The midday sun, thick and honeyed, baked the exposed rock of Mount Kairava. Banyu lay sprawled on a faded woven mat just outside their modest, timber-framed cottage, a wide-brimmed straw hat shading his face. The drone of cicadas was a lullaby, the scent of wild sage a balm. He should have been tending the terraced fields of ‘gula’ root, or mending the leaking irrigation pipes, but the warmth seeped into his bones, rendering every muscle a leaden weight. He’d woken that morning with the familiar, dull thrum in his chest, a subtle tremor that always seemed to whisper, *what’s the point?* Citra, his younger sister, moved with a different kind of purpose. Her hands, nimble and quick, sorted dried medicinal herbs on a stone slab by the cottage entrance. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical braid, and her brow was furrowed in concentration. She was seventeen, all sharp edges and focused energy, a stark contrast to his twenty-two years of cultivated inertia. He heard her hum a low, tuneless melody, a sound as comforting as the mountain breeze. Then, the melody fractured. The crunch of heavy boots on the gravel path. Three hulking figures emerged from the dusty track winding up from the foothills. Their leader, a brute with a scarred jaw and a grimy, sleeveless tunic, grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Well, well. The mountain hermits. Still clinging to this dust pile?” Banyu didn’t stir. His eyes remained closed beneath the brim of his hat. He could hear Citra stiffen, the clatter of a dropped herb stem. These were the usual enforcers from the lowlands, collecting their ‘tribute’ for whatever minor syndicate claimed dominion over this forgotten corner. Usually, a few sacks of dried herbs or a basket of Kairava fruit sent them on their way. He rarely engaged, letting Citra haggle, knowing a few choice words from him would only escalate things. “Our payment is ready, as always,” Citra said, her voice tight, a hint of steel just beneath the surface. The scarred man chuckled, a rough, grating sound. “Times have changed, little bird. The syndicate needs more. We hear this mountain is sitting on some rich mineral veins now. And we need more than your dusty weeds for our troubles.” He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Citra’s workspace. “We’re thinking… a more personal contribution.” Banyu’s breathing remained slow, even. His lethargy was a shield, a practiced indifference to the world’s mundane cruelties. He felt the familiar, distant ache in his chest, the dull beat of a drum that never quite silenced. *Just let her handle it,* he thought, *she always does.* He had decided long ago that the only things worth his effort were the truly inescapable, the things that threatened Citra directly. Everything else was a fleeting annoyance. But then, a calloused hand shot out, seizing Citra’s wrist. Her small cry was sharp, a sudden discord in the otherwise peaceful afternoon. The man began to drag her, pulling her away from the cottage, towards the narrow path leading down the mountain. Banyu’s eyes snapped open. The world, previously a hazy dream, sharpened into brutal focus. The sun, the cicadas, the sage—all receded. There was only the sight of Citra’s twisting form, her struggle against the larger man. The fatalistic despair that usually coated his senses, dulling every impulse, vanished, replaced by a cold, surgical clarity. His body, moments ago a dead weight, coiled. The scarred man barely registered the shift before Banyu was there. It wasn’t a rush or a charge, but a transition, like a predator phasing from shadow to light. A foot, bare and calloused, swept out low, impacting the thug’s shin with a dry, bone-jarring crack. The man’s grip on Citra faltered as he cried out, stumbling backward. Before he could regain his balance, Banyu’s palm struck his sternum—not a punch, but a precise, focused impact that sent a shockwave through the man’s core, lifting him clear off his feet before he crumpled, unconscious, into the dirt. The other two thugs, who had been laughing, froze. Their grins evaporated. Banyu didn’t speak. His gaze, usually hooded and indifferent, was now sharp as splintered obsidian. He moved. A flick of his wrist deflected a crudely swung club, his hand closing around the attacker’s bicep with the force of an iron clamp. A twist, a barely audible pop, and the thug was howling, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle. The third, a younger, greener brute, stared at his fallen comrades, then at Banyu’s calm, terrifying face, and turned to flee, scrambling down the path with desperate speed. Citra, wide-eyed, stared at Banyu, still trembling slightly. “Banyu…” He offered her a faint, reassuring nod, the cold precision fading from his eyes, replaced by a flicker of exhaustion. He took a single step towards her, then another. And then the dull thrum in his chest escalated. It wasn’t a thrum anymore. It was a violent, erratic drumming, like a bird trapped in a cage, desperate to escape. A searing pain erupted, radiating from his sternum, clawing at his throat. His vision blurred, the edges of the world turning grey. His breath caught, a ragged gasp. He clutched his chest, sinking to his knees, the familiar apathy consumed by pure, unadulterated agony. The ground rushed up to meet him. He awoke to the antiseptic scent of a clinic. The fluorescent lights hummed above, harsh and unforgiving. Citra was beside him, her hand gripping his, her face pale with worry. A harried nurse, her brow furrowed, checked the monitor beside his bed. “The irregular beat has subsided for now, but his vitals are… unusual. We’ve drawn blood for a full analysis.” Minutes later, a high-pitched alarm shrieked from a console down the hall. The nurse stared at the readouts, her face draining of color. She fumbled with a nearby phone, whispering urgent, incredulous words. Then, the sound of heavy footsteps. Too many footsteps for a rural dispensary. The whirring thrum of rotor blades grew impossibly loud, shaking the small building. Sleek, black gunships, angular and intimidating, settled onto the gravel landing pad, kicking up dust and debris. Heavily armed figures, clad in obsidian-hued tactical gear bearing the stylized winged-serpent sigil of the Suryatama family, poured into the building. Their movements were synchronized, their faces impassive behind polarized visors. Fear spread like a contagion among the dispensary staff. These weren’t local thugs. This was the Suryatama Guard, the corporate legions that enforced the iron rule of the metropolis, the city Banyu had long since forgotten. Amidst the chaos, a figure stepped forward. Taller than the rest, clad in a tailored suit as dark as the guards’ armor, their posture was ramrod straight, their gaze sweeping the room with an almost unnatural vigilance. Their short, silver hair was meticulously combed, their features sharp, precise, utterly devoid of warmth. Slate-grey eyes fixed on Banyu. “Banyu,” the newcomer said, their tone cool, resonating with an unyielding authority that silenced the room. “By the genetic markers confirmed moments ago, you are the true heir of the clan lineage. Your immediate extraction to the capital is mandated. This facility is now secured.” Citra gasped, clutching Banyu’s hand tighter. “Heir? What are you talking about?” Mahesa offered no explanation, no comfort. Two guards moved to Banyu’s bedside, their motions swift and efficient. They helped him, still dazed, to his feet. He felt a strange combination of lightheadedness and an unsettling surge of energy, like an engine running too fast. He looked at Citra, a silent promise in his gaze, before he was guided out of the clinic, past the frozen staff, and towards the waiting gunship. The massive vehicle’s ramp descended with a hydraulic hiss. As Banyu stepped inside, the rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of the rotors vibrated through his bones. He felt his pulse, not the painful, erratic spasm from before, but a different kind of speed. It was unnaturally fast, a frantic flutter beneath his skin, radiating a dull, persistent ache through his chest. He was being offered a kingdom, a fortune, a name he’d never known. But with every beat of his racing heart, he understood. This sudden inheritance was a countdown, a biological death sentence counting down to zero.

The Blood Price