Every desire demands sacrifice, and the darkest desires demand it most. Such is the fate of Adanu Raksa. At six, he is offered to the Carrion Flower Devil, a shadowed name remembered by only a few who dare speak it aloud.
Though it did not take his life, the devil's shadow never truly leaves him. Every night it calls, and with it come demons and restless spirits. Tonight is no different.
"There they come again…"
Adanu stands at the threshold of his small hut, the weight of his sword solid and familiar in his hands. His cloak flutters in the wind, tattered and worn, and his hair shifts as the breeze rakes through it.
Fog coils between the trees, thick and low, and the wind whispers through hollow branches. The pale moon casts its cold light over the clearing, revealing the dark shapes that slither just beyond sight.
A horde of forest demons and restless dead creeps closer, drawn to him like moths to flame. They move in unison, bodies twisting with unnatural grace.
"…the same wretched faces."
Adanu tightens his grip as the first undead lunges. His blade arcs cleanly, slicing through its torso. In seconds, blackened bile spills across the undergrowth.
Another creature crawls forward, only to have its head severed in one motion. Its headless body collapses, but still twitching, fingers claw blindly at the soil, reaching for the head that lies a short distance away.
Adanu snorts and nudges it with his boot. "Uh-uh… don't even think about it."
He does not pause. The next body crumples beneath his blade. Rotting flesh and splintered bone litter the clearing. But soon, more shapes emerge, pressing closer with each heartbeat.
"…damn it. If I stay here too long, that old man will throw a fit."
He is not really alone in this stretch of wilderness. Deeper within the forest, hidden among uneven ground and old trees, stands a modest hermitage built of weathered wood.
Inside, a dim light spills across the interior, where oil lamps sway gently from overhead beams. Shadows stretch across the floor, tracing the outlines of thirteen figures seated in a loose circle.
Most of them are still young, their voices rising together in a low chant that wavers at the edges but holds through repetition.
"Know your Tattwa, lest you forget what holds you whole."
"Guard your Sukma, lest it be torn and scattered."
"Carry your Raga, for it is the vessel of your passing."
Their voices find a fragile rhythm, steady and even. Nothing disturbs it at first. Then a faint sound drifts from the forest, sending chills down their spines.
Whaiill…
Whhaaaaiilll…
One of the younger boys falters, and the chant stumbles.
"Did you hear that?"
"It came from outside…"
"That couldn't be the wind, right?"
A boy near the center swallows hard. "Is something out there…?"
At the edge of the circle, Dharma exhales quietly, as though he has seen this happen far too many times.
"…It's him again," he mutters.
Indra, the oldest amongst them, shifts slightly. "He never changes."
The younger ones turn toward them, confusion and unease written plainly across their faces. But before silence stretches any further, an old figure appears at the entrance, stealing everyone's attention.
Ki Bayanaka stands in the doorway, his all-white robe hangs plainly over his frame, and the air seems to settle around him as he surveys the halted chant.
"Why did you stop?" he asks.
Dharma tilts his head, smiling faintly. "First night for them, Ki."
The younger disciples shift, but the old man does not react. His attention moves past the walls of the hermitage, into the forest beyond.
He lets out a quiet breath, the weariness of one who has seen this too many times pressing on him. Then his voice comes, not through sound but pressed directly into the mind.
<< You damned brat… How many times have I told you… >>
The disciples do not hear him, but they feel the pressure of his words, as though the night itself leans down on them.
<< Don't bring those vile things anywhere near my dwelling! >>
The force spreads through the forest, freezing the creatures in place. The waneforms and restless undead hang mid-crawl, suspended as if the night itself clenches around them.
In the center of it all, Adanu clicks his tongue in annoyance.
"Yeah, yeah… heard you."
He wraps his blade in a strip of cloth, securing it to his waist. Then he calls out, voice loud and defiant.
"Sorry, gramp! I'll deal with it now!"
Adanu lets out a slow breath and rolls his shoulders once, already turning away from the direction of the hermitage.
"Oi… flat-faced freaks," he calls out. "Still hungry for this rotten Sukma of mine?"
The nearest figures jerk toward him.
"Then come get it."
What begins as a scattered crawl quickly turns into a pursuit. The forest stirs as more of them emerge from the dark, drawn not by sight, but by instinct, by the foul lure embedded deep within his being.
They come from between the trees, from hollow ground, from shadows that should have remained empty, their numbers swelling with every stretch of distance he covers.
Bounding northward, he leads the demons away. The chase stretches through hills and valleys, the wind whipping against his skin. What would take an ordinary traveler an entire day passes beneath his feet before dawn threatens the horizon.
Then, as the mist begins to lift, a village emerges in the distance. Adanu slows, his frown deepening. If the demons follow him there, it will be a massacre.
"…Damn it!" He turns to face them. "Can't let you lot go any farther than this."
The waneforms hesitate, their whispers rising to a fever pitch. Their translucent forms ripple like water disturbed by an unseen force. Adanu does not flinch. He unwraps the cloth from his black blade and coils it tightly around his left arm.
The spirits lunge, shrieking. And Adanu simply cuts through them with one merciless stroke.
Kyyaaaaa!
Their agonized cries shatter the night. Adanu winces, but he tightens his grip on the blade, ignoring the scream as it claws at his mind.
"Tch. Your screams are worse than a crow's at dawn," he mutters, rubbing his ear.
Then a chill runs down his spine as one waneform slips past his guard. A cold hand brushes the back of his head, leeching warmth. And a voice snakes into his mind.
<< Stop resisting, branded child. >>
<< Are you not tired of running? >>
<< Embrace your fate. Let us take you to the Carrion Flower Devil. >>
<< We shall release you from your suffering. >>
Adanu's vision blurs, his breath hitching. But then, a twisted grin splits his face.
"Do I look tired to you?"
A second later, his sword swings through the spirit. Its form shudders violently, twisting and unraveling as a chorus of tortured whispers tears through the air.
"I left my weakness behind a long time ago."
Adanu turns to the remaining demons, eyes gleaming, blade raised.
"Come. Taste the sweetness of my steel."
They hesitate for a moment. Then the battle swallows the forest again.
Rotten bodies lunge in waves, limbs snapping and dragging, while waneforms tear through the air like tattered veils.
Adanu meets them head-on, blade carving flesh, splintering bone, scattering shrieks into nothing.
This is his life. This is his every night. And this will not be his last.