"What took you so long? Get out—now."
A voice came from the outside.
"Yes, Captain!" The guard straightened up as if he'd just been blessed by the Emperor himself.
He turned to the prisoners. The chain on the boy's wrists jerked hard, yanking him forward. His body lurched, but the boy managed to plant his right foot first.
Kreeeak.
Wood strained as the carriage door swung open. Cold air rolled in, smelling of stone, rust, and the sour sweat of too many bodies. Step by step, the boy followed the chain's pull.
Three steps down, his boots meeting something hard and rough—stone
The chain stopped dragging. Finally, the boy thought about stretching his back to calm his already panicking mind, but the thought was shattered by another bark telling him to stand straight. Jeez, these people really love shouting.
"Stay still and follow instructions. Any movement outside of the instructions will be considered a threat—unless you're interested in becoming a Meraki snack. Well, here or there isn't really that much different."
Somehow the boy can feel the captain's finger pointing to the Meraki and then to the maw of the prison. Feeling anxious from the captain's presence, the boy stopped peeking through the slit in his blindfold, his black bang helped him cover the slit.
"Line them up and lead to the gate. Shackles off after I confirm their identity."
"Yes, Captain!"
Came the chorus from every side, followed by the scuffle of boots and the clinking of chains. The line straightened as they tugged—not as hard as before, but enough to remind them who owned the leash.
CLINK. CLATTER.
They are dragged in chains through the choking fog of the spaces. The ground trembles under iron boots as the captain leads at the front. Finally, they stopped at the gates. Torches flickered against the dark stone, making the entrance look like a throat ready to swallow.
The captain said a name and a person dragged to the front. Shackles are unlatched only at the edge of the abyss, wrists bruised and bloodied where the iron has gnawed. A shove, a kick, sometimes the flat of a spear against the back, sends them stumbling past the threshold.
One by one, names were called.
One by one, prisoners vanished into the dark.
The boy stumbles forward, bare wrists stinging, heart hammering as the shadows of Angkara loomed over him.
I have to do something now. I won't be buried here, the boy thought.
If the world had decided to stop hearing him, then he would have to become loud enough to be heard again.
"Tuka Matinroe."
"Here, sir."
Tuka answered while being yanked forward.
"Unshackle and toss him in."
Hands like rough stone clamped around his arms, yanking the cuffs from his wrists.
Snap. The cuffs fell away.
Another set of fingers hooked into the blindfold, peeling it off in a single, careless pull that took a few strands of his hair with it.
Swoosh.
Light slammed into his eyes. For a moment, everything was white—just a burning haze. Then shapes began to bleed in; stone and iron. Everywhere. The floor was neatly laid stone, though some tiles bore spiderweb cracks. Towering walls of the same stone ringed us in, their tops bristling with jagged iron spikes.
A fortress designed to keep the world out—and the monsters in.
"Have your pretty eyes caught something fancy?" The Captain stepped into view. He looked young, but his eyes were ancient with apathy. "Move."
Tuka lingered. This was it.
This was his chance.
The man standing in front of him wasn't just another guard—he was the captain. If anyone could set things straight, it would be him.
"Sir, with all respect, there's been a misunderstanding," Tuka said, stepping forward.
Now all the attention focuses on him. The guards and the prisoners left hanging in front of the maw looking at him. The captain's left eyebrow twitched upward, his face still a mask of boredom.
"Go back to your line or I'll feed you to Meraki."
"There is a misunderstanding, sir," Tuka pressed, voice low but urgent. "I didn't kill anyone. I swear—I was trying to save him instead!"
His tone softened into practiced victimhood, a skill honed from years of negotiating with the vicious merchant at the capital—make them pity you, and they might spare you. And now that he takes a good look at The captain, he is still young, this might work—
"Is that so?"
The captain's voice didn't waver.
Damn this is bad, Tuka feels his confidence wavering but he added another piece. He had done it, now he braced himself for the worst outcome.
"Yes, sir. I thought I was here for a trial first, that's why—"
The captain raised a gloved hand, slicing the air. Tuka's words died in his throat.
"Then sir Hero, please tell me." He glanced at Tuka's sigil briefly and sneered. "Did you "save" him by absorbing his sura?"
Tuka flinched.
"T-that wasn't me, that man did it by himself! I swear!"
Tuka yelled, pushing the last of the air out of his lungs. But the Captain just stared with an apathetic look. He turned his head and raised his voice for all to hear.
"There is no trial here. Not for sinners like you."
The words hit harder than the chains. No trial. That meant no chance to explain. No chance to leave. The lined prisoners' expressions varied, some scared shitless, some shocked, some didn't really care.
"I can't be here," Tuka muttered, stepping forward again, desperation overriding caution. He took another step.
Crack.
A sharp, bone-deep pain slammed into his back, cutting him off.
He staggered forward, gasping. A second blow came from above, aimed for his head, but he got his arms up in time, absorbing the impact. Through the gap between his fingers, he saw the smirk. The same annoying guard from the carriage earlier.
"Stop. We are wasting time," the captain snapped.
"Apologies, Captain!"
The guard's reply was instant, like a man who'd practiced apologizing for the same crime.
Tuka's eyes locked on him. Holding his breath to ease the pain on his back. He memorized the shape of the man's nose, the tilt of his cruel mouth.
I'll remember your face, you bastard. He swore to himself.
The guard stepped closer, offering a hand. "Stand up."
Tuka ignored him.
Carrot and stick. He'd seen this play before—the hand was never really meant to help. He rose slowly, every movement stiff with pain, and shuffled back into line. His back throbbed, his arms tingled. But his mind was louder than the ache.
They'd labeled him a murderer without trial. Sent him to Angkara without explanation. Someone wanted him buried here, and they'd made sure no one on the outside would hear his name again. And now the stone and iron of Angkara would close around him forever.
For fuck's sake, I was just a mere shepherd, Tuka groaned.
"Next."
A man stepped forward, he didn't look like much at first glance—an old figure, broad-shouldered but not bulky, shoulder-length white hair as unruly as a bird's nest. Seconds crawled by before The old man finally spoke.
"Hello there."
The old man's voice was deep, with a rasp that sounded more like mockery.
"Move," the captain replied—his earlier boredom gone.
The old man didn't flinch. Instead, a dry, raspy chuckle escaped his throat—a sound that mocked every stripe of gold on the captain's armor.
The captain didn't rise to the bait.
"Unshackle and toss him in."
No one moved.
The guards stood frozen, sweat glistening on their foreheads, as though invisible hands had wrapped around their spines. The captain's eyebrow twitched. His patience thinned.
"Even stripped of your sura you still resist?."
STOMP.
The captain's boot struck the stone. A burst of reddish, wind-like energy exploded outward, sweeping through the square like a physical scythe.
WHOOSH.
"Get on with it!" He barked.
The paralysis broke.
Shaking, the guards rushed forward to unlock the man's shackles, their hands trembling as the iron fell away. The old man chuckled and strolled into line, radiating the kind of danger that made the air heavier.
Tuka shaked his head trying to clear the blur from his eyes after the earlier beating. As the world came back into focus he saw prisoners in a neat line, surrounded by men wearing black and crimson banded mail wielding a spear. At their head stood their Captain. A man in late twenties who was the very personification of a soldier. Golden stripes gleaming on his black armor. No weapon at his side—because he was the weapon.
Tuka shifted focus to the people around him, the two scrawny guys from the carriage before and the old man. He saw the blue sigil with circular shape at the back of the old man's hand.
Another Asura, This is indeed Angkara. Only this place can contain all these monsters around him. The old man caught Tuka staring and smiled.
Chills crawled up Tuka's spine.
He looked away fast, pretending to inspect the bruises on his wrists. Associating with their kind was always a trouble. Look at his situation right now, wasn't it because he was trying to save an Asura too.
Tuka had come to a brief but accurate conclusion of the day.
Those who use the power of sura: the Asura, are all troublesome beings.
And now he was one of them.
*******************************************************************************
Tuka remembered the book a kind soul had let him read back at the capital. It spoke of a lost world called Earth—vast, resource-rich, and dead. After the Great Flood, only the Floating Continent remained, a sanctuary above the rot.
Humanity hadn't just survived; they'd flourished.
All thanks to the crystallized essence of gods: Sura.
But superhuman strength didn't create heroes. It created "Asura"—destroyers without morals. They fought for more sura, for more power. History remembered the strongest, but it was the "sheep" like Tuka who paid the price in blood.
Seeing many gathered here, even shackled, was the sort of bad luck Tuka could feel in his bones.
*******************************************************************************
Tuka glanced at his own sigil. Though he had one like them, he doesn't feel like anything changed within him. Maybe there was an error in his sura? he wondered.
The captain's voice cut through his thoughts.
"No time for the procedure, go all at once."
"Oh God… we're going to die."
"This is the end..."
Suddenly the scrawny man behind him snapped.
He bolted—not toward the gate, but toward the open square. The other followed. The attempt lasted seconds; guards slammed into them, dragging them by the neck and hurling them through the gate. Their screams bounced off the stone.
Blood smeared the gate—a gaping mouth of a colossal statue shaped of Yama, the God of Death. Its carved teeth loomed, waiting to swallow them whole like a sacrificial lamb.
Then, it was Tuka's turn. He sighed deeply.
A guard—the same one who'd hit him earlier—stepped up, leveling the blunt end of a spear for a "parting gift" to Tuka's ribs.
Perfect, Tuka thought, his sanity fraying. I don't mind dying.
Tuka sidestepped.
PTUI.
He spat squarely in the guard's face.
The guard's expression curdled into pure rage. He flipped the spear. Sharp end forward. He lunged. The captain's warning bark came too late. The spear thrust down—
KRAAK!
The heavy wooden shaft didn't hit Tuka. It split in half.
By a slap.
A simple, open-palmed slap from the old man had shattered the weapon like dry kindling.
"That was dangerous," the old man said, brushing dust from his hand. He looked at Tuka and grinned. Before Tuka could process the absurdity, the captain moved. He grabbed Tuka by the collar and executed a perfect, blurring judo throw.
WHAM.
Tuka hit the floor of the gate, sliding across the slick stone.
I'll spit on you next, Tuka vowed, glaring back.
"Start walking," the captain commanded, his eyes locked on the old man.
The old man cracked his neck. His eyes turned mischievous.
"How about we just kill you all here," he said, his voice dropping into a ferocious grin. "Four full-fledged Asuras against two 'Hollow' ones. Sounds interesting, right?"
SWOOSH.
Every guard leveled their spear. Their sigils burned with a crimson aura, illuminating the dark tunnel.
Hollow Asura? Tuka wondered, pushing himself up. But he had no time to care about the terminology. He only had one goal: the captain's face.
The captain raised his hand, ready to signal the slaughter.
Silence.
"Just kidding!" The old man laughed, throwing his hands up. "Please spare this weak old man!"
He bowed comically to the captain and walked to the maw leisurely. He hooked his hand into Tuka's shirt, dragging him deeper into the throat of the prison. Tuka thrashed about, struggling to fight back the old man's strength, but he can't seem to loosen the choke.
"Let go! I have to spit on that bastard first!" Tuka roared.
His boots slipped. The floor was wet.
Tuka looked down.
Blood.
The scrawny guy's blood was acting as a lubricant for his descent into hell. The old men didn't hesitate dragging him all the way down. As the darkness of Angkara swallowed them whole, Tuka felt the ultimate irony.
Damn you, sheep.
He'd wanted to herd. Instead, he'd been herded.
PTUI.
He spat at the blood on the floor. At least the floor couldn't hit him back.