent yet steady, "we can't stand here any longer. You must cast off your doubt—and lift the Blade of Ranah."
It took her a moment before she responded, voice trembling, "I—I know, Windah. B-but how could he—?"
"There's no point in dwelling on that now," Windah cut in, eyes never straying for even a second. Drawing two daggers from beneath his coat, he continued, "Anyone capable of even touching—let alone lifting—the Blade of Ranah… is no ordinary person."
He paused, narrowing his gaze at the enemy.
"And worse still… if they stand against us."
A hush fell over the field again. Cold wind drifted in, carrying slivers of snow that danced in the air—yet none touched the ground. They melted mid-fall, devoured by the fevered sky above, ignited by the masked man's flame—fire that stitched a silent war hymn into the stillness, burning without sound.
Before speaking, he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
"Scarface. That's what you may call me."
And without warning—
—Scarface swung his weapon. Black fire roared forth, surging from the blade's tip like a ravenous tongue of hell, twisting through the air in hungry arcs.
Windah didn't hesitate. He leapt forward, both daggers raised, slicing through the air in a swift, crossing motion. From the blades, ranah energy erupted—vivid light green, gleaming sharply like moonlit leaves in a deep forest. The daggers extended, curving into arcs of radiant force, like branches of wind honed by fury.
And then—
—their powers collided mid-air, black flame clashing against the wave of ranah with a deafening impact. The wind was torn apart, a thunderous shockwave rippling out around them. Sparks—green and black—burst wildly, devouring the space between the two figures standing on the edge of ruin.
"Alina," Windah called out, his voice steady despite the roaring crash, his gaze shifting slightly toward the woman. "I know the Blade of Ranah isn't just a sword to you—it's an heirloom. A legacy that runs through your blood."
He turned his eyes back toward the masked man.
"Don't you want to pass it down... to your great-grandson—Ikrar?"
And with that—
Windah surged forward. Scarface charged too, both warriors colliding again at the heart of the battlefield.
The second clash shattered the ground beneath them. A shockwave burst outward, sending dust and stone into the air, veiling the field in a thick shroud of smoke.
Yet even through the haze, the sharp rhythm of clashing steel rang out—rapid, relentless—echoing a battle between two forces in perfect balance.
Alina stood not far from them, her eyes fixed on the unfolding clash.
Windah's words still echoed in her mind:
"Don't you want to pass it down… to your great-grandson—Ikrar?"
Then, Alina moved; her hand trembling slightly as it reached for the hilt of the Blade of Ranah.
She knew—it wasn't merely a weapon. It was legacy. Hope. A promise long carried.
"You're right, Windah. I can't remain lost in doubt. This is the moment I must make things right—and finally face my great-grandson, Ikrar."
With newfound resolve, Alina pulled the Blade of Ranah from the earth.
A surge of blue aura radiated from its length, merging with her own silver ranah now gleaming in unison.
"Thank you… Windah."
She launched herself into the battlefield, joining Windah against Scarface—
creating a symphony of combat that echoed across the war-torn field.
As the battle reached its crescendo, every strike and parry shook the land:
the earth cracked, the air trembled—
even the sky seemed to hold its breath, bearing witness to a duel that could decide countless lives.
And amidst that rhythm of clashing seconds, where chaos ruled one battlefield—
—another storm raged elsewhere.
Nita stood amid the ruins of the collapsed teacher's office ceiling, fending off a flurry of longsword strikes from Jeannette.
The body of the Celestial Guardian was wrapped in the faintly glowing Mangkar armor, deflecting the onslaught with a metallic clang that rang through the ruins.
The impact reverberated through Nita's arms, yet she stood firm—her gaze locked unwaveringly on her opponent.
"How long do you plan on holding out, huh?"
Jeanette launched strike after strike, each swing of her longsword carrying the force to bring down a wall.
But Nita evaded and parried with nimble precision, her Mangkar armor granting her that vital edge—allowing her to endure the storm.
Their every movement left imprints on the cracked floor, each clash of steel erupting sparks that momentarily lit the gloom.
Amid the cadence of metal and heartbeats, a voice from the past pierced the haze of dust—
Karya's voice, her fallen comrade.
"For a Celestial Guardian, the most perfect death isn't a quiet one in bed. It's standing tall on the battlefield, with wounds to the chest—not the back."
The words sank deep into Nita's memory, igniting a flame within the cold wreckage.
She knew this wasn't about life or death—
—it was about legacy, and the price worth paying.
With her resolve hardening, Nita gathered all her strength.
As Jeanette delivered a downward strike, Nita met it with full force, deflecting the blow and sending her opponent stumbling backward.
Sensing the break, Nita surged forward—
and with a single arc of strength—zlinggg!—Jeannette's blade spun from her grasp, clattering across the floor before settling in silence.
Jeannette's breath caught. But before resistance could rise within her, a swift, brutal kick struck her midsection, hurling her into the cracked embrace of the wall.
Fractures crawled like veins along stone. Dust shivered in the aftermath, and as Nita stepped into the shifting stillness, a quiet beam of light slipped between broken beams—
—falling upon her Mangkar armor, setting the ruin aglow in crystalline brilliance.
The Celestial Warden halted mere steps away, her gaze calm, her voice even—
but within it, victory coiled like a quiet flame.
"It ends here," she said, low and measured, her breath heavy but controlled.
"I could've finished you… but I need what you know.
That alone has spared you. For now.
Cooperate—or answer for it all."
She paused, then added, softer,
"Count your blessings—Lady Fortuna still walks beside you."
Jeannette said nothing at first. Her eyes, though blood lined her lips, no longer burned with fury.
What lingered instead was something quieter—deeper.
Pity. And a whisper of warning.
"You should worry less about me…"
"What are you implying?"
A faint, weary smile curved Jeannette's lips.
"This is far from the end, Warden."
A furrow drew upon Nita's brow—but before a single word could form, the wind roared.
Not gentle—no.
A force, sudden and sharp, swept through the ruins, lifting dust and fragments into the air like ashes before a storm.
She turned—
and saw them.
Two shapes descending from the heavens—
A pteranodon, wings vast, carving the sky with silent grace;
A wyvern, shrieking fire and thunder, its eyes twin embers of rage.
They spiraled downward, not toward her—
but to a figure below,
a boy standing still beneath the shattered sky.
Ikrar.
His eyes wide, heart caught between beats, watching the monsters descend.
And in Nita's chest, her heartbeat quickened.
The war was not over.
And this time—
the weight of fate had grown far heavier than before.
In the moments that followed,
the air screamed in their ears as the Pteranodon dived sharply, cutting through the mist of the still-settling ruins. Guruh clung tightly to the beast's back, his body leaning into the force of the wind. But Yuda remained unmoved.
One hand gripped the coarse skin of the Pteranodon, while the other stretched out before him, poised to snap—a calm, practiced gesture, as if the roaring winds held no meaning for him.
At the tip of his finger, a small red orb of energy spun rapidly. Small, yet it vibrated the air around them, like gravity itself had been torn asunder. Flickers of lightning danced across its surface—something that should not be touched by the mortal world.
Yuda's face was steady, eyes locked onto the dark silhouette—a Wyvern, wild and furious, sweeping the sky with its wide, shadowed wings.
"Maximum release, energy control: Pushback!"
In the split-second after Yuda muttered the incantation—tctakkk!
A near-silent snap—yet the impact shook the heavens.
The energy ball shot forward like a tiny meteor, propelled by sheer will. The air split apart, leaving a burning red streak in its wake.
The Wyvern let out a deafening roar. The energy hit with perfect precision at the joint of its right wing—and in an explosion of heat invisible to the naked eye, the bone connection snapped.
The wing was severed.
Like a massive cloth being sheared from the sky, the wing plummeted, spinning like a leaf caught in the fall breeze; the Wyvern's body was sent tumbling, losing balance, and began to fall with a thunderous crash.
Guruh called out without thinking, "Yuda, you—whoa! My phone's gone from my pocket!"
"At a time like this, why are you worrying about something so useless, huh?!"
"I was just about to capture this epic moment…"
Yuda clicked his tongue in annoyance, then leaned forward, shouting at the Pteranodon, "Down! Now!"
The winged creature let out a sharp screech and immediately responded to his command. Its broad wings flapped powerfully before sharply bending, diving steeper than before—heading straight toward the plummeting Wyvern, now helpless and spinning wildly in the air.
Ikrar, looking up from the debris, blinked slowly, his eyes half-lidded—and what he saw next was a one-ton prehistoric beast coming straight for him.
"W—what the hell is this?!"
But before panic could fully take root, the Pteranodon landed smoothly right in front of the wreckage—its claws digging into the hard ground.
Guruh stretched out his hand and called out, "Ikrar, hurry up! You don't want to be crushed by that thing's butt, do you?!"
Ikrar, still dazed, could only extend his hand helplessly. In one strong pull, Guruh yanked him up onto the Pteranodon's back.
With a powerful flap, the creature lifted them into the air again—leaving the ruins and the raging Wyvern far below.
In the distance, dust still lingered—trailing in the wake of colossal wings beating steadily across the sky. Nita turned her face upward, eyes tracing the shrinking silhouette of the Pteranodon as it vanished beyond the ruins.
Silence fell once more, thick and heavy like a curtain of mist over the shattered remains of the teacher's lounge.
Then—
A coarse cough broke the stillness.
Nita spun around.
Jeannette still leaned against the cracked wall, blood dripping from the corner of her lips. But her eyes—her gaze—remained undimmed. If anything, they were calm.
Too calm.
"No," Jeannette murmured, voice rough as gravel yet soft as prayer. "This is far from over.
It's only just begun."
"You're in no position to make threats."
Jeannette offered a faint smile—not of hatred, but something stranger.
Something almost… sympathetic.
As though she bore knowledge too grave for words, and too late to pass on.
"It's not a threat, Guardian," she whispered, her breath catching with pain. "It's a sign...
That the next second, old stories will begin again.
And now, you can be the one to tell him."
From afar, two Wyverns screamed through the sky, their wings stirring the wind into violent spirals as they circled the Main Building.
The chaos above clashed with the strange calm below—an eerie balance that felt wrong.
Unnatural.
Nita stood tall, eyes scanning the heavens.
There was something there—
she could feel it.
Not in sight, but in pressure, in weight.
A shift in the air.
She took a breath—
but it came too short. Too tight.
And then—
A presence.
A pressure—
Too swift for sound.
Too sharp for the eye.
A gentle push at her back—almost like a whisper of a touch.
But it was no ordinary touch.
The cold edge of steel pierced her skin and sliced clean through her Mangkar armor, sliding into her body with lethal precision.
Nita froze.
Her eyes widened—not from pain, but from the shadow of betrayal creeping back into her awareness.
And then, the voice—
flat, calm, almost tender.
"It's good to see you again, Nita."
And time, once again, collapsed.
She knew that voice.
Wisesa.
Her body began to sway. Blood trickled from the tip of the longsword now protruding from her chest.
Still, her gaze remained fixed ahead—refusing to fall, as if her will alone could keep her standing long enough to see the face of her true enemy.
"Wi… Wisesa. How are you—"
"You've never changed," he interrupted. "Always dropping your guard at the final moment."
Her face tensed, warm blood slipping from the corner of her lips.
Yet her eyes—if anything—burned brighter, defiant to the end.
With a voice cracked yet steady, she answered,
"No… I wasn't careless. I just didn't expect you…"
Her trembling hand slowly closed around the blade lodged inside her, trying to hold back the pain now flooding her senses. Her breath hitched, then shuddered out heavily.
"…didn't expect a traitor like you… to still be here."
Wisesa didn't answer.
He simply stared at her—expressionless, as if her words were relics from a forgotten era.
Nita staggered, her knees buckling, but still not falling.
"That's all I wanted to ask, you bastard…"
Silence lingered, heavy and unrelenting.
And far above, the beating wings of the Wyverns circled once more—reminding her that time would show no mercy.
"There are reasons," Wisesa finally said, his voice cool and measured.
"But the only one that matters... is that the boy is the key to everything I seek."
"The boy?" Nita echoed, breathless. "You weren't satisfied turning Sylvia into your pawn… and now you want her brother too?!"
Wisesa remained silent.
And then—without warning—he pulled the longsword free.
The wet, scraping sound echoed in the ruins, like a cruel verdict long overdue.
Nita collapsed to the side, her eyes wide with pain—but her lips still curled around the fire of resistance.
"Traitor… coward…" she whispered, barely audible—less a curse, more a breath lingering at the edge of life.
Wisesa glanced down at her one last time.
"You'll never understand," he said softly. "Better you focus your final breath on unlocking Nirmala—if you have the will to act before I lay a finger on those children."
And with that, he turned away—his shadow stretching across the fractured stone, swallowed slowly by smoke and the fading light of the past.
Above the crumbling ruins, the sky rolled in thick with ash and cloud—heavy, like a curtain of secrets descending upon the world.
Light receded. Not gone, but dimmed enough to mark a turning point.
In the distance, two Wyverns hovered low, wings slicing the air in slow, deliberate circles—like ancient sentinels awaiting a command or a reckoning yet to be named.
And beneath that darkening sky, silence fell again—
not the silence of peace,
but the silence of something lost.
And even that loss… was only the beginning.