The rain beat a frantic rhythm against the barrack roof as Citra and Kancil slipped through the camp, shadows clinging to their forms. The air, usually thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, now carried only the metallic tang of an approaching storm. Kancil, usually loud even in whispers, moved with a newfound stealth, his small frame melting between supply crates. Citra, chest tight with a familiar anxiety, kept a hand on the hilt of her brother’s blade, its cold steel a faint comfort. She still couldn’t shake the image of Rimba’s face, the raw agony warring with a predatory glint. The 'test' had been too intense, too personal. It only solidified her belief that this camp was a crucible designed to break recruits before their final, violent end. Bayu’s threats, his sneering confidence, felt like a noose tightening around her neck. This weapons cache raid, Kancil’s idea, was their only chance to find proof against the blade-master before he silenced her disguise forever—or worse, before the slaughter-pen claimed her. Kancil signaled, pointing a slim finger at the heavy, reinforced door of the munitions vault. A single, flickering lantern hung above it, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters. “No sentries,” he mouthed, then added, “Too wet even for those brutes.” Citra nodded, a bead of water dripping from her brow. She moved to the door, her fingers tracing the elaborate mechanism of the lock. It was a standard issue Rimau-Baja security cipher, intricate but predictable. She’d watched the quartermasters open it enough times, memorizing the subtle clicks and turns. Cakra had been meticulous about security, drilling the tumblers into her memory during late loom-tending hours. With a sequence of precise, delicate nudges, the tumblers shifted, emitting a soft, almost inaudible thud. The heavy door swung inward, revealing a cavernous space plunged into near-total darkness. The air inside was cool, carrying the sharp scent of oiled steel and something else, something acrid and volatile. Citra’s eyes, accustomed to the gloom of her weaving studio, quickly adjusted. Rows of racks stretched into the distance, laden with polished swords, gleaming axes, and wickedly curved karambits. “The ledger, Kancil,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. “Where did Bayu’s requisitions say the Naga-Gland shipments were stored?” Kancil scrambled past her, already pulling Bayu’s stolen ledger from his satchel. He fumbled for a moment, then pulled a small, shielded lantern from his belt, cracking it open just enough to cast a narrow beam of light onto the page. His eyes darted across the scrawled script. “Here! Section Gamma-7! Volatile stores, near the back! He’s listed them as ‘Fire-Burst Projectiles’… but the quantity… it’s insane!” Citra followed him, weaving between the towering weapon racks. Her boots crunched on scattered grit as they moved deeper into the vault's belly. The acrid smell grew stronger. They found the designated section, a fortified corner caged off by thick iron bars. Inside, stacked in orderly crates, were dozens of earthenware jars, each marked with a stylized serpent sigil and a red warning rune. Naga-Gland. Volatile beast secretions, used sparingly for specific, high-impact elemental breath techniques. These weren’t just ‘fire-burst projectiles.’ This was an arsenal. Kancil’s lantern beam swept over the crates, then illuminated a smaller, reinforced chest beside them. “What’s this?” he murmured, his voice laced with unease. He pried open the lid. Inside, nestled on velvet, lay a collection of small, metallic devices, intricate and undeniably sinister. They were unfamiliar to Citra, but their design spoke of detonation, of controlled destruction. “These aren’t just for boosting breath techniques,” Citra said, a cold dread washing over her. She recognized the precise, almost ornamental craftsmanship of the detonators. It was the same deadly artistry she’d seen on the hilt of the obsidian karambit that had killed Cakra. Bayu hadn’t just intended to blow up a competitor’s supply cache. He intended to blow up *everything*. Kancil, who had been muttering about the sheer explosive yield of the glands, suddenly gasped. His small finger jabbed at another page in the ledger. “The Monsoon Festival blade-dance… it’s scheduled for the main plaza this year. Right over the underground conduit system… Commander Rimba and the other clan leaders will be standing right on top of it!” His voice grew frantic. “He’s not just trying to win a feud, Cakra! He’s trying to wipe out the entire Vanguard leadership! This isn’t about your kin anymore! It’s about total destruction!” The breath seized in Citra's throat. The bone-mill… the expulsions… they wouldn’t matter if there was no camp left. This wasn’t a clan squabble. This was an assassination on an unimaginable scale, aimed at dismantling the very core of the Rimau-Baja. And Rimba… he would be right in the center of it. Her original goal, to simply eliminate Bayu and flee, suddenly felt laughably small. She refused to run. Not now. She had to shield this fortress, shield Rimba, even if it meant risking exposure, even if it dragged her straight to the executioner. A clang of metal, sharp and sudden, echoed from the depot entrance. A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom, then another, and another. Bayu’s men. They had been waiting. Citra cursed, pulling her blade. “Run, Kancil! Now!” Kancil, however, froze. His stare locked onto the approaching figures, terror turning his features pasty. They moved with a predatory grace, their weapons glinting faintly in the sparse light. “No, no, no,” he whimpered, his usual bravado replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. “The chop-house… they’ll send us to the butcher's pit!” “Not if we fight!” Citra yelled, pushing him behind her. She lashed out with her blade, a blur of steel meeting steel. The guards were skilled, their footwork synchronized. They pressed her, their dark forms merging with the shadows. Citra fought with a desperate ferocity, remembering Cakra’s lessons, twisting and ducking, each parry fueled by the raw terror of her impending ‘execution.’ She refused to let them take her, refused to fail. One guard lunged, a spear thrusting for her midsection. Citra whirled, deflecting the blow, then spun into a low crouch, sweeping her blade in a wide arc. The guard stumbled, giving her a precious moment. Another guard, however, stepped to flank her, swift and lethal. “Cakra! Look out!” Kancil shrieked, a sound of pure panic. But instead of running, he did something utterly unexpected. With a sudden, high-pitched yell, he unclipped a small pouch from his belt, ripped it open, and flung its contents at the advancing guard. A cloud of fine, white powder erupted, blinding the man. The guard gasped, choking, his weapon clattering to the ground. “Smoke bomb! Let’s go!” Kancil screamed, no longer whimpering, grabbing Citra’s arm. The powder, a stinging mix of pepper and finely ground ash, spread rapidly, obscuring their forms. Citra didn’t question it. She let Kancil drag her, her blade still poised, as they plunged back into the dark labyrinth of weapon racks. The guards shouted, their lunges hampered by the swirling haze. They burst from the vault threshold, propelled by terror, into the torrential downpour. The rain, a cold, cleansing deluge, slapped against their faces, washing away the grit and the fear. They ran, splashing through the mud, the shouts of Bayu’s men fading behind them. Relief, sharp and exhilarating, surged through Citra. They had escaped. Then, a sharp sting blossomed in her shoulder. A fleeting shadow, a brief glint in the rain-streaked darkness. She stumbled, a gasp tearing from her lips. A dart, thin and black, protruded from her shoulder, its tip vibrating faintly. A searing, white-hot agony flared, spreading like wildfire through her veins. It wasn’t a mere dart. It was poisoned. Beast-venom. Her knees buckled. The rain intensified, blurring her vision. A roaring sound filled her ears, a violent hum that vibrated in her bones. Her blood felt like it was boiling, a supernatural fever consuming her from within. Kancil screamed her name, his voice distant, fading. The ground rushed up to meet her, the cold mud a fleeting comfort as she collapsed, darkness swallowing her whole. Her lungs burned, her vision swam, and the world began to tilt, pulling her into an abyss of agonizing heat.

Midnight Armory