The wind that swept across the Dahana valley carried a stench no human should ever grow accustomed to.
It was the smell of flesh that had not only been killed…
but humiliated.
Ajin and Jarot stood on the jagged cliffs overlooking the valley.
Below them stretched a charred wasteland where a proud legacy had once burned bright.
Dahana Satria—
The Fortress of Flame,
the martial sect revered for generations as one of the Twelve Legendary Padepokan—
now lay exposed like a mass grave, its bones smoldering beneath a curtain of ash.
Thick black smoke rose in pillars, curling into the gray sky like the hands of the dead begging for justice.
Stone buildings that had once been strong enough to resist volcanic eruptions now stood collapsed, cracked, or melted into grotesque shapes.
There were no birds.
No wind whistles.
No signs of life.
Only ash.
And the stench.
The stench clawed its way up the cliffside, carried on the cold evening breeze.
A suffocating mixture of burnt meat, decayed corpses, and something sour—
the scent of helpless terror extinguished too quickly.
Jarot inhaled sharply.
His massive body shuddered.
Not with fear—
but with memory.
This was his home.
Descending Into the Ruins
They followed the steep path carved into the cliff, weaving between boulders and collapsed pillars.
With every step, the horror below grew clearer.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Men in half-melted armor.
Women with their limbs twisted unnaturally.
Elderly villagers crumpled near doorways as if still trying to escape.
And, most painfully—
small bodies, burnt so thoroughly that bone and ash had fused together.
Jarot stopped walking.
His fists trembled.
His jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
Ajin continued onward, turning only when he reached the broken main gate.
His voice was quiet—emotionless—but carried a weight that reached Jarot.
"Is this where you were born?"
Jarot didn't answer.
His knees gave out.
He collapsed before the fallen Totem of Flame, Dahana's sacred symbol—
now split in half, one part burned black, the other melted like candle wax.
"They killed everyone…"
Jarot's voice cracked.
"They burned everything…"
Then, the dam broke.
"AAARGHH!"
His roar tore through the silent valley.
A sound made of grief, rage, and the last pieces of his sanity straining to remain intact.
He slammed both fists into the ground.
BOOOOM!
The earth quivered. Pebbles danced across the cracked soil.
Ajin watched him silently, then turned away and entered the devastated courtyard.
A Battlefield Turned Graveyard
Ajin walked through the remnants of what must have been a massive battle.
Burn marks spread across the floor like spidery veins.
Crater-like holes pocked the earth—signs of explosive flame techniques.
Stone walls bore deep claw-like scars from weapons infused with fire.
But the corpses told the real story.
Ajin crouched beside two bodies—one wearing the royal crest of Karadipa, the other dressed in simple Dahana garb.
The royal soldier had died cleanly, sliced diagonally across the torso.
The Dahana civilian had not.
Their body had been mutilated, fingers cut, skin peeled, throat charred from the inside.
Ajin stood up.
He understood.
This wasn't a conquest.
This was an erase-and-dominate operation.
A warning to every other padepokan.
Submit, or be annihilated.
Behind him, Jarot rose slowly—eyes red and leaking silent tears.
He wiped them without shame, leaving black streaks of soot across his face.
His voice was hoarse.
"Over there… the largest building. That was our Flame Hall."
His hand shook as he pointed.
"That's where they burned my sister."
A pause.
Alive.
"Alive… tied to a sacred post."
Ajin followed Jarot's trembling finger.
A charred wooden stake still stood in the ruins—
its surface blackened, carved symbols half-melted.
Jarot fell silent, breath shaking.
Ajin put a hand on his shoulder—not cold, not compassionate, but acknowledging the wound.
Then Ajin spoke, voice as hard as hammered steel.
"We kill whoever caused this. We kill all who remain."
Jarot's lips twitched into something that was not quite a smile, but close.
"But… who's left alive?" he muttered hollowly.
"They took everything. They killed everyone."
Flame Hall's Shadow
They approached the ruined Flame Hall.
The building was the largest structure in Dahana, though now its roof had fallen in, and its iconic pillars were shattered.
Black soot stained every surface.
The air inside felt somehow heavier—like the smoke had soaked into the stones themselves.
Jarot hesitated, but Ajin walked straight through the archway and into the hall.
Inside was darkness.
Not the gentle darkness of night, but the oppressive kind that comes after flame burns too hot, too bright.
Their footsteps echoed.
Ajin moved toward a collapsed column, eyes narrowing.
Something felt wrong.
There were scorch marks on the floor—everywhere except one place.
A circular patch in the center of the hall.
Three meters wide.
Smooth, untouched by flame or ash.
A perfect clean circle.
As if protected.
Jarot's breath caught.
"No…" he whispered. "That's the Circle of Ember."
Ajin glanced at him.
"What is it?"
"A sanctuary circle," Jarot said. "A Dahana ritual chamber. It only appears for a chosen successor… or for someone whose inner fire meets Dahana's criteria."
Then his eyes widened.
"But you…"
Ajin stepped into the edge of the circle—
WUUUUSSHH—
Red-orange flame erupted around the circumference.
A ring of spinning sparks lit up the hall, revealing a hidden pattern etched beneath the soot.
Jarot stumbled back.
"You… qualify?"
Ajin didn't answer.
He knelt, touching the ground.
The faint hum beneath his palm matched the thrum of his Angkara Batin.
The circle recognized his hatred.
It recognized his brokenness.
When the flames receded, a figure appeared within the circle.
A man.
Or what remained of one.
The Survivor Who Should Not Exist
The figure lay curled on the floor, half-buried beneath fallen stones.
His limbs were thin, almost skeletal.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths.
His face was hidden beneath bandages, and his skin—what little showed—was pale as wax, cracked with fine red fissures.
Ajin approached cautiously.
Jarot swallowed hard.
"He's… he's not from Dahana. I've never seen him."
Ajin took another step.
The man twitched.
Jarot raised his axe.
"Jin… careful."
Ajin ignored him.
He knelt beside the figure and turned him gently.
The man's body jerked weakly.
His lips parted—
"…A… jin…"
Both Ajin and Jarot froze.
Ajin's brows furrowed.
Jarot's jaw dropped.
"H-How does he know your name?" Jarot whispered.
Ajin didn't respond.
The man continued speaking, voice hoarse, as if dragged from the bottom of a broken soul.
"Ajin… from Rogo…"
His breath rattled.
"You're… too late…"
Ajin's chest tightened.
The survivor's next words were barely audible.
"…everyone is dead…"
Then he fell unconscious again.
Jarot moved forward, but Ajin stiffened—because he finally noticed something.
Something carved into the man's chest, glowing faintly beneath cracked flesh.
A symbol.
A symbol Ajin knew too well.
The sacred sigil of Padepokan Rogo.
Ajin's breath hitched.
"That's…" Jarot whispered, stunned. "Why would a Rogo symbol be carved onto a… Dahana stranger?"
Ajin's fists clenched.
"Because Sepuh knew something," he muttered. "Something he didn't have time to tell me."
Jarot took a shaky breath.
"You think… this man is part of the experiments? The ones the kingdom used? The ones who wiped out Dahana?"
Ajin didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Because the cracks in the man's skin suddenly pulsed with deep crimson light—
like magma beneath thin rock.
Just like Ajin's Angkara Batin.
This man…
this stranger…
was an experiment.
A forged vessel made using the stolen arts of Rogo and Dahana combined.
Ajin reached out and gently lifted the man.
And the man stirred, whispering with a voice made of sand and dying embers.
"They—"
He coughed violently, blood spraying across Ajin's arm.
"—they are… waiting… at Merapi…"
Ajin stiffened.
Jarot looked up sharply.
"Merapi? But that's—"
"The birthplace of Dahana's highest arts," Ajin finished coldly.
"And the heart of the kingdom's fire-based experiments."
Both men stared at the unconscious survivor.
The truth settled heavy and undeniable.
The kingdom wasn't just destroying sects.
They were harvesting them.
Every skill.
Every secret.
Every legacy.
They were merging abilities to forge weapons that defied nature.
Ajin slowly stood, the survivor cradled in his arms like a fragile corpse.
His voice was a whisper sharpened into a blade.
"Jarot."
Jarot swallowed his grief and straightened.
"We go to Merapi," Ajin continued. "Now."
Jarot nodded.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Just wrath.
Together they turned and walked out of the Flame Hall—
leaving behind the smoldering ruins of two martial histories.
The moment they stepped outside, the last ember in the Circle of Ember flickered—
and died.
Dahana was gone.
Only revenge remained.