The temple was not built of stone.
Aryasa stepped into its halls, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. The walls shimmered with sound, not light—waves of vibration that crawled across the air, bending it, twisting it, reshaping it. Every step he took echoed, not once, but a thousand times, each reverberation carrying fragments of voices long forgotten.
Mangku Gede's words lingered in his mind: "The temple does not speak. It remembers. And memory is heavier than silence."
Aryasa pressed forward. The floor pulsed beneath his feet, each step resonating with rhythm that was not his own. He closed his eyes, and the world shifted. He saw visions faces of guardians long gone, their voices fading, their bodies collapsing. He saw Rangda, her laughter sharp, her hands tearing silence from the air. He saw his father, standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes heavy, his voice trembling.
"You are chosen."
Aryasa gasped. He opened his eyes. The temple shimmered. The echoes screamed.
The echoes were not mere sound.
They rose from the walls, forming shapes that resembled faces, mouths, and eyes. They spoke—not with words, but with rhythm, with silence, with memory. Their voices crawled beneath Aryasa's skin, threading themselves into his veins.
"You cannot carry us. You cannot silence us. You cannot remember us."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The echoes surged. The temple screamed.
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 echoes screamed. The world pulsed. The temple faltered.
But the sound 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 echoes, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The echoes."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried them. You remembered. But the echoes are endless. And you cannot carry them 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 temple, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was resonance.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has carried the echoes," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.