Cold sweat turned to steam against Sekar’s frozen skin.
Her eyes widened as a heavy pulse thundered through the silence of the mountain peak.
Awan’s grip tightened on her waist, his muscles coiling like steel springs.
There was no hiding now.
Rising body heat flared through the mist, a beacon of living blood in a frozen wasteland.
A guttural screech ripped through the dark, echoing off the jagged wet stones of Mount Penanggungan.
Three figures lurched out of the thick fog, their limbs twitching with unnatural, frantic speed.
Sekar tried to draw her dagger, but her fingers were too stiff from the sudden temperature drop.
Awan pushed her behind him, breaking the physical contact that had kept their pulses suppressed.
Heat exploded through his veins, a sudden fire that lit up his eyes in the gloom.
Instinct took over, stripping away the gentle peasant persona he wore so well.
He didn't reach for a weapon.
Instead, his hands curved into claws, his stance dropping low as he met the first monster head-on.
Gray skin, leathery and stretched tight over hollow ribcages, rushed toward him.
Speed was his only option now.
He lunged forward, his movement a blur that left the damp mountain air whistling in his wake.
His fist connected with the first ghoul’s chest, the impact sounding like a hammer striking a hollow log.
Bones snapped instantly under the crushing weight of his strike.
Rather than bleeding, the creature burst into a cloud of dry, choking gray ash.
Sekar scrambled backward, her back hitting the cold stone of a ruined altar.
Another monster lunged at her from the side, its yellowed claws scraping against the gravel.
Awan’s heel caught the beast in the jaw before its hand could touch her hair.
His footwork was flawless, a rapid succession of pivots and thrusts that defied the slippery terrain.
Each strike was delivered with brutal, mathematical precision.
He shattered the second ghoul's shoulder, then spun to drive his elbow directly into its sternum.
More ash erupted, coating his dark tunic in a pale, powdery residue.
His knuckles burned from the sheer friction of his movements.
With a guttural growl, two more figures emerged from the shadows of the old pine trees.
They moved with a desperate, jerky motion, their mouths agape in silent screams.
Time seemed to slow down for Awan as he stepped into their reach.
He grabbed the wrist of the closest attacker, intending to snap the forearm.
Underneath the layer of dried mud and black veins, his eyes caught something.
That jagged scar on the creature's wrist was shaped like a crescent moon.
Nausea hit him like a physical blow, freezing his breath in his throat.
He knew that scar.
Old man Marta, the blacksmith from his childhood village in the Waringin Valley, had carried that exact mark.
These weren't ancient corpses raised from forgotten battlefields.
These were the missing villagers of his former home.
Gajah Wulung’s dark sorcery had hollowed them out, turning their living flesh into brittle puppets.
Every strike he delivered wasn't just killing a monster; it was crushing the remains of the people he used to know.
Guilt, cold and heavy, flooded his chest, choking the breath from his lungs.
He had left them behind five years ago to pursue a life of quiet obscurity.
His self-imposed exile had left the valley completely defenseless against the prime minister's ruthless hunters.
If he had stayed, if he hadn't played the coward hiding behind a commoner's mask, would they still be alive?
A fierce roar broke from his chest, born of raw fury and suffocating self-loathing.
Screaming in agony, another hollow villager lunged forward, teeth bared in an empty bite.
Awan didn't hesitate this time, though his heart bled with every motion.
He swept the legs out from under the creature, then brought his palm down on its chest in a devastating strike.
Ash rained down around him, clinging to his sweat-slicked face like gray tears.
He moved like a tempest now, his hands moving too fast for the naked eye to track.
He shattered three more of the approaching monsters, each explosion of dust a silent apology.
Sekar watched in stunned silence, her breath hitching at the sheer violence of his assault.
She had never seen him move with such desperate, unbridled savagery.
His face was a mask of pure torment, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth threatened to crack.
Silence finally settled over the clearing, broken only by Awan's ragged, heavy breathing.
He stood in the center of a gray circle, surrounded by the powdery remains of his past.
His hands trembled, coated in the dust of the people he was supposed to protect.
One of the shattering ghouls leaves behind a tarnished silver locket containing a portrait of a young Awan and his mother, still warm to the touch.