Sawerigading's breath came slow, deep, steady. His grip on the badik tightened as the figure before him wavered like smoke caught between moonlight and shadow. For a heartbeat, everything was suspended. The air carried an unseen tension, thick enough to tear. The figure's posture hinted at a challenge, an invitation to shed blood without ever speaking.
His weight shifted, muscles coiling in readiness. He whispered to the emptiness, "Iye, Erro ki balle balle i ka?"?" ("Yes. You mean to toy with me?") but the words vanished into the gloom. Sawerigading had faced men, gods, storms, seas, but never this. The presence before him was neither flesh nor spirit, a phantom whose silence roared louder than thunder.
His fingers flexed, almost raising the badik to pierce the veil between worlds. Wisdom held him still. If you strike what is not meant to be struck, he thought, you may never return again. His choice hung in the air.
Suddenly, as if mocking his restraint, the figure leaned forward, letting an odd light fall across its face. For an instant, almost human, a familiarity flickered behind its eyes, pricking memories sharper than pain.
The world seemed ready to split when, without warning, the figure vanished. It didn't walk away or run, it simply blinked out of existence. Sawerigading's heart pressed heavier against his chest, not driven by fear, but by the weight of something extraordinary. He lowered his badik, letting a faint shimmer run along its edge.
"Hmph," he muttered with a half-amused, half-challenging grin. "So, you want me to follow you?"
The spirit realm stretched around him, boundless yet smothering. Trees that weren't trees swayed with no wind. Ground rippled under each step like water. Every sound, his breath, footsteps bounced back, warped by hidden mouths.
Sawerigading moved carefully. He trusted the lessons these kinds of paths taught: patience is sharper than any blade. He felt eyes, dozens or maybe thousands, watching from darkness he could not penetrate. His badik stayed close, but his thoughts stayed closer.
Shapes played at the edges of vision. Once, he glimpsed the shadow of a colossal bird, wings reaching towards infinity. Another time, a tall figure dissolved into mist when caught looking. The realm delighted in riddles, offering slivers of truth that never revealed their whole.
He entered a clearing where strange light seeped from the ground, a circle of pale embers that refused to die. At its center, symbols carved deep, older and sharper than anything made by men or gods he knew. Sawerigading approached, eyes narrowing.
"These markings are not of men," he said quietly. "Nor any gods I remember."
The air pressed down, heavier than before. That presence returned, unseen, untouched, but undeniable. Just outside the reach of light, the figure watched and waited. Sawerigading drew a slow breath, feeling his grip steady on the badik.
"Show yourself, spirit. If you wish to be known. Otherwise, I will find you, even in the places you hide." His words rang out, a promise and a challenge mingling as the very earth trembled.
For the first time, he sensed design. This was no chance, something was testing him, setting something in motion. It was the beginning of a fate he could barely glimpse.
He stepped into the strange glow, shoulders squared, gaze unflinching. He would not chase ghosts. He'd move onward, and if the figure wished to stand in his way again, let it come.
He left the clearing, and somewhere behind him an echo drifted soft, half-formed, like laughter just at the edge of hearing. Sawerigading's stride never faltered, but in his mind, a question burned brighter than the spirit light.
What waits for a man who walks where even shadows hide?