The nights in Jakarta carried a different weight after that evening in Freiyah's apartment. For Eland'orr, nothing felt the same. The hum of the city—the crowded streets, the horns of motorbikes, the calls of vendors—no longer dulled his senses. Instead, every sound, every flicker of light, every whisper in the air felt sharpened, etched into his perception. He could hear conversations half a block away, smell the faint tang of rain before it reached the ground. Yet he told himself it was imagination, the residue of stories and confessions too heavy to grasp in one sitting.
Freiyah had warned him: the awakening would not be sudden. It would unfold layer by layer, like an ancient lock being undone by an invisible key. The Lioh within her had been passed to him, and now it had begun its work—rewriting him from the inside out. He still looked human when he glanced at his reflection in the glass of shop windows, but in the marrow of his bones, something was changing.
And he was not the only one aware of it.
Two nights after their union, Freiyah led Eland'orr along the riverside near her apartment. The city lights shimmered across the black water, broken by the gentle current. Vendors still called out, selling satay and fried bananas to late-night wanderers, but Freiyah's attention remained elsewhere. She walked with purpose, scanning shadows, as if waiting for something to reveal itself.
"You're quiet," Eland'orr murmured, matching her stride.
"I have reason to be." Her voice was low, cautious. "When the Lioh passed into you, it was like striking a beacon. Forces older than this city felt it. They will not wait long."
A chill spread through him. "You mean… someone's coming?"
"They're already here," she said flatly.
The attack came faster than he expected.
From the darkness of the narrow alley ahead, three figures emerged, blending almost seamlessly with the city crowd. At first glance, they could have been ordinary men—jackets zipped against the humid night, faces shadowed by caps. But as they drew nearer, their movements betrayed them: too coordinated, too silent, eyes gleaming faintly with an unnatural sheen.
Freiyah stiffened. "Cultists," she whispered. "Half-bloods bound to Valakh."
Eland'orr's throat tightened. His instincts screamed at him to run, but something else—something deeper—kept his feet rooted.
The first of the men stepped forward. His smile was thin, cruel. "So this is him. The last fragment of Futa blood walking in human skin." His Bahasa carried a strange cadence, as though shaped by a foreign tongue. "Valakh was right. He does exist."
Freiyah moved in front of Eland'orr, her stance protective. "You will not touch him."
The cultist laughed softly. "We don't need to touch him. The Lioh inside him already calls to us. He will come willingly—eventually."
"Not tonight," Freiyah snapped.
The fight erupted before Eland'orr could think.
One cultist lunged, a blade glinting under the streetlight. Freiyah intercepted, moving with a speed almost inhuman. Metal clashed, sparks flew. Another came from the side, aiming for Eland'orr. For a split second, panic froze him. Then something else surged up—heat, instinct, clarity.
His body moved before his mind did. He ducked under the swing, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted with a strength that startled even himself. Bone cracked. The cultist screamed, stumbling back.
Eland'orr gasped. He had never fought in his life, not like this. Yet his body reacted with precision, as though rehearsed a thousand times in silence.
The third cultist circled, eyes fixed on him. "He's awakening," the man hissed. "Even unfinished, his blood sings."
They came at him together. Eland'orr blocked, dodged, struck—each movement awkward yet powerful, like a child learning to walk but born to run. One blow sent a cultist sprawling against the alley wall, another dropped when Eland'orr's elbow connected with his jaw.
Still, he felt the strain. His muscles burned, his breath ragged. Whatever strength lay inside him was raw, unshaped, like fire without direction.
Freiyah, meanwhile, moved with ruthless grace. She disarmed one cultist, sending his blade skittering across the wet pavement, and with a single strike to the throat dropped him unconscious. The last, realizing the tide had turned, spat blood onto the ground and hissed: "Valakh will know. He always knows." Then he melted back into the shadows, vanishing as suddenly as he had appeared.
Silence returned, broken only by Eland'orr's ragged breathing and the distant call of a vendor hawking sweet tea.
He staggered back, hands trembling. "What… what just happened to me?"
Freiyah touched his shoulder, steadying him. Her eyes were sharp, but beneath them lay a flicker of pride. "The Lioh is beginning its work. Your body responds before your mind understands. This is only the beginning."
He shook his head, overwhelmed. "I could've been killed. We both could have—"
"And yet you weren't." Her voice cut firm, grounding him. "You fought. You survived. That alone proves what you are."
Eland'orr swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, to deny it, but the evidence burned in his muscles and echoed in his heartbeat. He had felt it: power waiting just beneath his skin.
But another fear gnawed at him. "If Valakh knows…"
Freiyah's expression darkened. She glanced toward the river, where the black water flowed endlessly under the neon lights. "Then the game has begun. And now, Eland'orr, we are running out of time."
That night, sleep refused to come. Lying in Freiyah's apartment, Eland'orr stared at the ceiling, every shadow threatening to peel open with unseen eyes.
His body ached in strange ways—joints tight, nerves buzzing, as though every cell in him was alive with restless energy.
He thought of the cultist's words. Half-bloods bound to Valakh. If they had found him so quickly, how many more waited in the corners of this vast, sleepless city? And how much longer before Valakh himself stepped out of myth and into his reality?
Eland'orr clenched his fists, remembering the crack of bone beneath his grip, the raw force that had surged unbidden. It scared him, but it also stirred something else—something dangerously close to hunger.
From the balcony, the city glowed like an endless constellation of man-made stars. Somewhere within that sprawl, enemies hunted. And within him, the awakening pressed forward, layer by layer.
The storm had only just begun.