The forest was alive with silence.
Aryasa walked beneath towering trees, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. The air was heavy, filled with scent of dampt earth and the faint echo of whispers that seemed to crawl along the bark. He knew this was not an ordinary path. Mangku Gede had warned him:"Beyind the river lies the gate. it is not stone. it is not wood. it is shadow. and shadow remebers."
The path narrowed. Roots twisted acroos the soil, forming shapes that resembled faces, mouths, and eyes. Aryasa felt the whisper surge within him, louder now, sharper, filled with something that pressed against his chest.
"You are wound. You are memory. You are silence reborn."
He pressed forward. The trees parted, revealing a clearing. At its center stood the gate.
It was not built. It was not carved. It was formed from shadow itself, rising like smoke, shimmering faintly with light that was not of this world. Its surface rippled, reflecting faces that were not his own guardians long gone, villagers forgotten, ancestors lost.
Aryasa stepped closer. The kris trembled. The mark burned. The whisper screamed.
"The gate remembers."
The shadows shifted. Figures emerged, cloaked in darkness, their eyes glowing faintly. They circled Aryasa, their voices sharp, mocking.
"You cannot carry us. You cannot silence us. You cannot remember us."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The shadows lunged.
The battle began.
Aryasa struck, each blow guided not by strength, but by rhythm the rhythm of memory, the rhythm of silence, the rhythm of the veil itself. The kris sang. The gate screamed. The world pulsed. The shadows faltered.
But the gate did not vanish. It remained. Waiting. Watching.
Aryasa fell to his knees, breath ragged, chest burning. The ground shimmered faintly. A single ember rose from the gate, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The gate."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But the gate is endless. And you cannot carry it alone."
Aryasa looked at the kris. He was no longer just a boy with a blade. He was the wound. He was the memory. He was silence reborn.
And tonight, the veil trembled.
Aryasa rose from the clearing, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was a passage.
The villagers watched from afar, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede bowed his head. "The guardian has crossed the gate," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.