The faint, golden light pulsed rhythmically beneath Kirana’s thumb, illuminating the archaic serpent and lotus seal on the flour sack. It was warm, like a sun-baked stone, and hummed with a low vibration that thrummed through her bones. Pusaka, a frantic, shimmering azure wisp of a being, floated erratically beside Bimo, still barraging him with technical jargon. “—and thus, the localized Inti-resonance cascade is already manifesting as spatial anomalies across the Novus Sector! Your ‘Punch of Absolute Panic,’ while statistically impressive, was… ill-advised!” Pusaka wailed, its holographic form flickering with distress. “We are facing a potential full-spectrum cosmic unraveling event within the next standard cycle!” Bimo, hunched over his scarred countertop, squeezed his eyes shut. His head throbbed, not from a punch, but from the sheer, overwhelming *volume* of information. Apocalypse. Cosmic source code. His punches. He, Bimo Adiputra, the quiet baker who meticulously measured vanilla essence, was… ending the world. No. He couldn't be. This was all a mistake. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of it. The attention, the shattered windows, the flying prodigies, the cosmic entity. All he wanted was to bake his pandan chiffon cakes and maybe, just maybe, work up the nerve to actually *talk* to Kirana without feeling like his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. If his power was accelerating the end of everything, then the solution was obvious. Simple. He wouldn't use it. He wouldn’t punch. Ever again. He’d spend the rest of his days meticulously folding dough, never hitting, never tapping, never even *thinking* about throwing a fist. He’d be safe. Everyone would be safe. Kirana gasped, a sharp intake of breath that cut through Pusaka’s panicked monologue. The light from the flour sack flared, momentarily blinding Bimo before dimming to a steady glow. “What… what was that?” she whispered, pulling her hand away as if burned. Before Bimo could stammer out a response, a colossal *CRACK* ripped through the sky directly above the shop. The world seemed to tilt, and the already damaged ceiling groaned. Dust rained down. A shadow, impossibly large, descended. Then, Jaka Wiraguna, clad in his pristine robes, dropped through the newly created hole with a thud that vibrated through Bimo’s molars. He didn’t land dramatically this time, nor did he strike a pose. He looked… disheveled. His usually immaculate hair was streaked with soot, a tear marred his silk sash, and a faint, purplish bruise bloomed on his chin. He glanced around the wrecked bakery, his gaze lingering on the crack in the wall from Bimo’s last accidental attack, before finally settling on Bimo. “Adiputra,” Jaka stated, his voice devoid of its usual bluster, replaced by a strange, somber tone. He didn't sound angry. He sounded… weary. “You have caused quite a stir.” Bimo flinched, instinctively taking a step back. “I… I’m really, truly sorry about your… flight,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. Jaka rubbed his jaw, a muscle twitching. “I landed in the Arakali Ravine, nearly 30 klick-miles south. I shattered three age-old protective wards on impact. And that was after I broke the sound barrier twice.” He paused, then added, almost grudgingly, “For a baker, you hit remarkably hard. Or rather, your *power* hits remarkably hard.” “I didn’t mean to!” Bimo insisted, his voice cracking. “I won’t do it again. I promise!” Jaka’s stern gaze softened slightly, morphing into something akin to reluctant acknowledgement. “Perhaps not. But your latest… *unintentional discharge* has had unforeseen consequences.” He gestured vaguely towards the outside. “The Sky-Piercer Sect’s divination wards are screaming. Reality itself is… glitching.” “Glitching?” Kirana echoed, her voice tight with apprehension. “Indeed.” Jaka walked to the shattered front window, peering out. “Near the Shrouded Market district, Inti-tech devices are phasing in and out of existence. A street vendor’s food cart spontaneously combusted into a flock of radiant moths. The grand clock tower chimed ‘yesterday’ for an entire hour. It’s localized instability, but it’s spreading, like rot.” He turned back to Bimo, his face grave. “The Elders… they believe it’s directly linked to the immense energy spike from your last punch.” Bimo choked on air. This was worse than he imagined. Far worse. “They held an emergency conclave,” Jaka continued, his voice dropping to a low, urgent tone. “They’ve theorized that your ‘vessel,’ as they call it, is somehow tearing at the very fabric of existence with each power surge. Their conclusion… the only way to stabilize the world before the Unraveling consumes us all… is to neutralize the source.” Bimo felt a leaden chill settle in his stomach. “Neutralize…?” “They mean to sacrifice you, Adiputra,” Jaka stated plainly, his eyes unwavering. “To excise your power, by any means necessary.” Kirana gasped, stepping protectively in front of Bimo. “You can’t! He didn’t ask for this!” “They believe it’s the only option left,” Jaka said, his gaze fixed on Bimo. “And they are not sending a prodigy for this. They are sending the Council. They are coming for you. Now.” The words hung heavy in the air, a death knell. Bimo’s earlier resolve to simply stop punching evaporated. Sacrifice? Kirana was standing right here. The city was outside. He couldn’t just let them… take him. He couldn’t let them hurt Kirana if she stood in the way. The thought of her in danger, because of *him*, was more terrifying than any cosmic apocalypse. His hands, calloused from years of kneading dough, trembled. He *had* to stop them. Not by avoiding his power, but by… by using it. Mastering it. To protect. He had to be strong. For Kirana. For Zarathos. Even if it meant fraying existence even faster. Just as the thought solidified in his mind, a deafening tremor rocked the entire Novus Sector. The Sky-Piercer Sect’s floating islands, usually serene and distant, appeared to shift, casting colossal shadows over the city below. The ground beneath them groaned, and thin, spiderweb cracks snaked across the kitchen tile. Three figures descended from the sky, not with the controlled grace of Jaka, but with an overwhelming, oppressive weight that seemed to crush the very air. They were Elders of the academy, their robes stark white against the bruised sky, their faces etched with primeval power. Their arrival crushed the density of the air, choking off normal breath. The central figure, a gaunt man with eyes like shards of obsidian, landed directly in front of the bakery, his footfalls cracking the pavement. His voice, hollow and resonant, boomed with an authority that shattered Bimo’s brittle composure. “The vessel is unstable. Erase him.”

The Weight of a Whisper