The jungle wwas breathing. Not with wind, but with memory.
Aryasa walked alone beneath teh canopy, guided only by the soft glow of fireflies. Mangku had told him to return to the shrine not for training, but for listening.
"The veil speaks in silence," Mangky had said. "But only if you walk without fear."
Aryasa wasn't sure he was fearless. But he walked anyway.
The fireflies led him to a grove he had never seen before. Trees bent inward, forming a circle. In the center stood a stone pedestal, craacked and moss-covered.
On the pedestal lay a mask. Not Barong's. Not Rangda's. Something older. Simpler. Worn.
Aryasa reached out. The moment his fingers touched it, teh wolrd shifted.
He saw flashes guardians from centuries past, walking the same path, holding the same mask. He saw fire. He saw light. He saw betrayal.
And then, he saw her. Rangda. Not as a monster, but as a woman. Crying. Alone.
Aryasa gasped. The vision faded. The mask pulsed once, then went still.
Aryasa returned to Mangku, mask in hand. His face was pale. His eyes wide.
"I saw her," he said. "Before she become Rangda."
Mangku nodded slowly. " Even monsters have beginnings. And pain has many shapes."
Aryasa looked at the mask, It was palin. Cracked. Human.
"What it this?" he asked.
Mangku placed a hand on his shoulder. "it is the first mask. The one worn before tha war. Before the veil. Before the forgeting."
Aryasa felt the weight of if. Not just in his hands, but in his blood.
He was not just a guardian. He was a witness. A bridge. A memory reborn.