The road to Bandung stretched endlessly ahead, flanked by quiet fields and patches of forest. Inside the car, the air was heavy with silence. Sagara leaned against the window, his reflection staring back at him—distant, unreadable.
Jati, who had been quietly focused on driving, finally broke the silence.
"Do you still feel uncomfortable with yourself?" he asked gently, his eyes briefly glancing at Sagara through the rearview mirror.
Sagara only nodded. He didn't answer with words, but the slight furrow on his brow said enough. Jati didn't press. After a pause, he tried again with a different approach.
"Do you have any kind of hobby?" he asked, keeping his voice casual.
Again, Sagara said nothing. He simply shook his head, a small movement, barely noticeable.
Jati sighed but didn't give up. He threw another question, hoping to chip away at the boy's silence.
"So what do you usually do after school? Any club? Or part-time job?"
This time, Sagara gave a short answer. "I helped my father."
"What kind of help?" Jati asked with genuine curiosity.
"I helped him carry things. Tools. Bags of fertilizer. Helped with harvesting crops. Stuff like that."
"So your father is a farmer?"
"No," Sagara answered. "He's a farm laborer."
That word—laborer—hung in the air between them.
A brief silence fell again, but this time, Sagara's mind started to drift.
He remembered the past. How he'd run home from school, dump his bag in the corner, and head straight to the rice fields where his father worked under the sun. His small hands struggled with tools meant for adults, but he never complained. He helped carry sacks of rice, sometimes stumbling under the weight. And later, as the sun dipped low in the sky, his mother would arrive with food. They would eat under a tree beside the field, laughter and warmth filling that moment.
His mother would then lend a hand too, her feet stepping into the muddy water with no hesitation, her hands working just as fast as any laborer. By sunset, the three of them would walk home together, covered in sweat and mud but somehow feeling whole.
He remembered one evening vividly, sitting next to his father while they rested under a tree. His father looked out across the field and said, "Someday, I want to work on my own land. No more asking permission to plant or being paid in coins for sweat."
And young Sagara, without thinking twice, made a promise. "I'll buy you land, Father. A big one. You'll have your own field, and you won't need to take orders from anyone."
But now, that promise... it felt like a cruel joke. His heart ached with the weight of that memory. His throat tightened. He blinked, trying to stop the tears from falling. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes, as if by doing so he could erase the image in his head.
His mind and body, exhausted by memory and sorrow, drifted into sleep. The world blurred. The engine's hum became a lullaby. Eventually, Sagara surrendered to it and fell into a deep slumber.
---
"Sagara. Sagara!"
A voice shook him awake. Jati's voice. Urgent. Panicked.
Sagara opened his eyes groggily and blinked. "Have we arrived?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
"No. But get ready for an emergency," Jati said, his tone sharp and serious.
Alarm bells rang in Sagara's head. He sat up and looked through the windshield.
Far down the road, a lone man stood, blocking their path.
He wasn't just an ordinary man. He wore a suit of white armor with soft blue accents. The armor wasn't bulky like those worn by soldiers—it was light, elegant, and somehow more intimidating because of its simplicity. Above his head hovered a halo composed of four soft, glowing petals.
He stood still, taller than Jati, calm and confident. The quiet menace in his stance sent chills down Sagara's spine.
"When I say 'go,' open the door and jump," Jati whispered. "Then run. Run as fast as you can."
Sagara's heart pounded. He nodded, his throat dry.
"Ready?" Jati asked.
Sagara barely had time to breathe when Jati shouted, "Go!"
They both threw open their doors and leapt from the moving car. The impact was brutal. Sagara rolled along the asphalt. Pain exploded across his body—his arms, knees, shoulders all scraped and bruised. But he didn't have time to think. He looked up.
The man in white hadn't moved, but now—suddenly—something appeared beside him.
A tiger.
But not just any tiger. It was the size of their car, its body covered in silvery fur. Its eyes glowed like fire, and its long, sword-like fangs glistened in the sunlight. Claws like sharpened daggers dug into the asphalt.
The tiger leapt at the oncoming car, slashing it mid-air.
The vehicle split in two as if it had been made of paper. An explosion rocked the road. Flames roared, metal twisted, and debris flew in every direction.
Yet the tiger stood unharmed in the middle of the chaos, proud and silent.
"Run! Now! I'll hold them off!" Jati's voice cracked with urgency.
He summoned his creature—an enormous black insect that seemed to crawl out from the shadows themselves. Its eyes glowed faintly, and its mandibles clicked with menace.
Sagara, limping from his injuries, forced himself to stand. Blood ran down his arms, but he didn't care. He had to move. He had to get away. He ran, each step filled with pain, but he didn't look back.
He felt that same fear again—the same as when the debt collectors had come. The same helplessness. The same anger.
But now it was different. The fear morphed into something else—rage.
His heart screamed: If I were stronger, this wouldn't be happening! If I had everything, I could stop this!
His right hand twitched.
The familiar hunger awakened.
His arm quivered, and small slits appeared on his right hand. From those slits, jagged, toothy ridges began to emerge.
The gluttony—the curse, the power—stirred inside him.
But before it consumed him, something else interrupted.
Boom.
A sudden crash, like a meteorite striking earth, exploded nearby. Dust and debris rose around him. A crater had formed on the road, deep and smoking.
Sagara approached it, gasping.
Inside the crater lay Jati.
Blood dripped from his scalp. His limbs were bent at impossible angles. Yet his eyes were still open. Still alive.
Jati tried to speak. His lips moved, but no sound came. His voice had been crushed by the impact.
Sagara rushed forward to help, tried to lift him—but Jati resisted, pushing him weakly away.
"R...u...n," Jati whispered, using the last of his strength.
But Sagara couldn't run. His eyes locked onto the horror unfolding before him.
The white-armored man was holding Jati's summoned creature. With a twisted smile, he pulled its limbs off one by one, like a child tearing the wings off an insect.
The petals above his head had grown—five now hovered there, glowing brighter.
His body had changed, too. His hair had turned white. Fangs protruded from his mouth. Claws extended from his fingers. Patches of fur had grown across his arms and neck.
After destroying the insect, he looked directly at Sagara. Eyes like a predator. Hungry. Deadly.
He tossed the lifeless bug aside and walked toward Sagara with slow, deliberate steps.
Sagara turned to run—only to find that his right hand was chewing on Jati's body.
"No!" he gasped.
Panic flooded his chest.
What have I done?
He ripped his arm away from Jati's side, horrified.
Behind him, the sound of heavy footsteps grew louder.
Then—slash!
A flash.
The tiger-man had moved with impossible speed.
Sagara's vision blurred. His body—he couldn't feel his legs.
He looked down.
His lower half was gone. Torn away in one brutal attack.
Before his mind could process what had happened, the tiger-man gripped his head.
Time slowed.
Sagara saw the smile. The fangs. The eyes.
Then—splat.
His skull crushed like a balloon. Everything went black.
---
Sagara gasped and bolted upright in his seat, sweat soaking his back.
His chest heaved.
"What happened?" Jati asked, concerned.
Sagara wiped the sweat from his face, trying to steady his breath.
"Nightmare," he whispered, voice hoarse.
Jati didn't press. He simply gave a small nod and focused on the road again.
The silence returned—but this time, it carried something heavier than before.