Rain hammered against the rotting thatch roof of the tavern, leaking through the gaps to mix with the wet mud on the floor. Stale palm wine and the sharp stench of fermented cassava hung heavy in the damp air. Awan Sejito slumped over a sticky wooden table, his cheek pressed firmly against a puddle of spilled liquor. To any passing eye, he was a pathetic sight—just another useless peasant wasting his last copper coins on cheap booze. Nobody saw the calculating sharpness hidden beneath his tangled, mud-streaked bangs. No one suspected that this scruffy, stumbling man was a living legend, an invincible master of the blade. "Another jar of this sweet poison, gorgeous!" Awan slurred, waving a limp hand toward the tavern maid. He hiccuped loudly, letting his chin slam back onto the table with a dull, clumsy thud. Inside his chest, a hollow ache burned hotter than the cheap alcohol. Three days had passed since he climbed the sacred, misty slopes of Mount Raung. He had expected to share a jar of fermented rice wine with his old master. Instead, he had found only black ruin and smoking ash. Smoldering timbers were all that remained of their secluded mountain sanctuary. In the center of the debris lay Ki Ageng, the legendary martial artist who had raised him from an abandoned noble child. His master was burnt beyond recognition, a blackened, horrific husk still clutching a charred wooden practice sword. Beside the body, carved into a nearby stone with terrifying precision, was the coiled mark of the Nogo ireng sect. A cold, heavy weight had settled in Awan's stomach that day, and it hadn't left since. He knew who they were—the ruthless black-magic cult allied with Prime Minister Gajah Wulung. They had taken his only family, trying to draw him out of hiding. Yet, Awan had chosen to run. He had wrapped himself in "The Commoner's Veil," an ancient, forbidden technique that suppressed his god-like martial aura. It made his skin look dull, his posture slouch, and his eyes lose their lethal, sharp glint. It allowed him to blend into the dirt of Blambangan as an ordinary fool. Here's your drink, you worthless sot, the tavern maid muttered, slamming a wooden cup onto his table. Wine splashed over his knuckles, cold and sticky. Awan offered her a goofy, lopsided grin, his eyes tracing the curve of her hips with practiced, roguish mischief. "You are far too beautiful to serve such terrible brew, my sweet rani," he whispered, his voice dripping with seductive charm. "Perhaps we should run away together to the spice islands and leave this muddy village behind?" She scoffed, rolling her eyes, though a faint blush crept up her sun-darkened neck. "Save your smooth words for the pigs, Awan," she said, turning back to the counter with a quiet huff. He chuckled softly, but the humor never reached his eyes. His fingers tightened around the wooden cup until the cheap pine groaned under the sudden pressure. Keeping people at arm's length was his only safety. If they didn't know the real him, they couldn't be used against him. If he didn't care about anyone, he wouldn't have to feel the agony of losing them. He remembered the cold, distant looks of his noble family when they cast him out as a child. They had deemed him a useless, weak boy, unfit to inherit their legacy. That rejection had carved a scar deep into his soul, a wound that taught him to rely only on himself. He vowed never to let anyone see his true self again. If he wore a mask of laughter and cheap flirting, nobody could touch his heart. It was a perfect shield, far stronger than any iron armor. --- Thunder cracked overhead, rattling the loose wooden window shutters of the tavern. Splinters flew into the room as the heavy oak door crashed inward. Heavy iron boots stomped onto the muddy floorboards, tracking in wet clay and the smell of impending death. Four men stepped into the dim room, wearing the dark steel breastplates of Prime Minister Gajah Wulung's royal enforcers. Each of them carried a heavy, curved scimitar, their faces hidden behind cruel iron half-masks. Silence fell over the tavern like a suffocating blanket. Patrons shrank into the shadows, knocking over wooden stools in their haste to escape the soldiers' cold gazes. Awan remained slumped at his table, his eyes half-closed, observing the lead soldier through the gaps of his tangled hair. Scarred and towering, the leader was a brute with a thick neck, his chest plate engraved with a golden serpent. He dragged a frail, elderly man by the collar of his patched cotton tunic. It was Pak Salim, the beloved village elder of this small Blambangan settlement. Knees scraping against the rough wood, the old man was thrown violently to the floor. "Please, lord," Pak Salim gasped, coughing up a mixture of mud and phlegm. "We paid our taxes. We gave the royal granary half of our winter harvest just last week." Kicking him hard in the ribs, the lead soldier smiled beneath his mask. A sickening crack echoed through the quiet tavern. Pak Salim curled into a ball, groaning in sheer, unadulterated agony as he clutched his broken torso. "Silence, old dog," the leader growled, his voice deep and grating. "Our Prime Minister does not care about your rotting rice." "He demands the tribute of blood and information." "Our scouts reported a master martial artist hiding in these very hills." "Tell me where the rebel is, or I will paint this tavern with your brains." Awan watched, his heart rate remaining perfectly steady, though his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He wanted to ignore it. He wanted to pretend he was just a coward who would run at the first sign of trouble. Once he showed his strength, the world would drag him back into the bloody arena of the warring kingdoms. "We... we know of no such warrior," Pak Salim wept, holding his broken ribs as tears mixed with the mud on his face. "Only simple farmers live here. I swear it by the spirits of our ancestors!" Grinning beneath his iron mask, the soldier showed his rotting teeth. Slowly, he drew his heavy scimitar. Hissing against the leather scabbard, the steel gleamed with a cold, blue light under the tavern's dim oil lamps. "Then your ancestors can comfort you in the next life," the soldier sneered. He raised the heavy blade high. Awan's hand twitched on the table. His breath caught in his throat. Don't do it, a voice whispered in his mind. If you fight, the Veil breaks. Sekte Nogo Ireng would easily track his aura. Descending in a swift, merciless arc, the scimitar fell. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed across the mud, painting the floorboards a deep, wet crimson. Pak Salim's limp body slumped forward, his eyes wide and lifeless. Screaming in terror, the tavern maid dropped a tray of clay cups that shattered into a thousand pieces. Gone was the warm, lighthearted mask of the drunken peasant, leaving behind a frozen, desolate void of pure rage. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum. Absolute silence filled his mind, replaced by a cold, tactical calculation. These men were beasts. His master's charred face flashed in his memory, fueling the fire in his blood. He couldn't run anymore. --- "Hey! You... you giant metal cans!" Awan slurred, stumbling out from his chair. He swayed on his feet, tripping over his own toes and crashing loudly into an empty wooden table. Turning around, the soldiers locked their eyes onto the disheveled, red-faced drunk. "Look what you did!" Awan wailed, pointing a shaking, greasy finger at the shattered clay cups. "You spilled the good wine!" "My grandfather always said... a man who wastes wine deserves to be kissed by a wild boar!" He laughed hysterically, clutching his stomach as if it were the funniest joke in the world. Staring at him with pure disgust, the lead soldier spat. "Kill this pathetic insect," the leader ordered, gesturing to one of his men. "He's giving me a headache." One of the enforcers step-marched forward, his sword raised, a cruel smirk on his lips. "Easy death, drunkard," the soldier muttered, lunging forward with a thrust aimed straight at Awan's chest. Awan didn't dodge. Instead, he stumbled backward, seemingly by accident, slipping on the muddy floor. Missing his ribs by a fraction of an inch, the blade sliced through his loose cotton tunic. To the onlookers, it looked like sheer, dumb luck. To a true master, it was a display of flawless, millimeter-perfect evasion. As Awan fell backward, his hand brushed against a small wooden bowl on a nearby table. His fingers wrapped around a single, polished bamboo chopstick. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Thick and heavy, the air pressed down on the room as Awan released the suppressed martial power within his soul. Shattering completely, the Commoner's Veil dissolved. A sickening surge of god-like energy rushed through his veins, hot as molten gold. His muscles tightened, vibrating with explosive, latent power. With a sudden, violent twist of his hips, Awan arrested his fall. He drove his bare foot into the floorboards, launching himself forward like a released spring. Gone was the clumsy drunkard. In his place stood a predator of unparalleled lethality. Before the lead soldier could even register the shift in the air, Awan was inside his guard. He moved faster than the human eye could track, a blur of motion in the dim, smoky light. Every muscle in his body sang with the familiar, deadly rhythm of the Ghost-Slayer style. It was a martial art designed for one purpose—to kill without hesitation. He had spent years trying to bury this power, terrified of the beast it made him. But as the blood pooled around his feet, he realized the truth. You cannot wash away the tiger's stripes, no matter how deep you bury him in the mud. Serving as a weapon of absolute destruction, the bamboo chopstick shimmered with a faint, compressed aura of energy. With a sharp, guttural grunt, Awan thrust the wooden stick forward. It tore through the lead soldier's heavy iron collar, bypassing the steel armor entirely. Sinking deep into the man's throat, the bamboo pierced the flesh. A wet, choking gasp echoed through the room. Freezing instantly, the lead soldier's eyes bulged as his hands flew to his neck. Blood bubbled around the wooden stick, staining his fingers. Awan stood perfectly still, his hand still holding the end of the chopstick. His gaze was cold, empty, and devoid of any human warmth. "You should have stayed in the capital," Awan whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, resonant quiet. With a brutal twist, he ripped the chopstick free. A fountain of crimson sprayed across his face, but he didn't blink. The lead soldier collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat as he thrashed in the mud, before falling flat on his face. Staring in absolute horror, the remaining three enforcers froze. Their breaths hitched, their swords trembling in their hands. They had never seen a man move so fast. Never had they seen iron armor pierced by a piece of cheap wood. "What... what are you?" one of them stammered, backing away toward the shattered doorway. Awan took a slow step forward, flicking the blood off his chopstick with a casual, terrifying motion. Filling the small tavern, the sheer pressure of his aura made it hard for the remaining men to breathe. "Just a peasant whose lunch you ruined," Awan said, his voice laced with a dark, terrifying amusement. "Now, leave before I decide to use the other chopstick." Fleeing immediately, the three soldiers didn't need to be told twice. They turned and scrambled out of the tavern, tripping over themselves in their panic to escape the monster inside. Awan watched them go, his shoulders slumping as the immense energy retreated back into his core. He forced the Commoner's Veil back over his soul, feeling the familiar, heavy dullness settle over his senses. But the peace was gone. He looked down at the dead leader on the floor, who was still weakly twitching. Reaching out with a desperate, dying strength, the man's hand grabbed Awan's muddy sandal. A wet, rattling laugh escaped the soldier's blood-filled throat. "'You... you are the Ghost-Slayer...'" the dying enforcer rasped, his eyes locking onto Awan's cold face. "'Our Prime Minister... knew you were alive...'" "'Sekte Nogo Ireng... they didn't just burn your master's hut by chance...'" "'We have been hunting you all along, Awan Sejito.'"

Chapter 1: A Fool's Broken Rice Bowl