The street erupted into chaos the moment the Worshippers charged.
Jakarta's neon glow flickered on their blades, the air heavy with the metallic tang of impending violence.
Eland'orr stood at the center of it all—heart pounding, senses sharpened by something not entirely human. For a brief second, time slowed. He could see every twitch of their muscles, every ripple of their robes as they lunged. His body reacted before his mind caught up.
The first Worshipper slashed down with a curved blade. Eland'orr's hand shot up, bare fingers catching the steel mid-swing. Sparks flared. The Worshipper's eyes widened as the blade refused to cut. With a sudden twist, Eland'orr snapped the weapon in two, the sound cracking like thunder in the alley.
Freiyah moved at his side, her sword a streak of silver light. She met the second Worshipper with precision, cutting through the attack before it even landed. Her movements were elegant, sharp, each strike born of centuries of training.
But the Worshippers were many, and their chants grew louder, filling the night with a rhythm that seemed to sap the courage of ordinary men. Their fanaticism lent them strength—strength fueled by madness.
Eland'orr felt the rhythm clawing at him, trying to reach the Lioh inside his veins, to twist it toward submission. He staggered for a moment, clutching his chest as a burning heat spread through him. The mutation answered the call, cells writhing, DNA shifting, as if the chants themselves resonated with his transformation.
Freiyah noticed. "Don't listen!" she shouted, deflecting another strike. "They're trying to bend the Lioh. Fight with your will—anchor it with who you are!"
Her words cut through the haze. Eland'orr's teeth clenched as he focused on the one thing that mattered: survival.
The third Worshipper came from behind, but Eland'orr's body moved with unnatural reflex. He spun, elbow slamming into the attacker's chest. The man flew backward, ribs cracking as he smashed against the concrete wall.
More came. Five at once, blades flashing in the dim light. Eland'orr reached down instinctively, his hand grasping the broken half of a spear left discarded near the ground. The weapon felt right in his grip, as though it belonged to him long before this night.
With a roar, he struck. The spear pierced one Worshipper through the shoulder, spinning him off balance. Eland'orr twisted it free, swung it in a wide arc, and knocked two more to the ground. The air rang with the sound of flesh meeting steel.
Freiyah's blade sang beside him. She fought with deadly grace, carving through the circle of enemies. At times, she seemed less like a warrior and more like a storm—fluid, inevitable, unstoppable.
But Suraka, the leader, had not moved. He stood in the shadows, hands clasped before him, lips curving into a cruel smile as he watched the chaos unfold.
Finally, he stepped forward. "So… the blood awakens." His voice was calm, almost approving. "Good. Very good. You are everything the prophecy promised."
Eland'orr snarled, spear still dripping. "Stay away from me."
Suraka chuckled, low and mocking. "Do you really think you can escape what you are? Look at yourself. Look at how easily you kill. That power isn't borrowed—it is born. You cannot run from it."
Before Eland'orr could answer, Suraka raised his hand. The chanting of the remaining Worshippers shifted—deeper, harsher. The ground beneath them trembled.
Freiyah's eyes widened. "He's summoning."
The shadows thickened, twisting into unnatural shapes. From the darkness, something crawled forth—massive, grotesque, its form half-human, half-beast. A Borhlog. Not fully material, but enough. Its eyes burned with hunger as it stepped into the light, towering over them.
Eland'orr froze. The sight of it clawed at his mind, awakening flashes—visions not his own. Cities burning. Screams echoing through bloodstained fields. And always, the shadow of Borhlog looming above them.
The mutation within him surged, answering the ancient enemy. His blood roared like fire, his skin prickling as if straining to break. For a moment, he thought his bones might shatter from within.
"Eland'orr!" Freiyah's voice snapped him back. Her blade pointed at the beast. "With me!"
The Borhlog lunged. The ground cracked under its weight, claws slashing downward. Freiyah rolled aside, countering with a swift strike, but the blade only glanced off its hide. Sparks flew uselessly.
Eland'orr charged forward, spear in hand. He leapt higher than he should have been able to, landing on the beast's arm, using its bulk as a platform. With a guttural cry, he drove the spear into its shoulder. The Borhlog howled, shaking violently, throwing him off like a ragdoll.
He crashed against the pavement, the impact rattling his bones. Pain flared through his body, but something strange happened—the pain sharpened him, fueled him. Cells screamed, adapting, knitting his body back together faster than before.
Suraka's laughter echoed. "Yes! Struggle! Bleed! That is the path of the true heir!"
Eland'orr pushed himself up, vision red, breath ragged. Freiyah appeared beside him, offering her hand. "On your feet. This fight isn't yours alone."
Their eyes met—hers steady, his blazing. Together, they turned to face the Borhlog.
The battle raged. Eland'orr ducked under its swing, his reflexes impossibly sharp, while Freiyah distracted it with quick slashes. They fought not as two strangers, but as one rhythm, each move complementing the other.
And then—an opening. The Borhlog lifted its head to roar, throat exposed.
Eland'orr didn't think. He moved. His spear shot upward, piercing deep into its neck. Black ichor gushed as the beast staggered, choking on its own cry. Freiyah followed through, leaping high, her sword slicing clean across its head.
The Borhlog collapsed in a heap of smoke and gore, its body disintegrating into the night.
Silence.
The Worshippers recoiled, their chant faltering. Suraka alone remained calm, eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction.
"This is only the beginning," he said, voice smooth as poison. "The more you fight, the more the Lioh will claim you. When that day comes, you will seek me—not as enemy, but as master."
With a wave of his hand, shadows swallowed him and the remaining Worshippers. In seconds, they were gone, leaving only blood and silence behind.
Eland'orr staggered, chest heaving, spear trembling in his grip. His body was soaked in sweat, his muscles trembling not only from exhaustion but from the storm raging within. He could feel it—the mutation accelerating, cells shifting like wildfire after tasting battle.
Freiyah sheathed her sword, stepping close. She touched his arm, grounding him. "You held your ground. You fought with me."
Eland'orr looked at her, voice hoarse. "But he was right. I felt it inside me—the… hunger. The violence. What if I lose myself?"
Freiyah's gaze softened, though her voice was firm. "Then I'll be here to remind you who you are. As long as you hold to that, you are not theirs."
But deep inside, Eland'orr knew the truth: Suraka's words lingered because they carried a shard of reality. The more he fought, the more the beast within answered.