“Semar says the severing is the only way to save him. I don’t trust his eyes.” The words burned, a brand against Banyu’s vision. His mother’s distrust, sharp and raw, pierced through the decades. Kirana still stood frozen, her face drained of color, but Banyu barely registered her presence. The journal felt like a slab of stone. *Severing.* The word echoed in the quiet study, cold and final. Was this why he had been left? Had his parents tried to ‘save’ him from his heritage by cutting him away from it, only for Semar to— His old, battered phone, tucked into his pocket, vibrated violently. A cheap, jarring melody ripped through the silence, making Kirana flinch. Banyu yanked it out, his thumb already swiping to answer before he could even process the caller ID. It was Paijo. “Banyu! *Bangsat*! Where are you? They’re here again! Not just a few this time – a whole squad! They’ve got the stall surrounded, they’re asking for you, Banyu, they grabbed Kunti, and they’ve got me… they’ve got me at the docks, Banyu, with a blade to my neck! Just like… just like the first time, but worse!” Paijo’s voice, usually a cheerful bellow, was a frantic, strained whisper, punctuated by what sounded like a muffled grunt and a sharp, metallic *shing*. Banyu felt the heat drain straight out of his arms. Paijo. His best friend. Held hostage. His mind, still reeling from the journal’s revelations, snapped into focus. This was because of *him*. This was the consequence of his new identity, the new world crashing down on the old. “Where?” Banyu demanded, his voice a low growl, stripped of his usual dockside banter. “Where exactly?” “Dock… Dock Seven! Hurry, Banyu, please! They’re not playing around!” The line cut dead. Banyu dropped the phone, not caring when it clattered on the dusty floorboards. He spun, his teeth grinding together. “Paijo is in danger. Down at the stalls.” Kirana had shaken off her stupor. “Rembang? Why would they—?” “They’re targeting him because of *me*,” Banyu spat, an icy stillness settling over his fury. He didn’t wait for her reply, didn’t bother with another word. He bolted from the study, tearing down the echoing corridor. The Silent Abode, with its whispers of ancestors and secrets of betrayal, suddenly felt like a cage. He had to get out. He had to get to Paijo. He burst through the main gates, ignoring the startled cries of a patrol guard. The chill morning air of Suranadi hit him, sharp and clarifying. He ran. He didn't know how far the docks were from the estate by normal means, but he ran with a desperation that twisted his muscles, propelling him forward. Each stride was fueled by a potent cocktail of guilt and raw, unadulterated rage. He saw the city blur around him – the slick, modern towers, the ancient, crumbling shrines, the winding alleyways he knew from childhood. He pushed harder, faint silver sparks of nascent power flaring around his knuckles with every pump of his arms. The cacophony of Rembang hit him like a physical blow – the shouts of vendors, the flapping of mackerel, the scent of brine and gutter mud. But beneath it all, an unnatural hush clung to one particular section. Dock Seven. His dock. He saw it immediately. Three figures in dark, utilitarian combat gear, their faces obscured by deep hoods, stood around Paijo’s gutting table. Paijo himself was on his knees, hands bound behind his back, a black volcanic-glass blade pressed against his throat. A young female vendor, Kunti, was similarly restrained, whimpering softly. “Banyu Angin,” the broad-shouldered leader announced, his voice flat and devoid of inflection, yet carrying across the dock. “We were told you would come.” He tightened his grip on Paijo’s hair, forcing the younger man’s head back. Paijo’s frightened gaze locked onto Banyu’s. “Let them go,” Banyu growled, his hands clenching into fists. The air around him seemed to thicken, a faint pressure emanating from his core. The raw power thrummed beneath his skin, aching for release. “Not yet,” the hooded killer countered, a hint of something resembling amusement in his tone. “Our client wishes to ascertain the depth of your attachments. To observe your… resolve.” He paused, then added, “It is a test. From an internal client, not a rival house.” *Internal client.* The words were a shock, a sudden cold splash of truth. Not another clan, not an outside threat, but someone *within* House Angin. The anger sharpened, focusing to a point. He squinted, letting his spiritual sight unfurl. The mercenaries, their movements crisp and practiced, glowed with faint, silvery outlines, but beneath them, a deeper, almost metallic sheen pulsed. A control thread. A directed will. He reached out, not physically, but with his mind, tracing the gleaming thread of energy. It was a skill he hadn’t known he possessed, a raw, intuitive act. The thread led him. Through the grime of the quayside, past the wooden stalls, over the restless water, it snaked, thin but undeniable. He followed it, his focus absolute, until it led him… back. Back through the city, back towards the opulent, eerie silence of the ancestral mansion. Cold needles pricked beneath his skin. The pulse, the source of the puppet-string, originated from *within* his ancestral home. Semar. It had to be Semar. The old man’s words in the journal, his strange, predatory smiles, the ‘parasitic echo’ he’d subtly planted during training. It all clicked into place with sickening clarity. “Let them go,” Banyu repeated, his voice dangerously soft. His eyes, no longer burning with unfocused rage, held a chilling, calculating glint. He wouldn’t let them be hurt. Not for some twisted test. Not for *him*. The lead killer merely smiled, a cold, thin line. He began to apply pressure, the dark glass biting into Paijo’s skin. A trickle of red appeared. “STOP!” Banyu roared, a primal sound that ripped through the air. He surged forward, not with a formal stance, but with raw, unbridled spirit. A blast of silver, destabilizing energy erupted from him, not a shockwave of physical force, but a targeted pulse that slammed into the foreign wills driving the men. Their movements faltered, their mouths slackening in confusion as the threads of influence binding them frayed, then snapped. They stumbled, disoriented, their blades dropping with dull clangs onto the dock. Before they could recover, Banyu was there, a whirlwind of furious motion. He snatched the dark blade from the leader's numb fingers, reversing the grip. In a single, fluid move, he cut Paijo’s bonds, then Kunti’s. The fighters, their mental reins severed, remained momentarily stunned, their faces slack with an eerie emptiness. He pushed Paijo back, away from the scene. “Run, Paijo. Take Kunti. Get out of here. Don’t look back.” Paijo, rubbing his wrists, stared at him, a confused mixture of relief and fear on his face. “Banyu, what was that? What’s going on?” Banyu looked at his friend, his oldest, truest friend. His anchor to the life he knew. And he knew, with a certainty that tore at his gut, that he had to cut that anchor loose. For Paijo’s sake. For his own, terrifying new future. He hardened his expression, forcing a coldness into his voice that belied the agony in his chest. “What’s going on, Paijo? This is my world now. Not yours. You’re too weak for it. Too soft.” He spat the words, making them sting, making them sound like an insult rather than a shield. Paijo’s face fell, confusion replaced by hurt. “What… what are you saying, Banyu?” “I’m saying I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. This market, this life… it’s a joke. It’s beneath me now. You’re beneath me.” He felt the words burn his own tongue, each one a shard of glass. He glanced at the still disoriented assassins, then back at Paijo, forcing himself to continue the charade. “Don’t ever come looking for me again. If you do, if you even *try* to involve yourself in my affairs, I promise you, it won’t be just a blade to your neck next time. Stay away. Stay out of my life.” Paijo recoiled as if struck, his expression shifting from hurt to a deep, wounded anger. “Fine,” he choked out, his voice thick with betrayal. “Fine, Banyu. If that’s how it is, then go. Go to your fancy mansion, your fancy fights. But don’t you ever think of coming back here. Not ever.” He turned abruptly, pulling Kunti with him, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Banyu standing alone amidst the stunned fish vendors and the recovering assassins. Banyu watched him go, every muscle in his body screaming to call him back, to explain. But he couldn’t. He had to sever the ties, cleanly and brutally, to protect the last shred of his old life. He gripped the hilt, the dark glass cold against his palm, a reminder of the danger that now stalked him. His gaze swept over the bustling waterfront, the familiar faces, the sounds that had been the backdrop to his entire existence. It was lost to him now, sacrificed on the altar of a lineage he never asked for. A chilling resolve settled over him, colder than the morning air, deadlier than any blade. He would find the traitor in the Silent Abode. He would make them pay. He would hunt them down, and he would show them the true meaning of the Angin name, a name he now carried not just as an heir, but as a predator.

The Price of Friendship