The night split open with a sound like torn flesh. The air around the battlefield trembled, still scarred from the previous roar. From above the collapsing dome of black-and-white mist, the woman came hurtling down. Her broom which was once a thing of eerie grace, now shattered in mid air like brittle bone. Splinters and virulent motes scattered across the ground, each humming with faint, dying light. She struck the earth with a hollow duph, her body folding unnaturally, limbs twitching once before falling limp. Steam rose from her body as like something leaving her.
Then the impossible happened.
From the woman's body — the middle part first bending backward like a snapped reed, materialized a small girl, no older than four, her skin the colour of drowned wax. Her eyes glowed like embers soaked in tears. With a voice both mocking and tender, she giggled, "Hehehehe… ahhnnn… today my power is getting less… because of their birth." Her tiny hand brushed the ground, drawing trails of darkness. "Still… I could finish you now. But I will not. Don't worry," she smiled, her lips splitting wider than they should, "we will do it after twenty-one years, when my child will walk this surface."
She took a step closer to the barely conscious figure sprawled near the ruins, and continued in a tone that was almost motherly: "You can heal… call for help… beg all you want. It will be all futile. Butt for now I grant you mercy, just a temporary mercy. See that mountain?" she pointed toward the far ridge, where lightning flickered faintly over the distant fortress walls. "Where your tiger died after the battle. From there to here is your land. My followers, even I, will not cross it. Hehehehe… but..."
Her laughter was like nails dragged over bone. "You can find me… attack me… or even join me. It's your choice. But if you cross that mountain..." she paused, eyes narrowing to slits of crimson, "—everything will be futile."
She crouched beside him, her grin widening, eyes filled with childish mockery. "Ahhn, you already fell asleep… what a waste of time."
Then, humming a grotesque lullaby, she grabbed his head, her small fingers sinking into his hair like talons. With a sudden burst of violence, she smashed his head against the dirt — once, twice, thrice, five times — each blow echoing with a dull crack. Then, effortlessly, she hurled his limp body through the air, sending him crashing across the scorched field.
But as she turned back toward her burnt vessel, something went wrong. A strange nausea gripped her mind, like a hive of insects bursting behind her eyes. Blood dripped from her nose, her mouth, thick and dark. Her small body trembled. The laughter faltered. She clutched her throat, her voice cracking like broken glass, "Ahhnnn… bad taste…" She spat fragments of something, bone shards — as her grin returned, weaker this time.
"I have to go. Don't worry, you'll become like him soon… don't worry," she whispered, her tone fading into a child's sing-song chant. "No one escapes their fate." With that, she limped toward the dome, her giggles echoing thin and hollow.
Inside that place, Where that woman was sleeping in eternal sleep, the world shifted. Black and white bled together, swallowing colour, sound, and air. It became a landscape of quiet death, all living things turned pale or charred, as they are painted by black and white only. Only one thing grow up there, a red flower, growing from all around her body like a heart still beating. The Paramita flower.
Its petals pulsed faintly as though breathing. Around it, the burnt woman's flesh began to regrow, slow and deliberate, as if sewn by unseen hands. Veins wove themselves back together; ash turned to skin; hair poured like black smoke. Her new dress formed from the Paramita petals, layering themselves in perfect symmetry, glowing faintly, whispering like silk made of blood. The beauty was divine, too perfect, too alive. Even the gods would have turned away.
.........
Then she rose from that dome. She ascended, floating above the dome like a spectre born of contradiction, a beauty doll carved out of horror.
But before she could breathe in that air, something caught her, chains.
They erupted from the air, yellow and burning, coiling around her wrists, her neck, her legs. They writhed like serpents, biting into her flesh. The sound was like sizzling fat as the chains branded her skin. She screamed — not in fear, but fury. "Who DARES—?"
The 3 swordsmen stood around her. The chains tightened. Each link pulsed with sacred flame, burning through layers of her flesh — the air filled with the smell of rotten flowers and melting wax. She laughed through the pain, her voice warped, delighted, feral. "Hahaha… even now… you all amuse me…"
Her eyes, bright, wild, trembling with twisted joy, looked down upon them. Her smile didn't fade, not even as her skin blistered and her body burned from within.
......
The air had gone still — the kind of silence that arrives before a storm, when even the dying dare not breathe. The woman, bound in the burning yellow chains, trembled as a low, guttural sound escaped her throat, something between a laugh and a growl.
Three of them stepped forward, their palms glowing crimson. They drew circles in the air, murmuring ancient invocations. From their fingertips burst sealing chains, thick and black, coiling around her ankles and wrists. The trio then crossed their arms into the Agni Mudra, flames licking their fingers.
Her small body twitched, the skin under the bindings pulsing like it housed too many hearts. Then it began: a purplish aura seeped out of her pores, thick as smoke, writhing like a living mist. It clung to the chains, hissing as it burned through them, releasing a smell like scorched flesh and iron rot.
The swordsmen gasped, the sacred bindings, blessed by generations of ancestors, were melting. Yet every time a link turned to ash, it reformed, trembling back into place, as if refusing to accept its death. The girl hissed, her voice distorted and demonic. "Ahhnnn… these damn chains… they hurt me," she moaned, her tongue flicking like a serpent's, "too strong… to break."
Seeing her falter, the swordsmen seized the chance. Their eyes, once human, now glowed with the light of desperation. They poured every last drop of energy into the seals.
But then...
The girl stopped struggling. Her lips curled into a slow, eerie smile. She tilted her head to the side, her tone mockingly soft. "Just kidding… you fools." And she screamed in sheer ecstasy. "Yeeeeee…" The sound was shrill enough to make the ground split. Purple fire erupted from her mouth like liquid plague, wrapping around her like armor.
But just as quickly, her energy flickered. Her breath grew shallow; exhaustion took root in her bones. The demonic grin faded, replaced by something almost human, weariness. She sighed, tilting her head back as though surrendering to an invisible sky. "Leave it… leave it… too weak now," she whispered. "You all can… do what you want."
Her eyes fluttered shut. Her head dropped backward, neck arched, as if accepting her fate.
The ten swordsmen wasted no time.
The remaining seven appeared from the shadows, figures draped in tattered robes, faces hidden behind darkness. They leapt onto the air itself. Beneath them, a vast array bloomed, glowing with molten red light.
Together they performed the sacred gesture: both hands forming the Agni Mudra — one hand pointed to the heavens, the other pressed to the chest. The touch of the palm over the heart caused a second array to appear before them, a blazing sigil of purification.
From that sigil, chains upon chains poured out, golden serpents that slithered and hissed, wrapping around the girl's body until she resembled a coffin woven from light. Her face disappeared beneath the bindings, her form swallowed by brilliance.
But light was not the only thing that came.
From inside that luminous cocoon leaked black and purplish fumes, twining together with the gold like veins of infection. The air curdled. An eerie sound filled the space, not a roar, but a collage of noises no mortal throat could make: wet munching, bone cracking, children's giggles, men's laughter, women sobbing. The sounds layered over one another, until it felt as if a thousand unseen mouths were pressed against the world, whispering into it.
The swordsmen's chants rose louder, each syllable trembling. The sacred hymns clashed with the unholy voices, creating a sound so discordant it made the dome above them ripple like disturbed water. For every verse they spoke, her laughter echoed back in mockery.
Still, the seal grew brighter. From the center of the array, a column of light shot upward, piercing the clouds. The heavens split. The landscape turned white, mountains, trees, even the blood on the earth became pale silhouettes. The dome began to shudder, its surface cracking, forming holes that whistled as the energy escaped.
Then, from the heart of that light, something descended, a sword.
It fell from the heavens, its blade forged from divine judgment. The air screamed as it tore through it. Every particle of her purple aura was sucked downward, forced to the ground beneath her by the sword's holy gravity. The world trembled as it descended, straight toward her heart.
And just as it was about to strike—
The sky tore open again, this time bleeding red.
A hand emerged from the new wound in reality, monstrous, skeletal, made from fused bones of humans and beasts, each joint twitching unnaturally. The hand caught the divine sword mid air. The blade wailed as if alive, its light dimming instantly under the weight of the creature's grasp.
Then came the pressure, an invisible, crushing force that rolled over the battlefield like a tidal wave. The swordsmen screamed, blood pouring from their eyes and ears. Their formation shattered; their holy arrays cracked like frozen glass. Their will, their very sanity, splintered beneath the suffocating presence that seeped from that bone-forged hand.
One of them managed a final prayer before his jaw dislocated, his words dissolving into static.
Then, below them, a second rift opened, red and violet swirling like bruised flesh. From within, bloody chains spilled out, like made of veins, bones, cells were tore apart, put each other and joined by veins, endless and writhing. They lashed through the air, moving with predatory precision.
Before the swordsmen could react, the chains snapped around them, coiling their limbs, their throats, their souls. The light in their eyes vanished. Their bodies were dragged upward, pulled screaming into the red vortex.
Their cries merged with the laughter that leaked from beyond the hole, a chorus of madness, joy, and agony blended together.
And then… silence.
The silence between them was thick, not the kind of silence that comforts, but the kind that presses against your eardrums until you start to hear things you shouldn't. Above them the crooked tree swayed without wind, its bark blackened and veined with something like dried blood. The boy and that woman sat on a tree bench, feet swinging idly, but his eyes, wide and searching, were locked on the woman beneath him. She sat cross-legged on there, face turned up toward the sun. Her eyes were open, raw, as if she had been crying for days. Yet no tears fell; the wetness had dried long ago, leaving only a dull red around the edges, like cracked glass.
Time itself seemed to stretch thin there. The tree's shadow moved wrong, like a clock's hand ticking backward. To the boy it felt like they had been sitting there for years, staring at each other, speaking without moving their lips.
At last he broke. Sliding down from the branch, he landed with a soft crunch of dead leaves. He brushed the dirt from his trousers, letting out a sigh that trembled at the edges. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke:
"I… I don't get the middle part."
The woman didn't move at first. Her head turned slowly, like something creaking on rusted hinges. Her lips curled into a soft smile.
"It's okay," she murmured, "you're just a kid after all. If you don't understand… that's much more better."
Her tone was soothing, but something underneath it crawled, like insects moving in her throat.
"No," he said quickly, shaking his head. "It's not that. I couldn't hear it. Only pieces. He took his spear, went by the field path… then nothing. Then later I heard the end again. Why?"
She tilted her head, studying him.
"Sorry, little boy," she whispered. "She doesn't want you to hear it. If it's like this, it's okay. If you had heard it all…"
Her voice thinned. "…I'd know you weren't him. But you're not him either."
The boy's stomach tightened. He blinked at her, his small fingers curling into fists.
"Why did you say that? Who is he? Who is she? What are you talking about?"
She smiled, but her smile was not warm. She reached out and caught his chin with long, cool fingers.
"Hey… you're too clever for your age. How can you understand my words so quickly? Clever little boy…"
Her nails traced his jawline in a way that was almost affectionate, almost predatory. Then she laughed, a brittle sound that made the bark above them peel and curl inward. She ruffled his hair.
"Bad sister," he muttered, frowning. "Not telling the full story… ahhnn. I have to go grab bread for you. Wait here."
She laughed harder, the sound echoing strangely, as though there were more than one of her laughing at once.
When she finally rose from the ground, her movement was oddly jointed, like a puppet. Her head tilted slightly, her fingers brushing her own temple.
"How do you… ahhnn…" she muttered, patting her head as though to steady something inside. "Didn't you hear what I said until now?"
"Yes," he said, nodding. "Didn't you also say I have to bring bread from them, if you tell me the story?"
He turned back, already stepping toward the path. But when he turned again she was right next to him, crouched low, toes digging into the dirt, her face inches from his. He hadn't heard her move.
Her hand came up again, stroking his hair, his chin, her smile curling too wide.
"Do you know what place this is?" she asked softly.
He frowned, thinking hard, thumb pressed to his chin the way adults did.
"Ahhnn… I never asked anyone," he said. "Really, I forgot. There's only you and me. Other people… I can't see them. What's the name of this place?"
Her smile deepened.
"No need to know," she murmured. "But tell me… where you're standing right now. Do you feel something different about it?"
A shiver crawled up his spine. The ground beneath his bare feet felt wrong — too soft, like it was breathing. His eyes darted to the roots of the tree; they pulsed faintly, as though blood moved through them.
"Is it… that place? The place where your story happened?" he asked quietly. "But it's just a story. Why does it matter? Ahhnn… I'm going to bring bread. Stand here or sit there."
Her eyes narrowed.
"What story?" she hissed, but still smiling. "What happened here? They were all real. Everything here was real. Do you want proof?"
Her voice sharpened on that last word, cutting through the air like a blade. The boy swallowed, his throat dry.
"If it's all real… then why won't you tell me the whole story?" he asked.
A gust of cold air rushed through the tree. The sun above them dimmed, as though something enormous had passed in front of it. The shadows deepened. Behind the woman's back, the tree bark split and peeled, revealing pale wood streaked with something dark and glistening. The air smelled faintly of copper and salt.
She crouched lower, her face suddenly too close, her teeth just a little too sharp when she smiled.
"Because if I told you everything," she whispered, "you'd never leave this place."
Her shadow stretched on the ground, long and crooked, reaching for his. The boy took a step back, but the soil felt soft under his heel, like flesh.
The woman's voice was calm, too calm, when she said,
"I told you already, but you don't have the heart to hear. But that's fine. Every act to work, to listen, to eat, to choose, all have their meanings. We just need to find them. And you will have enough time, little one, because this time…"
Her lips twisted into a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "…you will see the horror with your real eyes."
The boy blinked, uncertain if she was joking.
"Really? What should I do until then? When will it happen?"
She leaned closer and tugged at his ear playfully, but her fingers were ice-cold.
"Time and fate work together like twin serpents," she said, her voice stretching and curling around each word. "I don't know when it will come or what you'll do when it does, but it will come to you. Surely. Now tell me, before that, how much did you hear?"
He squatted down on the dry earth, arms crossed, his face scrunched up as he thought.
"Hmm… first that Mount Tai thing. Then that girl he met. Then he went to battle. The king and the villagers did bad things to him. After that… some part where he's saving someone… killing someone… then he turned into a tiger. And last — that small woman and the black cloth woman. Oh, and those ten swordsmen, and how they were swallowed up… Did I miss something?"
The woman chuckled softly, the sound sharp like a knife scraping porcelain.
"Clever. Very clever. But yes, you missed the most important part. Her two eggs… they covered with the bloody skins like it was made by placenta before they actually vanished."
The boy tilted his head. "Skins?" he repeated, confused.
"Mm-hmm. And you didn't hear the dome part?"
He frowned, trying to recall.
"Yes, yes… I heard something. A veil came from the mountain. But what's the dome?"
Her smile widened in a way that made his stomach twist.
"Ahhnn… You're asking too much for your age, little one."
He pouted, irritated.
"Aren't you the one telling me all this? If you don't explain, how am I supposed to understand?"
She reached out and pinched his cheek, lightly, but there was something predatory in her eyes.
"Then look," she said softly. "Look toward the sky."
He turned, following her words. For a moment he saw nothing unusual, the same open blue, the same burning sun hanging above.
"See?" he said, squinting. "The sun's there. The clouds are there. But… wait…"
He trailed off. The clouds weren't moving. Not a whisper of wind brushed his face. Even the leaves of the tree behind them hung motionless, like painted scenery. The air itself felt heavy, thick, as if it had stopped breathing.
"Why aren't the clouds moving?" he murmured. "Why is the air so still and heavy?"
The woman said nothing. He turned to look at her, but her eyes were closed, head tilted upward, smiling faintly.
"It's so quiet," he said, his voice trembling now. "The sun… it's too bright. It's not going down. Shouldn't it be afternoon by now? Or evening?"
Still no response. Only the faint sound of something, not wind, not birds, not life humming beneath the silence.
"There are no birds," he whispered. "No people. No sounds. Just us."
He pressed his small hands to his temples.
"I think… I think I'm forgetting something."
Her eyes opened then, black, bottomless, reflecting nothing.
"Good," she whispered. "That means it's beginning."
He turned to speak — but the woman was already gone. Only the faint echo of her voice lingered, whispering across the unmoving air:
"You don't need to understand the story, little one… you're already inside it."
She laughed, that strange brittle laughter that didn't sound human — a choked he hehehehe… that scraped through the heavy air. Her head tilted toward the sun as if mocking it, her grin stretching wider than her face should've allowed.
"You're not as clever as I thought."
The boy blinked, scratching his head, uneasy.
"But… why?"
Her eyes turned to him, gleaming with something ancient and cruel.
"Why do you think today is like other days, little boy? It's not. Look at the sun."
He hesitated, then lifted his gaze. His breath caught. The sun — that familiar golden circle that watched over the village — was shrinking. Not setting, but folding in on itself, collapsing like a dying ember. Its light flickered in uneven pulses, as if it were breathing its last.
"Why… why is it getting smaller?" he stammered. "The sun always sets near the river… even then it never looked like that. It's still bright — still bigger—"
"No," she interrupted softly. "What you're seeing isn't the sun. Or rather, it was the sun. You're seeing nothing but an illusion, little brother."
"Illusion?" he asked, brow furrowed. "What is that?"
She turned to him, her face half-lit by the dying light, half-consumed by shadow.
"Illusion," she said, drawing out the word, "is the mismatch of your senses. It makes you believe what you see is real, that your steps are sure, that your path is true… until it strips everything away. It's the sweetest lie — and the deepest trap."
He frowned, rubbing his temples.
"I don't understand anything you say! First that dome, now illusion—ahhh! I'm going to bring them here and ask myself! Stay here!"
He turned to go, his small feet scuffing the dry earth — but her voice froze him mid-step. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp, like a needle through the spine.
"Tell me one thing before you go," she said. "You always practice — from morning till night, until your body breaks. You train, you bleed, you collapse, then rise again. Why?"
He turned slowly, confusion knotting his face. She stepped closer, her words flowing like a dark tide.
"From where do you think that endless energy comes? Why does your mind only think of training? Why do you crave it — that ache, that struggle, that pain?"
The boy opened his mouth but no words came.
"Why do you feel that strange pull every time you fight, that joy that feels like falling into a pit? Why do you think it feels like death to skip a single day? Why, little brother?"
He shook his head, but she kept speaking, voice low and steady, almost tender.
"Have you ever wondered about Jaban uncle, why he teaches you? Who he really is? Or this village, why it's so silent, so still? Granny, Mala-sister… why they all look at you like they're waiting for something? Have you never asked why they helped you? Why you met Sheela in the end? Why today feels like the first day of your life and the last?"
The boy's throat felt dry. His thoughts scattered. Every name she spoke echoed in his head like bells ringing in a fog. His heart thudded painfully. He tried to remember their faces, Jaban's wrinkled grin, Granny's humming, Mala's gentle hands, but their features twisted, blurred, like wax figures melting in the heat.
"Stop…" he whispered. "Stop talking…"
But she didn't.
"Why did you think this world loved you, boy?" she said. "Why did you think pain was progress? That blood meant meaning?"
**********************************
Lips Of Lives
Black Lips:Do our lives begin as blank pages — soft, untouched, untainted —or are we born already drenched in the ink of forgotten sins?I feel the weight of crimes I cannot remember,like a bruise inherited from a stranger's grief.Tell me, is this justice,or simply another cruel game of the gods?
White Lips:And if it were a game, who do you imagine invented the rules?The gods — or the guilt within you that needed them to exist?Can justice still be called justiceif it begins before the first heartbeat?
Black Lips:Then we are doomed.We stumble in circles, prisoners of echoes older than our own names.Each decision merely a repetition;each act, a reflex born of ancestry's mistakes.
White Lips:But who said the circle cannot widen?When the river bends, does it call itself trapped?If a song repeats its refrain,is it bound — or simply remembering its melody?