Jati stumbled back, his once-pristine staff reduced to splinters and glowing soot. Violet embers drifted across the tiles of the Pendopo Agung, setting the air on edge. Banyu stood with his palms smoking, sweat stinging the scrapes along his knuckles. The victory tasted of salt and bile, settling bitter beneath his tongue. He ducked past the petrified ranks of apprentices, his skin prickling with cold suspicion. Somewhere in the gallery shadows, Semar was watching; Banyu could picture the elder's thin mouth curling with measured appraisal, just as it had during their private sessions when every drill pushed him toward some unseen brink. Banyu slipped away from the training grounds as soon as the initial shock dissipated, the murmurs of the gathered clan members following him like a tide. He needed air, distance, a space where Semar's shadow didn't stretch. The Pondok Sunyi offered no relief. Each step down the flagstone corridors stirred old whispers from the floorboards, cold drafts brushing his neck. The estate felt less like an ancestral home and more like a sepulcher, its currents tugging at his raw marrow. He found himself wandering deeper into the mansion, past wings he hadn't seen before, their doors closed, their windows dark. The air grew heavier here, thick with forgotten time. A tug deep behind his sternum guided him through a gallery lined with faded silk banners depicting forgotten battles. At the very end, partially obscured by a hanging cloth, was a door unlike the others. It was made of dark ironwood, bound in tarnished brass bands devoid of latch or keyhole, skinned only in a dull, violet glaze of warding seals. Banyu reached out. The brass chilled his fingertips, then hummed, vibrating in harmony with the current in his blood. The violet glaze flared and parted, tracing the calluses of his skin. With a grinding groan of hinges, the ironwood yielded inward. Dust motes danced in the sliver of pale afternoon light that penetrated the small, circular room. It was a study, frozen in time. A heavy desk dominated the center, laden with scrolls, inkpots, and a half-finished calligraphy piece. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls, their spines unread for decades. The air carried the scent of aged paper and dried incense. This was his parents' study, a realization that hit him with the force of a physical blow. He felt a sudden, profound connection, an echo stronger and more intimate than any he’d felt before. His gaze fell upon a calfskin ledger lying open on the desk. Its cover was etched with a stylized gust of wind—the symbol of House Angin. He stepped forward, breathing shallow. The handwriting inside was elegant, flowing, unmistakably his mother's. He recognized the script from a few faded letters Semar had shown him, claiming they were all that remained. He read, his eyes tracing the words. It began as a chronicle of everyday life, then slowly shifted. “*The child stirs within me, a tempest even before birth. The elders worry. His echo is… different. Volatile, yet incandescent.*” The hair on his forearms stiffened. He turned a page. “*They call it a spiritual affliction, this unbridled power. His soul-echo binds to everything, too deeply, too fiercely. He feels the marrow of this world. I call it the Tide.*” His throat went dry. The fish, the shockwave, Jati’s staff – it all clicked into place, a horrifying, exhilarating revelation. “*The Tide… it is unique to him, a gift and a curse. It binds him to the world in a way no other Gema Jiwa master has ever been bound. It is too powerful, too unstable, they say. He will destroy himself, or worse, shatter the echoes of those around him.*” The words blurred, his mind reeling. *Affliction? The Tide?* This was why they had kept him away, not out of abandonment, but… protection? A sudden, sharp voice cut through the stillness. “What in the spirit's name are you doing in here, Banyu Angin? This wing has been sealed for decades!” Kirana Jelita stood in the doorway, her slender form silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. Her gaze swept from the opened door to the volume in his hands. Her brows drew tight, cold suspicion hardening her expression. “Did you break the wards? Are you so utterly devoid of respect that you tamper with the sacred seals of a master’s study?” Banyu whirled around, the book clutched against his ribs. “This is my parents’ study!” he retorted, the raw, vulnerable anger making his voice crack. “I have a right to be here!” Kirana scoffed. “A right? You, the street rat who defiles our traditions, dares to claim a right to the sanctum of the Angin clan’s most revered practitioners? Put that down. You wouldn’t understand the first thing about what’s written there.” “I understand enough,” Banyu shot back, his fingers biting into the hide cover. “It’s about me. About my… *affliction*.” He emphasized the word with bitter sarcasm. As he spoke, a faint, silvery mist, almost imperceptible, began to swirl around the edges of the room. It emanated from the books, the desk, the very air, drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. Kirana paused, her lecture faltering mid-sentence. Kirana stopped. She was not looking at Banyu, but past his shoulder, toward the desk where the silvery vapor gathered. A whisper of warmth, like a fleeting memory, brushed Banyu's cheek. The air grew dense and scented with dried jasmine. A pale luminescence settled across the open pages. It was his mother’s echo, not a ghost, but a lingering spiritual residue, reacting to him, to her son, in a way that defied all known Gema Jiwa principles. Kirana’s carefully constructed composure fractured. Her mouth parted in shock. “Impossible,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, devoid of its usual frosty edge. “Soul echoes… they don’t *react*. They merely linger. This… this is unheard of.” Her stare stayed locked on the silvery sheen, cold scrutiny giving way to stark bewilderment. Unsettled by the jasmine scent, Banyu kept his grip on the ledger, his gaze dropping back to the paper. He needed answers, and his mother’s frantic hand seemed to spill them onto the parchment. He scanned the following lines, nausea coiling in his gut. They detailed frantic consultations, blood trials, and a failed search to silence the surging echo within him. His eyes landed on the final, hastily scrawled paragraph, the ink smudged as if written in a rush, perhaps with tears. The words were stark, chilling, and utterly damning. “Semar says the severing is the only way to save him. I don’t trust his eyes.”

Echoes in the Blood