Rain poured heavily that night, drenching the glass walls of Nexus Tower, which loomed like iron spears piercing the dark sky. Water streamed down the massive panes, forming random patterns that danced as if mocking Devara's uncertainty. She stood on the balcony of her small apartment, her hands pressed against the cold glass, but her mind was far more chaotic than the storm outside. Queen Li's words echoed in her head like an unshakable mantra: "Like you used to." Used to? How could there be a past she didn't remember? Those words were like knives, slicing into her memories, opening wounds she hadn't known existed. Devara felt like a stranger in her own body, as if the soul inhabiting it wasn't entirely her own.
The previous night, after the black car dropped her off at her apartment, sleep had eluded her. The gash on her arm had been bandaged by Queen Li's guard with advanced healing salve that mended it in hours, but the pain in her heart lingered. She stared at the black access card, a small object that felt like a key to a personal hell. "Why me?" she muttered again, her voice swallowed by the roar of the rain. District 9, the inexplicable fight, and Queen Li's words about "like you used to"—it all felt like fragments of a nightmare she'd had since childhood. She recalled those dreams: black shadows chasing her through corridors of time, faces both foreign and familiar, as if they were hers. Were they a sign? Or had madness finally caught up with her?
The next morning, Devara decided to act. She could no longer wait. With the access card in her pocket, she took the subway to the office, avoiding the suspicious glances of her colleagues. At Nexus Tower, a private elevator carried her to an unlisted basement floor. The restricted archive's door opened with a soft click as she swiped the card, and Devara stepped into a room as silent as a tomb. Only the low hum of cooling machines, like the breath of a sleeping giant, accompanied her. Cold white lights flickered on automatically, illuminating rows of dusty file boxes, folders, and faintly blinking monitors on the walls. The air was colder, denser, as if time itself had frozen within the concrete walls.
Devara sat at the main computer terminal, her fingers hesitating as she inserted the access card. The screen lit up, displaying a simple interface: search by name, project, or biological identifier. She started with her own name—"Devara"—but, as expected, the results were empty. Then she remembered the birthmark on her back, a crescent-shaped mole she'd always thought unremarkable. She entered its description: Birthmark: crescent, location: lower right back. The screen flickered faintly, and files began to stream in.
At first, it was routine data: names of long-gone employees, outdated project records, reports of industrial accidents from decades past. Devara scrolled patiently, but the deeper she delved into the database, the stranger it became. Folders with cryptic names like Soul Cycle, Reincarnation Projection, and Karma Wasana appeared. She recalled fragments of Hindu teachings from school—reincarnation as the soul's rebirth after death, shaped by karma from past lives. But this wasn't a textbook; this was a corporate archive, and it felt too real, too structured.
Her fingers trembled as she opened a folder labeled Project Timeline. The screen filled with a digital grid of photographs. They weren't just images of strangers—they were her. Devara, but in different eras. A black-and-white portrait from the 19th century showed a man in a tall hat, his stiff smile identical to hers, standing at the old Batavia harbor. A faded ink sketch from the 17th century depicted her with a thin beard, dressed as a Dutch sailor, holding a compass aboard a ship bound for the East Indies. A worn daguerreotype from the colonial era captured "her" as a spice merchant in a Javanese market, the same dark brown eyes staring into a primitive camera.
Devara staggered back, her chair scraping loudly in the silent room. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, like a fish flung onto dry land. "Impossible," she whispered, her voice breaking. But she couldn't stop. She scrolled deeper, finding a military uniform from World War II, her name—or a similar one, Devi Aras—stitched on the chest, standing on the Pacific front against the Japanese invasion. A birth photo from a hospital in Solo in the 1920s showed a baby with the same crescent birthmark. More horrifying was a 1960s newspaper article, headlined Tragic Car Crash on Poso Highway, with a photo of the victim—her. A teenage body mangled in the wreckage of an old car, eyes open blankly to the sky.
She scrolled frantically, her fingers nearly hitting random keys. Hundreds of birth and death records appeared, spanning from the 16th century to the present, all marked by the same identifier: a crescent birthmark on the back. Some died of plague during the Dutch East India Company era, others in peasant uprisings in Central Java, one lost at sea in a monsoon storm. Each entry bore a note: Karma wasana: good deeds from past lives grant a higher rebirth. Status: located and monitored.
"Impossible…" Devara whispered again, louder this time, her voice echoing in the empty room. This database wasn't just a corporate archive. It was a centuries-long record of pursuit, a spider's web catching reborn souls. She recalled her grandmother's old Javanese folktales—about titisan, souls returning to redeem karma, hunted by dark spirits craving immortality. Was Nexus Corp—or Queen Li—the hunter? Her hands shook violently as she typed a new search: Nusaraya Reincarnation Project. The result: Age: 74 years. Location: East Java. Identifier: crescent birthmark. Status: located. Next projection: 2025–2050.
This year. Devara. Her heart pounded like a sledgehammer. She turned, trying to step away from the screen, her feet stumbling over scattered cables. But her eyes caught a CCTV feed on a nearby monitor, automatically looping security footage. And there, the greatest secret unraveled.
The footage showed Queen Li—walking. Not limping as Devara had always seen, but with agile, almost inhuman steps. In the grainy black-and-white video, she entered this same basement room, her slender hands lifting a massive marble statue—easily 200 kilograms—as if it were a rag doll. Her muscles moved with unearthly precision, like a perfect machine. Then she stood before a large wall map, digital lines marking locations across Nusaraya and Java: points of birth, death, and projection. The map's title: REINCARNATION LOCATION PROJECTION – 2050. Queen Li traced the lines with her finger, her lips moving silently, as if praying or planning.
Devara's world collapsed in an instant. She fell to her knees, clutching her head, trying to hold back the scream rising in her throat. Reincarnation. Immortality. It was all connected—the Night Shadows, the old accidents, even her small acts of kindness on the street that seemed to lead her here. Was she a pawn in a larger game of souls? Or prey chosen to be bound forever?
Footsteps echoed behind her, slow but certain, like the ticking of an inescapable clock. Devara spun around, her breath ragged. Queen Li stood at the doorway—not in her wheelchair, but upright, perfectly poised. Her face was half-shrouded in the dim light's shadows, no longer the frail figure Devara knew. Her gaze cut like a blade, her voice transformed—ancient, heavy with centuries, like a breeze carrying whispers from forgotten tombs.
"You… immortal?" Devara's voice broke, barely audible over the hum of the machines. "And you've been following me… all this time?"
Queen Li approached with slow steps, her black gown sweeping the floor like a living shadow. In the faint light, faint wrinkles appeared on her face—lines of age that shouldn't be there—then vanished, as if time toyed with reality. She stopped before Devara, her cold hand touching the young woman's shoulder, no longer gentle but like a chain of icy steel. "I've watched you be born, live, and die more times than you can count," she said, her voice low, like an ancient Hindu prayer about samsara, the endless cycle of birth and death. "Each time you're reborn, with that crescent mark as a beacon, I find you. In Batavia's spice markets, on VOC ships, in the Pacific war's battlefields. Each time I lose you, the same wound reopens—a karmic scar that never heals. I won't lose you. Not again."
Devara froze, her body still though her soul rebelled. She recalled myths of immortal deities in Nusantara folklore—like Kala Rau, the giant craving eternity, his severed head still watching the world from the sky. Was Queen Li such a being? Not human, but a creature bound by a curse of time, hunting reincarnated souls to complete herself? "Why me?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What's my connection to you? This… this feels like a curse, not love."
Queen Li smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes—eyes that had seen centuries, heavy with unpaid karma wasana. "You are my titisan, Devara. Our souls were bound since the ancient Javanese kingdoms, when you were a warrior who saved me from betrayal. You died in my arms, and since then, every rebirth of yours calls to me. Nexus Corp is merely a tool—a project to map reincarnation, to ensure you return to my embrace. The Night Shadows? They're my failures, souls I caught but couldn't hold. But you… you're different. You remember, deep in your heart. Your moves in District 9, your kindness on the street—those are remnants of 'before.'"
Devara pulled back, her back pressing against the cold wall. The room felt smaller now, the archive racks like prison walls closing in. The rain outside still poured, but its sound was faint, drowned by her own heartbeat. "This is insane. I'm not yours. I'm… just a human in this sick world."
Queen Li shook her head slowly, her eyes glinting like falling stars. "This world is sick because of us, Devara. Corruption, tyranny, the Night Shadows—all rooted in an unbroken cycle. But with me, you can break it. Become eternal with me. Forget death, forget the pain of reincarnation. Together, we can make Nusaraya an eternal paradise."
But Devara saw the lie behind her words—an unhealthy obsession, like a dark spirit from legend hunting descendants to atone for past sins. She stood slowly, her hand reaching for the mouse to close the screen, but Queen Li was faster. She touched Devara's shoulder again, and this time, memories flooded in: flashes of past lives—a sword in hand, blood on battlefields, a final embrace under an ancient banyan tree. The pain, love, betrayal—it was all real.
"I won't be your pawn anymore," Devara said, her voice stronger now. "If this is a game, I'll end it."
Queen Li stepped back, her smile fading. "You can't escape karma, Devara. But try. That's what makes you interesting."
She turned, summoning her wheelchair from the shadows like magic. The door opened, and she left, leaving Devara alone with the glowing screen, photos of her past lives staring back like bloodthirsty ghosts. The modern world, already sick, now felt smaller—because one figure transcended time, watching her with an obsession that could not die. And for the first time, Devara felt not like a victim, but a warrior in an endless cycle.