The jungle was restless.
Aryasa walked beneath the canopy, the kris at his side, the mask and stone bound together in cloth. The mark on his chest pulsed faintly, guiding him toward a place he had never seen before. Mangku Gede had warned him:
There is a gate in the forest. It does not open with hands. It opens with memory."
Aryasa did not know what that meant. But he felt the pull.
The trees parted.
And there it was.
A gate of stone, carved with symbols older than language. Its arch was cracked, its surface covered in moss. But it was alive. Shadows clung to it like vines, whispering in voices too faint to understand.
Aryasa stepped closer.
The gate trembled.
And the shadows stirred.
"You carry the mark,"
a voice whispered. "But do you carry the burden?"
Aryasa gripped the kris. "What is this place?"
"The first breach. The wound that never healed."
The shadows thickened. They formed shapes—figures cloaked in darkness, masks twisted, eyes burning. They circled the gate, their voices rising.
"The veil is bleeding. The gate remembers. And the forgotten are waiting."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The shadows recoiled, but did not vanish.
The gate glowed faintly.
Aryasa understood.
It was not locked.
It was waiting.
He placed the mask from the grove against the stone.
The gate pulsed.
Visions surged.
He saw guardians standing before the same gate, their masks glowing, their voices chanting. He saw Rangda, younger, her hands pressed against the stone, her eyes filled with grief. He saw the gate open—and the veil tremble.
Aryasa staggered back.
The vision faded.
The gate was silent again.
But the shadows remained.
They lunged.
Aryasa moved.
The kris sang.
Light met shadow.
The battle echoed through the trees.
Aryasa struck, each blow guided not by strength, but by rhythm—the rhythm of the choir, the flame, the river. The shadows screamed. The gate pulsed. The veil held.
When it was over, Aryasa collapsed to his knees, breath ragged. The gate was silent once more. But a single symbol glowed faintly on its surface—a mask, etched in gold.
Aryasa touched it.
The mark on his chest pulsed.
And the gate whispered:
"You are the guardian. You are the bridge. You are the wound reborn."
At dawn, Aryasa returned to Mangku Gede.
"The gate," he said. "It remembers."
Mangku nodded. "Then the veil is thinner than we feared."
Aryasa looked at the jungle. The silence was gone. The shadows were waiting.
And he was no longer just a boy with a blade.
He was the keeper of the gate.