The jungle smelled of iron.
Aryasa walked slowly, the kris at his side, the mask and stone bound together in cloth. The mark on his chest pulsed faintly, guiding him toward a clearing where the earth was stained dark. Mangku Gede had warned him:
"There is a place where the veil bleeds. Do not go unless you are ready to bleed with it."
Aryasa did not feel ready. But the veil had called, and he could not refuse.
The clearing opened.
At its center lay a pool—not of water, but of blood. Thick. Still. Ancient. It shimmered faintly in the moonlight, as if alive.
Aryasa knelt at its edge.
The pool stirred.
And a voice rose.
"This is the blood of the veil. The memory of sacrifice. The wound of guardians."
Aryasa's breath caught. He saw visions men and women kneeling at the same pool, cutting their palms, letting their blood fall into the surface. He saw their faces—masked, weary, determined. He saw their bodies collapse, their voices fade, their memories bound to the veil.
And he understood.
The veil was not held by light alone.
It was held by blood.
He raised the kris.
The blade pulsed.
He hesitated.
Then he cut his palm.
Blood dripped into the pool.
The surface trembled.
Visions surged.
He saw his father standing at the same pool, his blood mingling with the veil. He saw Mangku Gede, younger, his face pale, his hands trembling. He saw Rangda, her eyes burning, her blood black, her voice sharp.
The veil is mine," she had whispered. "And I will bleed it dry."
Aryasa staggered back.
The vision faded.
The pool was still again.
But the mark on his chest glowed brighter.
Suddenly, the jungle trembled.
Shadows surged from the trees twisted spirits, broken guardians, echoes of Rangda's cult. They circled the pool, their voices sharp, mocking.
"You bleed for nothing," they hissed. "The veil is dying. The blood is wasted."
Aryasa raised the kris.
Light pulsed from its blade.
The spirits lunged.
He moved not with fear, but with rhythm. The rhythm of the choir. The flame. The river. The gate. The blood.
He struck.
The spirits screamed.
The pool pulsed.
The veil held.
When it was over, Aryasa collapsed to his knees, his palm still bleeding. The pool shimmered faintly. A single drop rose from its surface, glowing gold, and settled into his wound.
The cut closed.
The mark on his chest pulsed.
And the veil whispered:
"You are not just the guardian. You are the blood."
At dawn, Aryasa returned to Mangku Gede.
"The pool," he said. "It remembers."
Mangku nodded. "Then you have bled with the veil. And it will bleed with you."
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 blood of the veil.