The proximity was suffocating, a primal hum thrumming in the damp air between them. For Rimba, the sensation was a violent rupture. The heat radiating from this new recruit, ‘Cakra’ – a raw, wild energy – slammed into him with the force of a tidal wave. Heat flooded Rimba's veins, not from combat frenzy, but from something far more terrifying: an unwanted pulse in his gut that dragged his gaze to the rain-slicked curve of Cakra’s lower lip and the shudder along the boy's jaw. This wasn't the surge of battle fury. This was a deep, unsettling hunger. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up his throat. He, Rimba, the fearsome leader of the Rimau-Baja Vanguard, felt *this* for a man? The thought was a searing brand. “Get off me!” he snarled, a guttural sound torn from deep within. The words were a whipcrack, raw with a shame that scorched him. He bucked, a sudden, explosive force that threw Citra off balance. She tumbled backward into the mud, a yelp catching in her throat as her head knocked against a slick stone. Rimba scrambled to his feet, mud splattering. He didn’t offer a hand, didn’t check if she was hurt. His glare flickered between fury and disgust at himself. He stalked away, shoulders rigid, leaving a bewildered Citra sprawled in the rain, the squad staring in stunned silence. The next morning, Rimba drove the squad through a relentless gauntlet of drills. His movements were sharper, his commands harsher, his gaze avoiding Citra completely. The incident gnawed at him. He hadn’t felt such a destabilizing force since his first encounter with the Kura-Kura war-beasts. This was worse. This felt like a corruption, an insidious rot of the spirit. He knew the legends, whispered by the old healers: *Yang-Rot*, the twisting of elemental energies within, manifesting as unnatural desires, a sickness of the very soul. Later, under the cloak of twilight, Rimba slipped past the guard post and approached the dimly lit hut of Shaman Kenanga. The air inside smelled of dried herbs and woodsmoke. Kenanga, a woman whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles, looked up from a simmering pot. “Rimba,” she rasped, her voice like dry leaves, “an agitation clings to your breath.” Rimba shifted, discomfort twisting his gut. “Shaman,” he began, his voice tight, “I… I feel a disturbance. A heat, a tremor. My focus wanes. My eyes… they linger on things they shouldn’t. It feels… unclean.” He couldn't bring himself to name the exact object of his unnatural gaze. “Is there a cure for… for Yang-Rot?” Kenanga peered at him, her ancient eyes sharp. She stirred the pot slowly. “Yang-Rot is a myth for fools, child. But an unsettled spirit manifests strange symptoms. I have a root-tea. Bitter, it is. Calms the inner fire, they say.” She handed him a steaming cup, its contents a murky brown. Rimba took it, the warmth a strange contrast to the cold dread settling in his bones. He had to purge this poison. Meanwhile, Kancil, the fast-talking scout with eyes that darted like a jungle bird, found Citra polishing her stolen karambit by the communal fire. “That was quite the spectacle yesterday, eh, Cakra?” he chirped, sidling closer, a grin plastered to his face. “Putting Rimba himself in the mud! Never seen anything like it. Everyone’s still talking.” Citra merely grunted, her gaze fixed on the blade. She was still reeling from Rimba’s violent reaction, convinced her ‘initiation’ had been a catastrophic failure. Had she not fought hard enough? Was she now marked for the ‘grinder’? She had no idea what Kancil was hinting at. Kancil leaned in conspiratorially. “They say you’re a quiet one. A real stone-face. But I get it. The silent ones are the dangerous ones. The ones who know how to survive the *real* game here. Not like us loudmouths destined for… well, you know.” He gestured vaguely towards the jungle beyond the camp, twitching his scrawny shoulders. “Listen, Cakra, I’m quick. I can get information. Help you navigate this place. Keep you out of trouble. What do you say? A partnership? You keep the big beasts off my back, and I’ll be your eyes and ears.” Citra blinked slowly. *The real game? Keep her out of trouble?* He thought she was dangerous? This Kancil was a fool, but perhaps a useful one. Her shyness, her inability to articulate her true fear, led her to simply nod once. Kancil’s grin widened. “Excellent! We’ll be unstoppable, Cakra. Unstoppable.” He clapped her on the shoulder, already imagining the terror they would inspire. Rimba’s attempts to purge the ‘Yang-Rot’ proved futile. The bitter root-tea only made his stomach churn. The image of Cakra’s face, rain-streaked and fierce, continued to haunt him. He needed to confront it, to break the spell. That night, under a sky still heavy with the promise of rain, he found Citra training alone in the damp confines of the grappling pit. “Cakra,” Rimba’s voice cut through the drone of cicadas. Citra straightened, her throat tightening against an involuntary swallow. “We train. Now.” Citra nodded, dread curling in her stomach. Was this a punishment? A subtle execution? She readied herself, her stance low. Rimba moved in, his grappling technique fluid, powerful. He was trying to expose her weaknesses, she thought, to find a reason to send her to the ‘grinder’. She fought back with desperate energy, her untamed silat a flurry of blocks and evasions. Their bodies met, twisted, separated, and met again in a dance of sweat and effort. The air thickened, heavy with their strained breathing and the rising humidity. Rimba found himself caught in the brutal intimacy of the close-quarters combat. The feeling wasn't going away; it was intensifying. His muscles burned under a glaze of sweat, but a feverish rush flared through him when Cakra’s forearm scraped his collarbone, the recruit's sharp intake of air rasping against his ear as Rimba pivoted. He felt the firm press of her chest against his as they locked in a hold, the sheer physical intensity pushing him to the brink. His mind screamed betrayal. This was not a cure. This was an invitation. He threw her off, not violently this time, but with a controlled release, stepping back, gasping. Citra landed on one knee, scrambling to regain her footing. As she did, a small, silken square, the color of a moonless night, fluttered from her tunic pocket. It landed softly in a puddle near Rimba’s foot. His gaze, still reeling from the unexpected flare of desire, fell upon it. He bent down, picking up the damp scrap of fabric. The silk was exquisitely fine, woven with a precision that spoke of master hands, a deep indigo that held secrets in its threads. Rimba’s breath caught. He knew this material. He’d seen it before, last week. A small, identical scrap had been clutched in the hand of the murdered noble, Jatayu Cakra, found in the pavilion. The silk of the Indraloka weavers, rare and distinctive. And this recruit, masquerading as Jatayu Cakra, had a piece of it in his pocket. Rimba’s eyes, now devoid of confusion, narrowed into twin slits of steel. His voice, stripped of all warmth, was a low growl that cut through the humid night. “Who are you, really?”

Corrupted Yang