The stench of brine and the roar of a thousand haggling voices always started Banyu’s day. He tossed a glistening pomfret onto the chipped ice, the scales catching the weak morning light filtering through the corrugated tin roof of the Rembang fish market. A customer, a wiry woman with a faded sarong, jabbed a finger at a plump `kakap`. “This one, Banyu! Fresh, or I’ll take my rupiah elsewhere.” Banyu grinned, a flash of white teeth in his perpetually tired face. “Fished it myself at dawn, Ibu Suti! Still twitching!” He reached for the `kakap`, his fingers closing around its firm body. Then, it happened. Not a twitch, but a sudden, violent shudder. The fish, pristine moments ago, began to grey, the silver sheen dulling to a sickly film. A smell, not of the market, but of decay, rank and immediate, blossomed under his nose. Before Ibu Suti could even scowl, the `kakap` sagged in his grip, its flesh dissolving into a putrid mush. A faint, ethereal mist, like heat haze off asphalt, shimmered where the fish had been, outlining its phantom shape for a fleeting second before vanishing. Banyu stared, his mouth agape. Ibu Suti shrieked, recoiling as if struck. “What in the spirits was that, Banyu? You trying to poison me?” Before he could stammer a reply, a guttural cry ripped through the stalls. A man, lean and clad in dark, oil-stained fabric, lunged over a stall of squid, a wicked, curved blade flashing in his hand. The weapon wasn't mere steel; it hummed with an unnatural luminescence, a faint, sickly green aura trailing from its edge. It felt like a cold draft on Banyu’s skin, despite the humid air. “Banyu, watch out!” Paijo, his best friend, a mountain of a man with a booming laugh, shoved a crate of crabs aside, his eyes wide with alarm. He’d been sorting through a pile of snapper, humming a jaunty tune only moments ago. Banyu instinctively ducked as the glowing blade sliced through the air where his head had been, shearing a line of fish hooks from the stall above with a shower of sparks. The killer landed lightly, his eyes fixed solely on Banyu. Then, another dark figure dropped from the rafters, followed by a third, all wielding similar, glow-edged weapons. The arcade erupted into pandemonium. Vendors screamed, fish flew, and the usually bustling aisles turned into a chaotic scramble for escape. Banyu scrambled back, overturning a barrel of live eels, their slimy bodies thrashing around the attackers' feet. “What do you want?” Banyu yelled, his temper, always a short fuse, igniting. He grabbed a heavy, blunt fish-club, its wood worn smooth from years of use. “The echo,” one of the attackers hissed, his voice a dry rasp, “of Angin.” Banyu had no idea what he meant. Angin? The word meant wind. Was this some kind of sick joke? He swung the club, a desperate, clumsy arc. The first assailant sidestepped with unnatural speed, his green-edged blade blurring towards Paijo, who had stumbled trying to get to Banyu’s side. Paijo cried out as the blade, rather than cutting, seemed to drain the light from the air around him, a chilling hum accompanying its pass. “Leave him alone!” Banyu roared. A surge of white-hot fury, unlike anything he had ever felt, erupted within him. It wasn’t just anger; it was a physical force, a pressure building behind his eyes, a hum vibrating through his very bones. The air around him shimmered, not with the ethereal decay of the fish, but with a raw, unstable energy. The humid air thickened, dead still. His vision blurred. An invisible shockwave burst outwards from him. The killers' glowing blades, poised to strike, fractured. Cracks, like spiderwebs on ice, spiderwebbed across the green auroras, then the steel itself. With a series of sharp, resonant *pings*, the blades shattered into dust, their ethereal glow winking out as if snuffed by an unseen hand. The assailants staggered back, their faces twisted in shock, their hands stinging from the force. Banyu gasped, the sudden exertion leaving him breathless. His entire body thrummed, a strange echo lingering in his muscles. But the moment of triumph was short-lived. The strike team, though disarmed, were relentless. One, a woman with a scar bisecting her lip, pulled a hidden dagger, its edge shimmering with the same malevolent green as the broken blades. She moved with a practiced fluidity, closing the distance before Banyu could even register the threat. He felt the cold point against his throat, the metallic tang of fear rising in his mouth. He could see Paijo, frozen in horror a few feet away, his face pale as the belly of a catfish. This was it. After years of slinging fish, this was how he ended, in a grimy alley, for a reason he didn’t understand. Before the scar-faced woman could press the blade home, a figure materialized from the panicked crowd with impossible speed. He was an old man, his frame slight, clad in simple, dark robes, his face a roadmap of ancient wrinkles. Yet, there was an undeniable power in his stillness. His hands moved, not in a blur, but with a deliberate, almost languid grace. One touch, a mere flick of his wrist, and the scar-faced woman stiffened, her eyes glazing over. She collapsed to the ground, a faint whisper of green energy escaping her lips like a dying breath. Another fighter lunged, a desperate punch aimed at the elder’s head. The old man didn’t dodge. Instead, he raised a hand, and the attacker seemed to hit an invisible wall, his momentum reversed, sending him sprawling backward into a pile of rotting fish heads. He lay there, unmoving, a faint, silver mist rising from his body. Banyu stared, utterly bewildered. The old man turned, his gaze, deep and knowing, settling on Banyu. There was no fear in those eyes, only a profound, unsettling familiarity. The chaos around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them amidst the wreckage. “It is time to come home, Banyu Angin.”

The Whispers of Rotting Fish