The trap was wrong.
Not sloppy like a soldier's.
Not crude like a bandit's.
This was surgical. Silent. Precise.
Jarot crouched, squinting at the ground. At first he saw nothing—just a pile of dry leaves and forest soil.
Ajin knelt beside him.
With the cracked nail of his index finger, he brushed aside a single leaf.
A thin silver wire glimmered beneath it.
Almost invisible.
Stretched tight between two roots.
Placed so perfectly that even a skilled warrior could miss it.
Jarot's face hardened.
"Silver slicer wire…" he growled.
"Kuat enough to slice through flesh, tendon, and bone. If you run into this at full speed—your foot comes off."
Ajin didn't touch the wire.
His eyes moved across the ground, scanning patterns.
"There," he murmured.
Jarot followed his gaze.
Now that he knew what to look for, he saw it—
light footprints.
Almost weightless.
Barely bending the soil.
The kind of imprint left by someone who had trained their body to move like a whisper.
Not a soldier.
Not a scout.
Ajin straightened.
"Whoever set this wasn't common military."
Jarot's voice dropped to a rare, fearful whisper.
"…Bayang-Purwa."
Ajin looked over his shoulder.
"Who?"
Jarot swallowed. His face, usually sculpted from rage and stubbornness, now showed something else:
Dread.
"They're the kingdom's hidden blade," he muttered. "Shadow-born assassins. Deadliest killers in Karadipa."
Ajin's eyes sharpened.
Jarot continued:
"They're sent to erase rebellious sects. Entire clans. They hunt survivors. No mercy. No sound. No identity."
Ajin's gaze darkened.
A memory flickered—
burning children, smoldering beams, the stench of charred lives.
Were they the ones who led the burning of Rogo?
His jaw clenched.
Baja Angkara Batin pulsed beneath his skin—
a cold, pulsing throb that felt like molten iron crawling into his veins.
But before the rage fully rose—
Fuuu… fiiit…
A flute.
High-pitched.
Barely audible.
Wrong.
A signal, not a melody.
Ajin reacted instantly.
He shoved Jarot—hard.
"DOWN," he hissed.
Jarot crashed into a tree trunk with a grunt. Before he could shout, Ajin dragged him again, forcing the giant into the thickest thornbush near them.
Jarot's instinct was to roar, to retaliate—
But then he saw them.
Five figures gliding across the path where Ajin and Jarot had stood moments ago.
They didn't walk.
They flowed.
Bodies wrapped in charcoal-black cloth.
Faces hidden behind smooth wooden masks with no eyes, no mouths—nothing but a carved slash down the center.
Light steps.
Silent breaths.
Predators.
Each carried a long, thin blade strapped to their backs.
Not curved like a swordsman's.
Straight, needle-like—perfect for piercing vital spots.
At their sleeves, the mark:
A small black dragon.
Jarot sucked in a breath.
"Bayang-Purwa…" he whispered.
He could barely get the words out.
Ajin remained still as stone—eyes locked on every movement.
The assassins halted before the silver wire.
The leader crouched, examining the trap.
Then he turned to the hanging corpse on the tree behind them—marked with the same black dragon.
The assassin hissed—soft, sharp, almost snake-like.
A coded language Jarot couldn't decipher.
Then—
They vanished into the woods.
Not one leaf rustled under their feet.
Silence reclaimed the forest.
Jarot exhaled sharply and surged to his feet, fury burning in his chest.
"Those bastards—"
Ajin's hand shot out, gripping Jarot's shoulder like an iron clamp.
"Not yet," Ajin whispered.
Jarot swatted Ajin's hand away.
"When then?!" he snarled.
"You want to run forever?!"
Ajin's voice remained cold, controlled.
"They're trained killers," he said.
"We're injured. Exhausted. Fighting them now is suicide."
Jarot clenched his fists.
His lips curled.
"I am not afraid of—"
He froze.
Because Ajin wasn't looking at him anymore.
Ajin's eyes were fixed on something above them.
Slowly, Jarot turned—
And his heart seized.
One of the assassins had not left with the others.
A lone figure stood on a massive tree branch overhead, twenty meters away.
Unmoving.
Silent.
Balanced as lightly as a shadow.
Watching them.
The mask had no features, but Ajin felt the assassin's gaze lock onto them like a dagger's point.
Ajin whispered:
"…He sees us."
Jarot reached for his stone axe.
Ajin grabbed Jarot's wrist.
"Don't."
Jarot bared his teeth.
"He's one. ONE! We can take—"
The assassin raised one hand.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
A signal.
Not for attack.
But for identification.
A test.
Ajin and Jarot tensed—
Then the assassin did something neither expected.
He shifted—
And Ajin caught the faintest outline beneath the cloak.
A slimmer figure.
Shorter.
Body stance too light, too balanced.
Not a man.
Before Ajin could understand—
The assassin vanished.
A blur.
A whisper.
Gone.
Not running.
Just gone.
Jarot cursed loudly.
"Damn cowards! COME BACK AND—"
Ajin didn't hear him.
He stared into the patch of trees where the figure disappeared.
Because there—barely visible—
was something left behind.
A single silver feather.
Tied to a string.
Not a message.
Not a threat.
A signature.
Ajin's jaw tightened.
Jarot frowned.
"What is it?"
Ajin closed his fist around the feather.
"Someone else," he said softly,
"is hunting Dahana."