Chapter 5: Ambush at the Tongkonan

"You expect me to just walk out there with these glowing lines crawling under my skin?" Rangga glared at his own arms, the crimson light pulsing with every ragged breath he took.

Arung stood by the obsidian-black window, adjusting his cufflinks with infuriating calm. "The marks are a symptom, Rangga. The solution is at the temple."

"A solution? You mean another ceremony? More blood? More 'contracts'?" Rangga threw a pillow at the door. It thudded softly against the wood, which rippled like liquid ink. "I’m not a battery for your family’s ghost stories."

"You’re an anchor. And right now, you’re dragging. If we don’t reach the temple, the bond will snap, and the backlash will turn your internal organs to mush."

Rangga froze. "You didn't mention the 'mush' part yesterday."

"I thought you were smarter than that. Apparently, I was wrong."

"Look, if I’m dying anyway, why go to a temple? Why not just let me hop on a bike and disappear?"

Arung crossed the room in two long strides, his hand snapping onto Rangga’s jaw. His touch was cold, a stark, soothing contrast to the frantic heat vibrating in Rangga’s veins. "Because you belong to me, Rangga. I don’t let my property rot before its time."

"Property. Right. Of course."

"Dress. We leave in five."

The forest surrounding the ancestral temple was thick, smelling of wet earth and ancient iron. The humidity clung to them like a wet shroud.

"This place gives me the creeps," Rangga muttered, pushing a low-hanging fern out of his face. "Why is it so quiet? No birds. No crickets."

"The land knows who walks here," Arung replied, his eyes scanning the dense treeline. "The Datu clan hasn’t forgotten their grudge against the Buntu line."

"Datu? As in, people who want you dead?"

"People who want us both removed from the equation."

"Great. I’m an accessory to your murder. I really should have stayed in Jakarta."

Arung stopped abruptly. He held up a hand, his posture shifting into something predatory. "Quiet."

"What? You hear something?"

"I hear the silence. It’s too deliberate."

WHOOSH.*

A blade hissed through the air, carving a white scar into the trunk of a banyan tree inches from Arung’s head.

"Get down!" Arung tackled Rangga, rolling them both into the mud just as a second spear shattered the spot where they had been standing.

"Ambush!" Rangga scrambled up, his hands shaking. "Where are they coming from?"

"Three o'clock. Behind the ferns," Arung hissed, drawing a sleek, hidden blade from his coat. "Stay behind me."

"Like hell! I’m not playing damsel again!"

A masked figure lunged from the shadows, a jagged spear thrusting toward Rangga’s chest. Rangga didn't think; he reacted. Time seemed to stutter, slowing down into a jagged, frame-by-frame crawl. He saw the assassin’s shoulder dip, the shift in his weight—it was painfully obvious.

Rangga parried, his hand moving with a speed that felt alien. He caught the spear’s shaft, twisted his hips, and delivered a palm strike that sent the assassin flying backward into a stone altar.

The man hit the rock with a sickening crack and didn't move.

Rangga stared at his own hand. "What the... did I just do that?"

"Focus, Rangga!" Arung’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a whip. He was parrying two attackers at once, his movements a blur of lethal precision. "The bond is fueling your instincts! Use them!"

"My instincts are telling me to run!"

"You run, you die!"

Another assassin vaulted over a tombstone, blade raised high. Rangga felt the crimson lines on his arms flare into a blinding, rhythmic glow. The power surged up his spine, a cold, focused rush that wiped away his fear. He sidestepped, grabbed the assassin’s wrist, and drove him into the mud with a brutal, knee-to-the-spine maneuver.

"You’re getting the hang of it," Arung remarked, ducking a sweep and slicing through the strap of his opponent's mask.

"I hate this! I hate everything about this!" Rangga shouted, ducking a blade that whistled over his hair.

"Hate is a potent motivator. Keep it up!"

They fought back-to-back, a seamless, deadly machine. Every time Rangga stumbled, Arung was there, deflecting a blow. Every time Arung was flanked, Rangga moved with supernatural speed to intercept.

"They’re retreating," Arung panted, his suit torn, a thin line of blood tracing down his cheek.

"They're what? They’re just stopping?" Rangga looked at the treeline. The remaining assassins were vanishing into the shadows, leaving behind only the broken bodies of their comrades.

"They lost their opening," Arung said, sheathing his blade. He walked over to the nearest attacker—a man slumped against a tree, coughing up dark, frothy blood.

Arung grabbed the man by the throat. "Who sent you?"

The mercenary wheezed, his eyes darting toward Rangga. A grotesque, wet smile spread across his face, staining his teeth red.

"You think... you think you won, Buntu?" the mercenary choked out.

"Answer me," Arung demanded.

The man let out a rattling, hysterical laugh that turned into a cough. He looked at Rangga, his gaze filled with a weird, mocking pity. "You brought him here... to the altar... thinking it would save you."

"What are you talking about?" Rangga stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The mercenary’s head lolled back, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky. "You didn't find an anchor, Arung. You brought the Buntu family’s final end right to your own doorstep."

"Tell me!" Arung tightened his grip, but the man’s body went limp. He was dead.

Arung dropped the corpse, his face an unreadable mask of cold fury.

"What did he mean, Arung?" Rangga asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Final end? What is he talking about?"

Arung didn't answer. He turned slowly toward the temple. The massive stone doors were beginning to groan open, emitting a low, mournful vibration that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain.

"He was just a dying fool, Rangga," Arung said, though his hand, the one not wearing a glove, was trembling slightly.

"He knew my name, Arung. He knew I was the one you brought."

"Come," Arung said, stepping toward the temple entrance. "We need to finish this before the moon rises."

Rangga stood in the clearing, the crimson marks on his arms pulsating violently, throwing shadows that looked less like his own and more like something ancient, hungry, and waiting.

"Arung," Rangga called out, his voice hitching. "Why is the temple glowing?"

Arung stopped at the threshold and looked back. His expression wasn't cold anymore, it was hollow. "Because it’s been waiting for you, Rangga. It’s been waiting for a Langi to finally come home and pay the bill."

"What bill?"

"The one that costs you everything."