Five

Jaladri scrambled back up the gentle riverbank and rejoined Wisnumurti and Bajul. The sun was already high overhead, beginning its slow drift westward.

After half a day on the road from Karang Bendan, they had found the perfect place to stop—a small stream with crystal-clear water winding through the countryside.

The three men ate lunch from the banana-leaf-wrapped meals prepared by Ki Soma’s household.

Now their stomachs were full.

They could ride straight through until reaching Kenipir, which lay west of Karang Bendan.

The route between the two settlements was well maintained. Because travelers moved along it frequently, the road remained wide and level enough for horses, wagons, and ox carts to pass comfortably.

It was also remarkably safe.

Bandits rarely preyed on travelers between Karang Bendan and Kenipir, allowing ordinary people to travel without needing large caravans or hired swords for protection.

Farther west and northwest, however—beyond Kenipir and toward the Royal City of Pasir—the landscape changed dramatically.

Dense wilderness. Steep hills. Untamed forests.

In those regions, horses and wagons became unreliable luxuries. Most journeys had to be completed on foot.

Or in sedan chairs, if one happened to be a noble. Or a king.

The road to Kenipir remained easy precisely because villages dotted the countryside between the two towns.

A traveler would pass through stretches of forest only to emerge into broad fields, rice paddies, and small settlements. Whenever exhaustion struck, a nearby village almost always offered food, shelter, and a place to sleep.

Hospitality was simply part of everyday life.

With full bellies and fresh horses, the three riders made excellent time. By midafternoon, they reached a more open stretch of country at the foot of a low hill.

“What village is this?” Wisnumurti asked as they rode past small fields and gardens.

“Srumbung,” Jaladri replied, glancing around. “Though it’s usually not this quiet.”

He looked again.

“It’s still early.”

Their horses slowed. The narrow road skirted the edge of the village.

Bajul’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t like this.”

Neither did Wisnumurti.

“I feel it too.”

The three riders continued forward at a cautious pace. Questions began forming in their minds.

Then Jaladri saw it.

A thin column of smoke rising from somewhere inside the village. He immediately spurred his horse forward. The others followed.

A moment later he crossed the outer boundary of Srumbung—and rode directly into a nightmare.

The phrase “wiped off the map” didn’t begin to describe it.

No sign of life remained.

None.

The village looked as though a hurricane and a wildfire had struck simultaneously.

Homes had collapsed into heaps of blackened timber. Others had burned so completely that only ash remained.

Bodies lay everywhere. Dozens of them. Old men. Women. Children. The elderly. The young.

When Wisnumurti and Bajul arrived seconds later, even they could only stare.

“My God...!”

Bajul’s voice was barely audible.

“Looks like there was a party.”

The joke died the moment it left his mouth.

The three men immediately began searching the village. Nothing remained of Srumbung except its name and its ruins.

Bajul dismounted and used the tip of his machete to turn over several corpses.

“Cold-blooded slaughter.”

His tone remained calm. Too calm. As though scenes like this no longer surprised him.

Jaladri and Wisnumurti climbed from their own saddles and tethered the horses nearby.

“This was Lambang Merah?” Jaladri asked. “The cult yesterday we talked about?”

Wisnumurti crouched beside a body that had already begun to decay in the afternoon heat. The smell was overwhelming.

“No,” he examined the wound carefully. “Not them.”

He looked toward Bajul.

“What about yours?”

“Same thing,” Bajul nudged another corpse with his blade. “Knife or sword wounds. No poison. And the smell is horrific.  They killed the children too."

Jaladri swallowed hard. Scenes like this were not part of his everyday life. The horror disturbed him, but not as deeply as it once might have.

He had spent years listening to stories from Wisnumurti and especially Bajul.

Stories about bandits. Stories about rogue martial artists. Stories about local rulers and officials who treated entire villages as disposable.

Massacres like this happened when powerful men failed to get what they wanted.

Sometimes money. Sometimes obedience. Sometimes a woman.

According to Bajul, entire communities had been erased simply because a husband refused to surrender his wife to a local lord.

And perhaps something similar had happened here. Everyone had been killed.

Everyone.

Toddlers. Children.

Jaladri even spotted two infants among a pile of bodies near a collapsed house.

The dead appeared to have been gathered together before the killing began.

Many corpses lay in clusters. Stacked almost on top of one another.

“Not they,” Wisnumurti’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “He.”

Bajul looked up.

“One killer?”

Wisnumurti nodded.

“Look at the wounds,” he pointed toward a corpse. “The cuts are nearly identical.”

The three men examined several bodies.

Wisnumurti was right. Every victim bore a thin slash on the right side of the neck.

Same location. Same angle. Same depth. The wounds were remarkably small. Less than two inches long.

“The killer knew exactly where to strike,” Wisnumurti said. “The precise artery. Most of them died instantly. Probably without feeling any pain at all.”

Jaladri and Bajul checked several more victims. Every single wound matched. Identical. Almost surgical.

“Whoever did this,” Wisnumurti said, moving toward fresher air beyond the stench of death, “is exceptionally skilled.”

“Pangeran Langit?” Jaladri asked.

Wisnumurti shrugged.

“Could be anyone,” he looked back across the village. “But it was one person. And it happened recently.”

“How recently?”

“Yesterday afternoon at the earliest,” his eyes scanned the corpses. “Midnight at the latest.”

Silence followed. The kind of silence only death could create. Bodies surrounded them on every side. The smell hung thick in the air.

The fading sunlight cast long shadows across what had become a killing field.

Thin strands of evening mist were already beginning to gather.

Finally Jaladri spoke.

“What do we do with them?”

“Bury them,” Bajul answered immediately. “Of course.”

Jaladri stared at the devastation.

“There are too many.  The three of us couldn’t bury all of them in three days.”

“Exactly,” Bajul sighed. “That’s the problem.”

Wisnumurti turned toward Jaladri. “Is there another village nearby?”

“Jati. Why?”

“We ask them for help.”

Jaladri immediately stood. “I’ll go.”

He was already moving toward his horse.

“It’s less than six miles away.”

Within seconds he was in the saddle. The horse burst forward.

Soon both rider and animal disappeared among the trees.

After he left, Wisnumurti and Bajul began doing what they could. They started arranging the bodies into orderly rows.

A grim task. Necessary.

Neither man spoke much. Less than half an hour passed.

Then they heard it. Hoofbeats.

Fast. Very fast. Both men turned instantly. Hands ready. Prepared for trouble.

A horse exploded out of the trees. Jaladri. His face had gone white.

There was someone draped across the back of his horse.

Unconscious. Covered in blood.

Jaladri leaped from the saddle before the animal had fully stopped.

His voice came out hoarse.

“Jati is gone too.”

The words hit harder than any blade.

“Wiped out. Completely wiped out.”