Nine years have passed, and peace flourishes across Chakradwipa. Even the poorest villages feel the blessings of their great king.
And far from the capital, in the dusty lanes of Talang Asri, children wage imaginary wars with wooden spears and bamboo shields, shouting vows to protect their homeland from invisible invaders.
Among them, unnoticed and outnumbered, runs a boy named Adanu Raksa. And none of them know he is the son of a king.
"I don't care if your father is a general in the fort!"
"A weakling like you isn't welcome here!"
"But I just want to play!" young Adanu Raksa protests. "Why do we have to fight?"
"We are children of Talang Asri! Future warriors who will be the guardian of Chakradwipa's borders!"
"We don't want a crybaby on our team!"
"If you want to join us, prove your worth!"
And so, the bullying begins.
Eight boys, all older than him, surround Adanu Raksa. Four younger ones watch from the sidelines, grinning in amusement.
They are only peasant children, but they've been trained in basic martial arts. With playful aggression, they swing twigs and hurl rotten fruit, each move exaggerated as if imitating warriors in battle.
"The Art of Monkey Throwing Fruits!"
"Langur Dance!"
"Elephant's Rampage!"
Their attacks may be childish, but when executed properly, even twigs and rotten fruit can leave bruises.
Adanu Raksa winces as another strike lands on his arm.
"Please! I don't want to hurt anyone!" he begs.
"Hurt us?" One boy scoffs. "As if you could!"
"If you can make just one of us cry, we'll let you join The Band of the Great Protectors of Talang Asri!"
Adanu Raksa grips his own twig but refuses to use it. He hesitates, unwilling to fight back.
His silence earns their contempt. The boys stop using their twigs and begin kicking him instead.
"There's no way you can be one of us!"
"You're a coward!"
"I am NOT a coward!" Adanu Raksa shouts. "I'm the son of Rangkabhumi, the Great Protector of Talang Asri!"
"No! You're a disgrace to Talang Asri!"
"Coward!"
Nearby, a few men sip their drinks in a small coffee tavern, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement.
"I bet three silver coins the kid cries for his father first," one smirks.
"Nah. He knows his father won't come. I'll bet three coins he calls for his mother."
Back in the dirt, Adanu Raksa curls into himself, shielding his body from the kicks. But even as the blows land, he does not cry out for help.
"Please, stop! I don't want to fight you!"
"Rangkabhumi must be ashamed to have a son like you!"
"You'll never protect anyone if you're too afraid to hit someone!"
The taunts sting deeper than the bruises.
Until then…
"I AM NOT A COWARD!!!"
A powerful roar erupts from Adanu Raksa, shaking the air.
The boys freeze. A primal fear creeps into their bones.
Even the men in the nearby tavern rise from their seats, their easy amusement turning into concern.
"What was that?"
"That kid… Rangkabhumi's son…"
Adanu Raksa stands, his tear-streaked cheeks flushed with fury. His twig trembles in his grip.
His lips curl into a snarl. His voice drops into a low hiss.
"Kill…"
Then suddenly, his hand snaps forward, grabbing a boy's neck. His twig raises high, ready to strike.
The boy's breath catches. His body locks in terror.
And then…
Plak!
The twig stops mid-air, caught by a firm hand.
Bramasti stands there, his face twisted with a mixture of rage and something deeper.
"Did I ever teach you to use my techniques against the weak?" he asks, his voice dangerously low.
Adanu Raksa's fury wavers. "But I…"
"Go back to your mother. Now."
The coldness in Bramasti's voice snuffs out the last embers of Adanu Raksa's anger. His twig falls from his fingers. He turns and walks away, head low.
Bramasti watches him go. Then, slowly, he looks down at his own hand, the hand that caught the twig.
It's tingling. A dull, stinging pain lingers in his palm.
He flexes his fingers.
His thoughts darken.
So… this is what the boy is capable of.
***
For years, Bramasti has acted as Adanu Raksa's mentor. He teaches him swordplay, guides his training. But his loyalty does not belong to the boy.
It belongs to the mother.
Arkadevi.
Even after all these years, after she has made a life with Rangkabhumi, Bramasti's desire for her remains unchanged. Whenever Rangkabhumi is away at the fortress, Bramasti lingers around Arkadevi.
Always playing the role of the trusted friend.
Watching over their son.
"Good work, Adanu Raksa!" he praises, watching the boy's form in practice. "You truly have the makings of a warrior."
"One day, I'll be just like my father," Adanu Raksa beams. "A hero! The great general of Talang Asri!"
Bramasti falls silent. For a moment, a new thought takes root in his mind.
If this boy ever claims his true birthright…
His lips curl into a knowing smile.
He leans in slightly. "You know what? About your father… actually…"
Before he can finish, Arkadevi steps outside the house, carrying a basket of laundry. Her beauty hasn't faded after all these years.
Bramasti's attention shifts immediately. And just like that, whatever he intended to say to the boy is forgotten.
"Well, keep training," he says dismissively, before turning on his heel and following Arkadevi toward the river.
***
The moment Arkadevi reaches the water's edge, kneeling to wash the clothes, Bramasti stops.
He watches, peeking from behind the bushes. His breath grows heavier. A twisted smile forms on his lips.
The way Arkadevi's wet garments cling to her. The glistening beads of water on her skin.
When was the last time you touched her, Rangkabhumi?
How could you leave such a beautiful woman all alone?
Bramasti's thoughts spiral, his vision blurring.
And then…
A strange sensation washes over him.
The world shifts.
Suddenly, he is not watching Arkadevi anymore. He is with her, holding her, stroking her smooth hair.
Her lips part in pleasure. Her skin is warm beneath his hands.
It's so real, so vivid. He can feel her, taste her.
But suddenly…
His breath hitches, and his hip jerking. He blinks rapidly, his body trembling, and his pulse racing.
"Ouw shit!"
Then the illusion shatters. When his gaze drops in horror, he finds his pants are damp.
"…What was that?" he breathes. "Was I… dreaming?"
Then a voice slithers into his mind.
<< What are you waiting for? Isn't that what you truly desire? >>
Bramasti stiffens. Beneath his robe, the cursed kris trembles, its energy coiling, whispering, feeding on his lust.
Once again, the hunger stirs. And this time, he doesn't resist.
The illusion wasn't enough. The pleasure was fleeting.
But Bramasti craves real warmth.
Real flesh.