Darkness.
Not the kind that swallows shapes and hides monsters behind trees and jagged stone.
This was deeper. A darkness that clung to thoughts, memories, fears—one that seeped under the skin and whispered truths no one wished to hear.
Simon floated in it.
No weight.
No body.
No breath.
Just existence—raw and frayed like thread pulled too many times.
He did not know how long he had been here.
Or where "here" even was.
He only knew one thing:
He was afraid.
Not of death.
He had brushed shoulders with death more times in the past few days than most in ten lifetimes.
No—this fear had a name.
Identity.
A flutter echoed in the abyss, like two voices breathing at the same time, overlapping, arguing in silence. One masculine. One faint and noble. One trembling and confused. One sharp and bitter. One old. One young. One human. One… not quite.
Then—
A ripple carved through the darkness.
A figure formed.
A boy. Barefoot. Mud-stained from fields that once smelled of burning sun and wet soil. Hair messy. Skin the tone of simple village life. Shoulders narrow, like he never carried more than a basket of rice or bundle of firewood.
Eyes tired but stubborn.
Jaka. There was nothing to answer with—no mouth, no breath, no sound.
He simply existed.
Another ripple.
A second figure formed—a tall young man with silver-laced hair and eyes like tempered steel. His garments royal in cut but torn, soaked in blood and ash from battles that felt ancient, distant—yet close enough to still throb like fresh wounds. A faint crown shimmered above his head like a burden more than honor.
Simonstita Aumar.
The fallen heir.
The abandoned prince of a forgotten name.
He stared at the abyss with contempt, then at the boy beside him with something harsher—shame.
"You cling to life like a worm," he said in a language both ancient and fluent in Simon's mind. "Even though death would be mercy for us."
Jaka flinched.
Simon—whoever he was—felt it, even without form.
The abyss pulsed.
The two selves faced each other.
Two names.
Two histories.
Two failures.
And in the center of this void floated a spark—small, fragile, but stubborn like a flame refusing to die in hurricane winds.
Simon.
The body that lived.
The consciousness that fought.
The will that crawled through blood, bone, nightmares, monsters, and hunger.
He was all of them.
He was none of them.
He almost laughed—if he had a body.
What a joke.
He had lived twice and excelled at losing in both lives.
Jaka—beaten by poverty, swallowed by powerlessness.
Simonstita—devoured by betrayal and destiny.
Neither won.
Neither mattered.
So why cling?
Why fight?
Why refuse to die where fate abandoned him?
Jaka's eyes lifted. "Karena… kita nggak punya siapa-siapa selain diri kita sendiri."
His voice broke. "…dan aku—aku nggak mau kita hilang begitu saja."
Simonstita scoffed, turning away. "Naïve."
"Coward," Jaka whispered back.
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Sharp.
Then—another ripple.
A mirror manifested between them—tall, ornate, cracked like it had been punched by history itself. In its surface shimmered images, memories flickering like dying lanterns.
A man who lost everything. His family, his friends, his lover, even he closed his eyes to the only ray of hope. His older brother, the only one who tried to cheer him up when he was down. Every day.
No matter what, whether it's a holiday or not, whether it's a sunny day or not.. He always comes. However, on the day he died, I did not visit his grave. Ah, how incredibly cruel I am. After what he did, I...
Weakness.
Failure.
Loss.
Loneliness.
Their reflections trembled, then shifted—blurring into one form.
A thin figure.
Dirty.
Bruised.
Eyes ringed with exhaustion.
Hands trembling not from fear—but from refusing to stop fighting.
Simon.
Not Jaka.
Not Simonstita.
Something new born from them both.
He had a voice now—shaky, rough, half-broken but real.
"I am not strong," Simon whispered.
The abyss shook, as if disagreeing, but he continued.
"I am not chosen. Not blessed. Not destined."
"I am not the prince who failed."
"I am not the boy who ran."
His spine straightened.
His fists clenched.
"But I am here."
The darkness recoiled.
The reflection lifted its head—eyes burning not with power, but with refusal.
Raw, ugly, stubborn refusal.
"And I will become someone who wins."
Jaka's breath hitched.
Simonstita's fists shook.
No flowery destiny.
No grand prophecy.
No heroic pride.
Just rejection—of helplessness.
Of fate.
Of giving up.
Simon inhaled a breath that didn't exist and exhaled strength that did.
"No matter what I was before… no matter which name I held…"
"…I am still me."
"I will survive."
"I will grow."
"I will conquer everything that tried to break us."
His voice thundered, echoing like a war drum in the void.
"And I will win—because nothing scares a man who has already died twice."
The abyss roared.
The mirror shattered.
Light stabbed through the void like dawn over a battlefield.
Jaka smiled—wiping tears.
Simonstita lowered his head—not defeated, but humbled.
And both faded…
not disappearing—merging.
Becoming quiet warmth in Simon's chest, like pieces of a heart reforging.
He stood in the empty light—alone, yet whole.
Not Jaka.
Not Simonstita.
Simon.
The void whispered a final word as it crumbled into blinding brightness.
"Awaken.."
---
A gasp tore from his lungs.
Air. Cold stone beneath his cheek. Blood dried on his arms.
He was awake.
Broken. Aching. Barely alive.
But alive.
He pushed one palm against the ground—the simple act trembled like lifting mountains.
A whisper left his cracked lips, hoarse and determined.
"I'm not done."
He didn't look heroic. Didn't look powerful. He looked like a corpse trying to stand.
And yet—
His eyes were sharper than any beast's.
His heartbeat was iron.
His breath was fire.
He rose.
Slow. Painful. Defiant.
Somewhere in the dark, monsters stirred.
Somewhere deeper, evolution clawed at his bones, whispering temptation of power and blood.
He did not fear it anymore.
Whatever he became—whoever he was—he would choose.
Not fate.
Not hunger.
Not blood.
Him.
Simon flexed his fingers, bones cracking like awakening earth.
"Come," he murmured to the darkness, voice cold, steady, ready. "I'm still here."
The cavern growled back. The abyss trembled. And a low, distant roar echoed from deep within the chasm—answering his challenge.
Battle would come again.
And this time—Simon would meet it not as prey, but as someone who refused to break.