The cloaked man stopped running the moment he heard the woman's voice. A familiar voice—calm, deep, but filled with weight. He knew exactly who it belonged to. There was no need to see her face to recognize her. She was part of the same group as him, a presence both revered and feared: one of the five petals.
The people who had been chasing him froze as soon as the sound reached their ears. Their eyes widened in panic. Their breaths grew shallow. When they saw the glowing petal levitating above her head, their instincts screamed at them louder than any logic or mission. Without hesitation, they turned and ran, their footsteps frantic and uneven as they scattered like dry leaves in the wind.
Everyone feared the five petals.
And with good reason.
Even from a distance, a person awakened as a five petals was no ordinary being. They were a force of nature. Their very presence could awaken powerful emotions in those around them, dragging people into their inner storms.
If a five petals bloomed from sorrow, those nearby would be swallowed by grief. If it was rage, the surroundings would tremble in fury. There was no defense, no resistance. The only ones who could bear such pressure were others of the same kind.
That was what made facing them terrifying—not only was it impossible to fight back, but even standing in their presence required a will most people didn't possess. It was a spiritual suffocation. You didn't stand a chance.
You simply accepted your fate.
As the armored man, the bald man, and the woman disappeared from sight, the five petals figure descended gracefully from the sky. The air shimmered around her, heavy with emotion.
When her feet touched the ground, a transformation occurred.
Her demonic form—horns, wings, and a tail—faded away. The luminous petal above her began to dim and slowly turned into four petals, spinning gently in the air. What remained of her monstrous features condensed, swirling with crimson energy, until they took on the shape of a red dragon.
The dragon stood beside her, not enormous, but radiant with power. It was about three times the size of an average human, but size was meaningless in this realm of existence. This creature wasn't meant to overpower with mass—but with soul.
"I thought you wouldn't come, Kirana," the cloaked man said, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. His voice softened when he said her name.
Kirana—still glowing faintly—looked at him but then shifted her gaze toward the unconscious boy. Her expression flickered between concern and calculation.
"That boy bloomed with gluttony," she said, her voice steady but low. "I wanted to make sure he's safe."
She paused. "We need someone who bloomed with gluttony."
The cloaked man gave a small nod. "Don't worry. He's safe with me."
But as his eyes scanned the ground, they stopped on the boy. The child lay motionless, his face pale, his hand limp at his side.
A chill ran through the man.
Kirana's eyes burned as she stepped forward, her aura pulsing. "Jati," she said, voice turning sharp, "I think I should give you a punishment."
Jati winced.
***
Two days passed.
In a small, quiet white room, the boy lay still on a narrow bed. The sheets were stiff, the light too white. Everything smelled sterile and untouched.
Finally, his eyes opened—but there was no light in them. His gaze was empty, like a doll with glass eyes. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, and the air around him felt like it was holding its breath.
Then, tears began to fall—slow, warm drops that traced down his cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath his head. He didn't sob or make a sound. The tears came silently, but each one seemed heavier than the last.
His emotions crashed over him in waves, slow and unrelenting.
It all felt like a nightmare. Like something that couldn't have been real. But it was. He remembered.
He remembered the debt collectors at the door. He remembered the chaos, the blood. He remembered the hunger.
He remembered when his right hand opened into a mouth and swallowed his mother whole.
He remembered biting into his father's flesh, slowly, helplessly, as though something else was controlling him. But it wasn't something else. It was him. His mouth. His hunger.
And he hated it.
He hated his right hand. He hated his body. He hated his weakness.
He hated that he had lived.
"I wish I could go back," he whispered to no one.
A knock at the door stirred him.
Even though everything felt unbearably heavy, he forced himself to sit up. His body wasn't the problem—it was his heart, his mind. They were both shattered.
He shuffled to the door and opened it slowly.
The cloaked man from before—now wearing a plain t-shirt and shorts—stood there. The man's face was soft, eyes full of concern.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently.
The boy wiped at his cheek, his voice almost too soft to hear. "I... don't know."
The man stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. His touch was warm, grounding. "I've been through something similar," he said. "It's hard. But you're not alone. I know you'll make it through this."
He stepped back. "Come find me in the next room when you're ready."
The boy closed the door. As soon as it clicked shut, his legs gave out and he fell back onto the bed, crying into the mattress. He didn't know what was real or what to believe. All he knew was pain—and confusion—and the overwhelming sense that he should have never survived.
The light outside began to fade. As dusk settled, he sat up again.
Despite everything, he stood.
He couldn't find meaning. He couldn't find strength. But he stood.
He walked to the next room, step by step, head down.
In front of the wooden door, he knocked a few times. His knuckles barely made a sound.
The door opened.
"You feel better?" the man asked.
The boy didn't answer. He simply nodded. Barely.
"Okay," the man said with a smile. "Come on. There's someone you need to meet."
They walked together in silence.
"My name's Jati, by the way," the man said as they walked. "What's yours?"
"Sagara," the boy said quietly.
They stopped in front of another wooden door. Jati knocked.
"Come in," a woman's voice called out.
Inside, a woman sat on a creaky wooden chair. Four petals hovered above her head, softly spinning. The room was chaotic—papers everywhere: on the floor, the chairs, spilling from open drawers and tumbling off shelves. It was clearly an office once, but now it was barely functional.
"Sit wherever you want," the woman said without looking up.
"There's nowhere to sit," Jati muttered.
"You can sit on the floor," she said flatly.
Jati scratched his head. "Can I move these papers so I can sit on a chair?"
The woman's gaze snapped to him—fiery, sharp. Jati backed off.
"Okay, okay. I'll stand."
She turned to Sagara. Her voice softened.
"Do you feel better, boy?"
Sagara gave a small nod.
"What's your name?"
"Sagara."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
She leaned back and studied him for a moment. "Good. My name is Kirana. I'm the branch leader of the Garden in this region. We save people like you. You're safe here."
Her voice was measured, but not unkind.
"Do you have any questions?"
That question hung in the air like smoke.
Sagara stood there, trying to think. Everything he wanted to ask jumbled together, overlapping in his mind. He couldn't make sense of it. Couldn't form the words.
Minutes passed before he finally spoke.
"What... was all that?"