Is this what hell feels like? Engulfed by an endless inferno that devours everything in its path? A wall of flame spread across the land, chasing him, trapping him. He couldn't move, not even an inch. The air was thick with the screams of those who had fallen. The same ground where he had played and trained for years was now consumed by devastating fire. He knew that the dead didn't scream, but he couldn't unhear those desperate cries, echoing in his ears, piercing through the air. He thought he couldn't bear it any longer, but there was nothing he could do to silence it. His body went numb, his knees buckling as he collapsed to the ground, unable to move, unable to escape the scene unfolding before his eyes.
His gaze landed on a crimson-haired figure amidst the chaos—a head, half-submerged in a sea of bodies. The bodies piled up around him, and Syang could only make out the strands of red hair, peeking through the flames. The fire seemed to twist around the hair, merging with it, taking the form of his father's hair, stretching towards him. Was it a hallucination? His mind, broken and disoriented, struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. It was likely just a trick of the mind, but what if the fire consumed him too? His body wouldn't respond, paralyzed by fear, but was it even worth trying to save himself anymore? Was there anyone left for him to live for?
"Everyone is dead," a voice whispered in his mind. Probably another hallucination, but it was the truth. No one moved among the pile of bodies. No signs of life. The air was filled only with the distant sound of clashing metal—perhaps the clink of armor or the shuffling of movement—but it was hard to tell what was real anymore. His senses failed him. He stopped trying to make sense of it all. Through the haze of his panic, a familiar voice muttered something—maybe it was Tamang—but it was unintelligible, drowned out by the cries of his fallen tribesmen, begging for mercy that would never come.
Amid the chaos of fire and screams, Syang could hear a new sound—the steady thumping of metallic boots against the ground, coming from his left. He recognized it, but his mind struggled to process anything beyond the flames. His body remained motionless, as if weighed down by a force greater than gravity itself, too heavy for him to move. The sound of those approaching footsteps grew louder as a silver-armored warrior closed in. Syang remained frozen, not out of choice, but because he simply couldn't move. He existed in a strange, detached place where nothing made sense, where the void inside him screamed louder than the horrors surrounding him.
The warrior drew his sword, raising it high in the air, ready to strike. The blade, almost four feet long, glinted in the firelight as it descended toward Syang's neck. A shrill screech rang out as the sword hurtled down. If left unchecked, it would slice through him in an instant. But just as the sword was about to reach its mark, a loud clang rang out beside his ear—an unexpected interruption. The sword's path was blocked by something, another metallic object—likely a dagger—wielded by a cloaked figure.
The sound of the clash jolted Syang from his paralysis. His senses, raw and stretched thin, snapped back into focus. But the reality that greeted him was worse than the nightmare he had been trapped in. The void inside him began to feel painfully real. It wasn't any better than the hellish scene around him, but at least the screaming stopped. Still, there were more immediate concerns. As Syang looked around, he noticed that his neck had narrowly escaped the sword's deadly arc. He exhaled sharply. The cloaked figure kicked him hard in the shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground. The blow was a surprise, but it wasn't meant to harm him—just to move him out of the way of the battle unfolding before him.
"Take him away," the cloaked figure commanded, his voice low, commanding, and full of authority. The sound sent a chill down Syang's spine. Before he could react, the figure's strong grip latched onto his arm, hoisting him up. Syang looked down at the hand gripping him—strong, firm, with fingers wrapped tightly around his bicep. The figure's face was obscured by the shadows of the bushes, but there was no mistaking the voice.
"This way," the priest said gently, pulling Syang toward the tribe's ritual place. Syang recognized the voice immediately. It was the priest, not the best fighter in the tribe, but certainly capable of holding his own in battle. The priest moved swiftly, guiding Syang toward the ritual grounds, which were isolated and secure—a temporary sanctuary from the armored warriors hunting them. The ritual place, where the tribesmen received the sacred symbol of Harlong, was a place of utmost importance. Though dangerous, it was the safest place to hide for the time being. But they couldn't stay there for long. The warriors would eventually find them.
Even amidst his desperation, Syang's mind worked quickly, analyzing the situation. Survival instincts kicked in, and though his heart weighed heavy with grief, he couldn't afford to lose focus. They had to keep moving. They pushed through the thick forest underbrush, their hands brushing against branches as they moved quickly but quietly. The sounds of battle began to fade behind them, but they still ran. The forest canopy slowed their pace, but they were determined.
"Was it Terang who saved me?" Syang asked, his voice shaky. It was the first time he had spoken since fleeing the lake's vicinity. His mouth was dry, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself.
"Terang is no longer with us," the priest replied softly, his voice heavy with sorrow. "We lost him in the initial blast."
Syang's heart sank. He had expected it, but hearing it out loud still shocked him. He couldn't feel anything more than the emptiness that had taken root in his soul. He couldn't cry, not even for Terang. "Why can't I cry?" he thought to himself. The grief was suffocating, but no tears came. He tried, but his body refused to let them fall. Instead, the void inside him only deepened. He felt like a monster for not feeling anything.
"Who was he, then?" Syang murmured to himself, unsure if he even wanted the answer.
"Sulekmung," the priest replied, and a heavy silence hung between them. Syang thought about it for a moment—Terang's son, left behind in the heat of battle, without a second thought. The thought sent a sharp pang through his chest.
As they continued, the sound of blades clashing faded further, and Syang was overcome with guilt. How could he have left Tamang behind? He had to go back. But before he could act, Famti and Surat appeared, flanking him on either side. They had been following them but had slowed to match Syang's pace.
"What's the status?" the priest asked, breaking Syang's reverie. His mind was still reeling, but he needed answers. What had happened in the village? Where was Tamang? He suddenly realized how selfish he had been.
"He was caught by the enemy, Syang," Famti said, his voice steady, though tinged with sadness. "He fought bravely—took one of them down."
Syang's heart sank, his breath catching in his throat. He had to go back. He couldn't leave Tamang behind. His face twisted with anger and urgency.
"Let me go!" Syang nearly shouted, his hand slashing through the air. "Tamang is still there! He'll die if we don't act now!"
Famti and Surat exchanged a glance, and Syang could see the disappointment in their eyes. Famti spoke again, his voice firm but kind. "We can't, Syang. He's already been captured. We need to keep you safe, as it was his last request."
Surat stepped forward, his gaze cold and unwavering. "Move," he ordered. The tone brooked no argument. Syang felt the weight of his decision sink in. For the first time, he obeyed, knowing the painful truth: Tamang's fate was no longer in his hands.
They continued running, and after a few minutes, they reached the ritual place. The wooden structure, raised high on sturdy tree trunks, stood ahead. The stairs, made of bamboo, seemed fragile at first glance, but Syang knew they would hold. The ritual place was their sanctuary—at least for now.
Syang ran toward the building, with the priest close behind. Famti and Surat stayed alert, sensing danger ahead. But just as Syang reached the threshold, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Someone was following them.
The Battle Against the Golden Warrior
Syang sprinted toward the ritual place, following closely behind the priest. The moment they left the dense forest and reached solid ground, his pace quickened. The priest, though older, kept up as best he could.
But behind them, Famti and Surat suddenly stopped.
Both assassins froze in place, their sharp instincts picking up something unnatural. Their bodies tensed—this wasn't right. They were certain they weren't being followed, and it was nearly impossible for anyone to catch up to them so quickly.
Their hands tightened around their daggers, held in a reverse grip, their bodies shifting into a defensive stance. They moved in a slow, circular motion, backs pressed against each other, eliminating any blind spots. Their trained eyes scanned the treetops, the shadows, the shifting air.
Then—a disturbance.
Famti's keen perception locked onto movement above them. The faintest shift in the leaves, a whisper of motion between branches. He didn't hesitate. His hand flicked forward, sending a dagger slicing through the air toward the unseen presence.
Clang!
A metallic ring echoed through the clearing as something deflected the blade mid-air. Deflected. Not dodged.
A heartbeat later, a figure descended from the treetops. The landing was heavy, his armored boots pressing into the dirt with force. Golden armor gleamed in the moonlight, and as he stepped forward, the glow of firelight reflected off his polished breastplate, revealing intricate symbols etched into the metal.
He walked toward them casually, as if unbothered, his sword sheathed at his left—a sign that he was right-handed. There was an undeniable presence to him, something unnatural, something too perfect in the way he carried himself.
Then, he spoke.
"Give me the initiator, and I promise I won't kill you."
His voice was emotionless, deep, and domineering. It wasn't a threat—it was a statement.
Syang, standing at a distance, saw it now—the symbols on the warrior's armor began to glow. They pulsed like a heartbeat, eerily similar to the Harlong markings that the tribesmen bore.
Famti and Surat shifted their stance, subtly adjusting for combat. Their grip on their daggers tightened.
The golden warrior took another step forward.
Surat exhaled sharply, then, without hesitation, slashed his own palm with his blade. Blood welled up immediately, and with deliberate motion, he pressed his bloodied hand onto the Harlong symbol carved into his forearm.
A pulse of energy rippled through him.
The moment the blood touched the symbol, the warrior vanished.
A blur of gold, faster than human eyes could follow.
Then—impact.
Before even Famti could react, the golden warrior's fist crashed into Surat's ribs from behind.
The force sent him flying.
Surat's body lifted off the ground, hurtling several meters through the air before slamming into the dirt. His body skidded across the ground before coming to a stop.
Famti barely had time to process before the warrior was on him next.
The second punch came—fast.
The golden warrior had already twisted mid-motion, reloading his right arm for another devastating strike. This time, Famti was the target.
But this time—he had just enough time to act.
In that split second, three whip-like appendages lashed out from behind Surat's body, moving like living creatures. They wrapped tightly around the warrior's right arm, stopping the punch inches from Famti's face.
A deep, hissing sound filled the air.
The warrior's eyes flicked to the thick, muscular tendrils wrapped around his limb. The appendages looked almost beast-like, covered in coarse, bristled hairs at the ends, as if belonging to some unknown creature.
Surat had transformed.
His breathing was ragged, but his eyes burned with renewed strength. The Harlong transformation had taken hold. His whip-like tendrils extended further, wrapping around the golden warrior's torso, slowly constricting him, locking his dominant arm in place.
**The golden warrior struggled—**but even his immense strength wasn't enough to break free.
Famti wasted no time.
With a low growl, he bit his thumb, drawing blood. The Harlong symbol on his forearm ignited in a deep crimson glow.
Then, his legs began to change.
Syang watched in awe as Famti's lower body swelled, muscles twisting and expanding with inhuman density. His thighs thickened to the size of tree trunks, veins bulging as the transformation took hold. The air hummed around him, as if the very ground beneath him was reacting to his presence.
Famti balanced on his hands, raising his massive legs into the air—his heels aimed directly at the warrior's chest.
He pulled his muscles tight, storing energy like a coiled spring—then, with a sudden, explosive motion, he released.
The impact was monstrous.
BOOM.
The golden warrior was launched into the air, his armored body flipping uncontrollably, before crashing thirty meters away.
The ground trembled.
For a moment, silence.
Famti slowly lowered himself back onto his feet, rolling his shoulders as if nothing had happened.
"I should've held back," he muttered, flexing his monstrous legs.
Surat finally stood, shaking off the last of the impact from his earlier hit. He laughed softly, rolling his sore shoulder.
"Perhaps you should have," he admitted.
His whip-like appendages uncoiled, snapping against the ground with a high-pitched crack, before retracting into his back.
Syang, still frozen near the ritual house, stared at them both, speechless.
He had heard about Harlong transformations. He had even dreamed of them as a child.
But now, watching it unfold before his own eyes…
It was something else entirely.
It was monstrous.
Surat turned toward Syang and the priest, his expression once again unreadable.
"Go inside. We'll keep watch."
The words were not a request.
Syang swallowed hard, but as the priest urged him forward, he obeyed. He took one last glance at Surat and Famti, standing in the moonlight, their bodies still humming with raw energy.
Then, he disappeared into the ritual house.