Footsteps echoed faintly in the lower corridor of the Bureau of the Semesta Guild—at first, soft, almost imperceptible, like the hush before a curtain rises. But gradually, the rhythm grew clearer—weighted, deliberate, and paired. Beneath the flickering glow of unstable ceiling lamps, two figures cloaked in black advanced in precise unison, treading halls meant only for authorized staff.
One was a younger man—his movements sharp, his eyes alert beneath the hood's shadow. The other, older, slightly stooped, withdrew a slender wooden cane from within his worn, dust-colored robe, the fabric blending seamlessly into the corridor's dim hue.
Several meters behind them, bodies in uniform lay sprawled in silence along the passageway. Some still drew breath—their chests rising and falling faintly—while others had gone still. Their faces bore frozen expressions of confusion and alarm, as if they hadn't even grasped what had happened. No excessive wounds. No splattered blood. Only faint slits across the neck—precise, efficient—like signatures penned by hands too skilled to leave a mess.
"You still remember this place by heart, I see," murmured the older man, tilting his head slightly toward his companion.
The younger one pulled back the hood that had hidden most of his face, replying calmly, "Some parts have changed. But nothing that matters."
The old man mirrored the gesture, unveiling a worn but composed face. "Indeed. Fortunately, we've planted a few of mine inside this facility," he added with a faint, knowing smile.
Each step they took left a subtle echo trailing behind, rebounding softly against metal walls in a dull, pressing rhythm. Above them, motion sensors flickered momentarily—then dimmed, as though the entire security system had chosen to look the other way.
Soon, they arrived at the control chamber.
It opened before them like a cathedral of circuitry. The walls were lined with digital panels pulsing in symmetrical sequences. Rows of advanced terminals blinked to life, casting holographic displays that floated in the air—charts, codes, real-time feeds from Guild branches across the globe. Cables ran neatly beneath their feet, embedded into a translucent floor that revealed glowing blue circuits beneath—like veins beneath glass skin.
Chairs spun slightly in the quiet hum of machines, their occupants collapsed unconscious across the floor. Some still wore headsets, hands outstretched mid-motion, as if trying to halt the darkness before it overtook them.
And yet—at the center of the room—stood a man.
His hair was neatly combed. His work attire unwrinkled, unstained. He bore no trace of panic. On the contrary—his posture was upright, his gaze unwavering, arms resting stiffly at his sides, as if in solemn salute.
The two intruders approached.
The man gave a small bow—just enough to acknowledge their arrival.
"As ordered, Lord Zero," said the man at the center, his voice calm and dutiful. "I've manipulated the mission lists—no Nusantarana will have the time or window to reach SMAN 01 Nusantarana Bandung."
The younger figure in black remained silent, half a step behind the elder—Lord Zero—who now stepped forward, slow but unwavering. His clouded eyes fixed on the man who had just bowed, expressionless.
He seemed fragile at a glance, but the air around him thickened as he moved, like even time itself hesitated in his presence.
"Well done," Zero rasped, his voice low and weathered, yet it reverberated through the chamber like a tremor. "All S-class missions have been redirected to false coordinates. The A-classes and below have been compressed outside the actual radius. They'll be too busy… trampling over each other."
His gaze drifted across the floating maps—digital holograms blinking with crimson dots, pulsing across distant sectors.
"And that school… let it stay silent. Let them believe time is still on their side. When in truth…" he turned, slowly, toward the man in the center, "…they've already lost their only chance to understand what's coming."
Then, with a single motion—his frail hand rising, palm open—the man standing tall dropped to one knee without hesitation.
"Sever all satellite support. Let them be blind."
The kneeling man bowed deeply, then rose and stepped back toward one of the side panels. With practiced precision, he keyed in the final overrides. The console lights turned green—confirmation. The system had shifted to the designated protocol.
Zero watched with half-lidded eyes, as if drinking in the seconds themselves. Then, with eerie grace, he lifted his right hand again—open-palmed, waiting.
"You have fulfilled your duty well," Zero said—his voice raspy, yet laced with a gravity that bent the silence. "Now, it is time you return to your origin, so that your soul may wholly merge with the will of the Cosmos."
The man showed no hesitation. With unwavering hands, he drew a small blade from beneath his uniform—its edge thin, glinting coldly under the room's dim light. He pressed it against his throat, eyes steady, gaze locked upon his master.
"May my sacrifice be accepted."
Zero lowered his head, murmuring a prayer in a language long forgotten by the world—understood only by those woven into the fabric of the Sect. His chant flowed like wind through stone corridors: hushed, reverent, yet filling the chamber with a suffocating sanctity.
One final breath.
A single motion.
The blade cut clean through flesh, and the man collapsed without a sound—his body falling backward in solemn surrender.
Zero remained still. His eyes closed, lips still moving, as the last word of the chant faded into the walls. Then silence claimed the room once more.
"The Cosmos… has accepted your offering," he whispered, then turned toward his companion. "Each troublesome piece has been set aside: Lucian shall face Putra Tigaaksara head-on, Jeannette will intercept Nita at the school, and Scarface… he'll keep Windah and Alina busy."
He paused.
"Is this enough… Wisesa?"
"More than enough," Wisesa replied, striding toward one of the holographic monitors. "Save for one final measure… to make our sabotage perfect."
Zero watched him closely now, a glint of curiosity stirring beneath the murky calm of his eyes.
"What are you doing?"
"You wouldn't understand," Wisesa said, without looking back.
With deft precision, Wisesa's fingers danced across the holographic display, weaving through unfinished strands of data he considered imperfect. Streams of classified information and archival records scrolled by—until he halted.
The original file on Ikrar had surfaced.
"At last… this boy," he muttered.
From beneath his cloak, he retrieved a small device—an external storage unit—and inserted it into one of the ports embedded beneath the holographic interface.
Zero's voice cut in, sharp but restrained. "So this was your true reason for coming?"
Wisesa made sure the transfer was complete before speaking. "More than that." He gestured subtly toward the body on the floor. "Give him a proper burial. He didn't deserve… that."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying? I don't understand. In my prophecy, such a sacrifice requires no pity. His blood… will testify in the realm beyond."
"Prophecy?" Wisesa echoed, the word laced with disdain. "Is that one of the sacred tenets of your little sect?"
"You understand nothing," Zero replied, his voice quiet but steeped in controlled fury. "And I must correct you—sect, you say? This is a religion granted by the Divine. An atheist like you… will never grasp it."
Wisesa began to walk—slowly, deliberately—toward the fallen man. His footsteps rang heavy through the still air.
"Ah, yes. I forgot… all religions begin as sects, until time makes them legitimate."
When he reached the body, he stared down at the lifeless face—unflinching, without hatred. Only the remnants of loyalty clung to the corpse like dust to cold marble.
Kneeling, he extended a hand to the man's shoulder, then traced it gently up to his face. With thumb and forefinger, he closed the man's eyes. His movements were calm—ritualistic, almost priestly, as though guiding a soul from flesh to silence.
No prayer left his lips. No tribute, no condemnation. Only silence.
And the silence said enough.
"At least you won't have to see this ruined world again. More importantly…"
He stood, brushing the collar of his cloak into place.
"…someone here still saw you as human," he finished, his voice even—yet unreadable to the old man who stared back, sensing something had shifted.
Without another word, Wisesa turned. His dark cloak fluttered faintly as he passed through the automatic door. His shadow stretched across the steel floor, drawn long by the dim corridor light—before vanishing altogether.
Zero did not follow immediately.
He remained where he stood—his back straight, though his head dipped slightly—as he gazed down at the lifeless body now lying in stillness. His eyes narrowed, not from rage or grief, but from something far more elusive—a feeling he could not name.
There was no pity in his gaze. No regret. What lingered instead was a strange sense of loss, a quiet realization that even in absolute devotion, a follower was still just a piece on the board. Usable. Disposable. Eventually... forgettable.
And yet, something else held Zero in place.
A flicker of doubt—almost like a silent whisper echoing from the back of his mind: Did this blood truly lead to salvation?
He offered no answer.
Only a soft breath escaped him before he finally turned away.
Without a word, Zero walked out of the room, leaving the body behind under the dim, flickering light—like the last faint pulse of a life already fading.
No trace remained when the door slid shut once more. Their footsteps vanished along with the echo of their presence, as the hallway lights steadied—erasing all signs they had ever been there.
Silence reclaimed its throne, leaving only time and steel, cold and unmoved, to bear witness.
Elsewhere, a different current was flowing, even as a similar silence welcomed two figures standing before a newly opened door.
Nita and Ikrar stood at the threshold of the teachers' lounge, hesitating to step inside. The open door felt like it was holding its breath, revealing a soft darkness that came not just from the absence of light, but from something deeper—and quieter.
Air drifted slowly from the spacious room beyond, spilling into the hallway and replacing its temperature with something that felt… hollow.
Not cold. Not warm.
Just empty. An unnatural kind of quiet.
"Something's wrong," Nita said, her voice nearly drowned by the silence that clung to the corridor.
Ikrar looked at her, then turned his gaze to the room yawning open before them.
The teachers' lounge stretched wide, yet it felt like a hollow cavity that swallowed all sense of soul. Its ceiling loomed high, but shadows clung to its corners. Desks stood in orderly rows, lifeless like abandoned sentries. Chairs were slightly askew, as if someone had just risen and walked away—without a trace.
The fluorescent lights above flickered weakly, casting uneven illumination. Some areas were steeped in shadow, while others shimmered in a pale, sickly glow that dulled everything it touched.
No sound. No movement. Only a silence thick enough to drown in.
Nita stepped in first, cautiously, with Ikrar close behind.
And just as they took a few steps into the room, a woman's voice suddenly emerged—soft, yet clear, like a brush of cold wind across their shoulders.
"… Huh. You took your time, didn't you…?"
There, in one of the room's corners, a young woman sat on a wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other. Only the faint reflection of snowfall outside cast just enough light to outline her figure.
From the beginning, she had remained unseen by both Nita and Ikrar, as if she were one with the shadows that cloaked the room.
Her long hair fell in loose, tangled strands, and her head leaned lazily against a sword—almost as if to say, "I've waited too long to care anymore."
Her arms rested casually around a longsword braced between her knees. The blade stood upright, silent like a pillar, and her hands held it not with strength, but with an eerie gentleness.
Not threatening—yet completely unreadable.
"… I've been waiting for you two… for quite some time."
Her eyes were half-lidded, golden irises catching the faintest shimmer of light—staring straight ahead with an unsettling calm.
"Oh, right. I haven't even introduced myself," she said, her voice smooth and steady, with a firmness that allowed no room for question. She lifted her head from the sword she had been leaning on, and this time, her golden eyes opened fully—casting a light that pierced through the room's gloom.
"Just call me Jeannette."
Nita stood frozen, goosebumps crawling over her arms. As one of the Seven Celestial Guardians, she had faced many threats before—but this woman was different. Jeannette had been there all along, yet her presence had gone completely undetected, as if she was the darkness itself.
Ikrar, standing close by, felt a cool air brush gently across his shoulder. He swallowed hard, trying to steady the rhythm of his quickening heartbeat.
Still seated, Jeannette didn't move again. She simply watched them with her gleaming golden gaze.
"Relax," she said softly, turning her head toward the empty chairs. "You took your sweet time, so I had to harvest a bit more ranah-energy than necessary."
But Nita didn't respond to the remark with much amusement. Her voice, laced with caution and underlying anxiety, cut through the silence.
"What exactly are you doing here?"
"Huh? Oh, just attending to a few things. Possibly three. Two of them take priority."
"P-priority?" Ikrar echoed softly.
"Exactly, Ikrar. One is already taken care of, and the other two remain. Though one of them is merely… a bonus."
Ikrar's gaze stayed locked on Jeannette—confused, but wary.
"How do you know my name?"
Jeannette smiled faintly, the kind of smile that never reached the eyes.
"It'd be complicated to explain right now," she said lightly. "Eventually, as time goes on, you'll start questioning your identity yourself." She tilted her head ever so slightly toward Nita. "But perhaps the woman beside you can shed some light—if she survives long enough to speak."
Nita tensed, though she kept her composure. The fact that Jeannette's presence had gone completely undetected until now already said enough—this woman was anything but ordinary.
The room remained still, yet the tension between them grew thicker, stretched like a taut string moments away from snapping.
Nita's eyes sharpened as she asked,
"Where are the teachers? What did you do to them?"
Jeannette sighed—an exhale heavy not with guilt, but with subtle irritation.
"Weren't you listening? 'I had to harvest more ranah-energy than I should've.' Understand?"
Nita paused.
Her eyes dropped to the longsword Jeannette cradled. The dim light glinted faintly off its blade, illuminating the intricate carvings etched across its surface—a distinct pattern Nita could never forget.
Blade and Souls.
A legendary longsword once wielded by Karya—one of the fifth-generation Celestial Guardians, and a comrade of hers. After Karya's death during the Bandung Lautan Api Jilid Dua incident, the sword had been preserved with great honor in the SMAN 01 Nusantarana Bandung artifact chamber, a symbol of sacrifice and valor.
Seeing it now, in Jeannette's hands, sent a wave of emotions crashing through Nita—shock, anger, perhaps even grief. But one thing was certain: her expression had begun to harden.
"Blade and Souls… don't tell me you—"
Jeannette answered with that same faint, unreadable smile, finishing the thought Nita couldn't bring herself to complete.
"Very similar to the Blade of Ranah. This sword absorbs and stores ranah-energy in massive quantities." She leaned in slightly, voice soft and poised. "They're not just ordinary teachers, Nita. Their realm-energy is useful to me. And trust me… you wouldn't want to see the extraction process."
Ikrar, who had been standing beside Nita all this time, stared at the sword with a mix of fear and awe. He didn't fully understand the situation yet, but now he recognized the weapon.
"So this is the sword Guruh mentioned back in class? The one Abu wielded in his fierce battle against Tegar… and the same one used by Karya during the rebellion that nearly toppled the government. Incredible. Just looking at it from here, I can tell this isn't a weapon just anyone can hold," he thought.
Yet beneath that admiration, a growing unease stirred within him.
"But if that legendary blade is now in Jeannette's hands… what happened? And why does Nita look so shaken?" he continued, eyes shifting cautiously toward her.
Nita's eyes stayed locked on Jeannette, scanning the faint curve of her smile for any hint of her next move. Then, with a glance—barely more than a flicker—she signaled to Ikrar. A tilt of her chin. A tightening of her gaze.
Get away. Now.
Ikrar caught it. He didn't need words. Slowly, he began stepping backward, keeping his breath shallow, his eyes wide.
But Jeannette's voice—soft, almost lazy—shattered the tension like glass.
"Release …."
The floor erupted in golden light. Ancient glyphs spiraled out beneath them, turning and shifting like a living mechanism. The air thickened with heat and power. A low, hungry hum filled the space, building, building—until the very walls seemed to vibrate.
Then came the flash.
A blinding surge of light tore through the room—and from the heart of it, they came. Three wyverns, colossal and monstrous, roared into reality. Wings like torn banners snapped open with thunderclaps. Scales glistened with venom-green sheen. Their eyes—
crimson, blazing, alive with hunger.
One of them flared its wings—and screamed. The shockwave detonated through the room. Desks split apart. Chairs hurled like twigs. The floor cracked under the weight of their presence.
Nita didn't think. She moved. In one motion, she lunged, grabbing Ikrar's wrist—and threw him with all the force she had left.
He flew.
He didn't even feel his body soar—only the roar, the pressure, the heat behind him.
And then—
Boom!
An explosion, massive and merciless, cracked the world apart. Ikrar's body hit the floor, bounced, and slammed through the ruined gates of the teacher's lounge. Wood and steel splintered around him. Air knocked from his lungs. Pain flared sharp and sudden.
Then—silence.
Or no—not silence.
A ringing, shrill and constant, swallowed everything. His ears screamed. His glasses were gone. Vision blurred, smeared with gold and dust. Every breath tasted of ash.
He tried to sit up.
Failed.
Tried again.
Agony clawed through every limb, but he forced himself to rise, coughing, dragging one arm over another.
Only one name tore through the fog in his mind.
Nita.
His voice cracked, hoarse and raw. "Kak Nita …!"
No answer.
Just dust. Rubble. Smoke. And guilt.
He crawled, hands trembling, legs numb. The world spun around him, collapsing inward, but none of that mattered. He couldn't see her—couldn't feel her. The woman who'd just risked her life for his might be gone. Because of him.
And the only thing worse than fear—was not knowing.
Amid the ticking of time, Guruh glanced around as his ears caught the distant sound of a loud bang. Aira, who had been leisurely writing, froze in place, her unease growing as a strange intuition began creeping into her heart. Yuda's eyes widened for a moment before flicking to Riana, who met his gaze with a similar look of concern.
"Hey, did you guys just… hear that?"
"Yeah," Yuda responded calmly, though his voice betrayed a hint of worry. "That wasn't just a regular explosion—there's a fight happening here."
"A fight?" Guruh asked, his brow furrowing. "But why does it feel so close?"
"Your instinct isn't entirely wrong, Guruh," Riana said, her voice firm with conviction. "The amount of ranah energy being used... whoever possesses it, it's immense. But one thing's for sure, this fight isn't happening in the Vetra Building, where duels are usually held."
A brief pause hung in the air, thick with unanswered questions, before Yuda spoke again.
"There's no doubt about it. I felt Miss Nita's ranah clash for a moment before it went silent. You're a sensor-type Nusantarana, Riana. Can you pinpoint where this battle is happening?"
Riana closed her eyes, slowly turning her gaze towards the north side of the classroom. "Yeah… it's definitely coming from the Main Building. More specifically, the teacher's lounge."
It wasn't long before Guruh and Yuda realized something—something about their friend.
"Hey, didn't Ikrar say he was heading there?"
"Ah, goddamn... he's in serious danger…"
Without warning, Aira shot up from her seat, ready to sprint toward the location just mentioned. But before she could take a single step, Riana grabbed her wrist.
"Don't be reckless. You have no idea who that Celestial Guardian is up against."
Aira didn't care in the slightest. She stared at her wrist, clutched tightly by the red-haired girl, before finally saying, "You're nothing but a coward. Now let go of me, Riana."
Instead of loosening, Riana's grip tightened. "What did you say?"
"Shall I repeat myself?"
"Yes, please do…"
Their eyes locked—like water and fire colliding, unable to coexist. One looked on with cold indifference; the other, with a scowl of offended pride.
Before the tension could boil over, Guruh stepped in, grabbing both of their wrists to break them apart. He could already feel the stares of everyone else in the class falling on them like a heavy curtain.
"Oi! What's wrong with you two? This isn't the time to—hey, what the heck? Why are you both so strong?!"
But even after switching grips and angles, Guruh felt like he was trying to separate two solid walls. Neither Riana nor Aira showed any sign of backing down—ranah energy began to rise faintly from both of them, like twin storms on the brink of erupting.
Before Guruh could even call for help, he was left speechless by what one of his friends had just done.
"Ugh, this is exhausting… Yud, can you—whoa! What are you doing?!"
Yuda had jumped—straight through the classroom window, diving downward at high speed.
The entire class gasped. Some even rushed to the broken window to see what had happened. But before they could fully process the scene, a piercing screech split the air—a cry from something winged, something that briefly resembled a bird.
Yet when it came into view, its erratic flight and ancient form—its long head and jaw without a beak—erased any doubt: it was no bird. It was something far more primal.
And there was Yuda… riding a Pteranodon. His hands were locked into a seal formation, proof that he was using a Re-Existence technique.
"I don't have much time," he said, his voice nearly drowned by the beating wings of the airborne predator. "If you want to follow, stop your useless arguing."
He turned slightly toward Guruh.
"Get on! We're heading to the Main Building—now!"
Guruh leapt up, but his body immediately wobbled left and right, struggling to stay balanced on the broad back of the winged beast.
"This is like a monster-version carrier hawk! But where the heck is the seatbelt?!"
Yuda glanced back with a raised brow. "It's not a hawk, and definitely not a monster, you idiot!"
Right then, the Pteranodon shrieked and flapped its massive wings, sending a gust of wind that rattled the nearby classroom windows.
With a single powerful thrust, the ancient creature shot into the sky, soaring away from the window ledge.
Guruh screamed, clutching the Pteranodon's back for dear life.
"Anything that flies like this still counts as a monster, Yuda—!"
At the same time.
Amid the falling ceiling debris, like shattered glass sprinkling from above, Nita sat slumped on the floor, powerless. Cracks spidered out behind her, silent testimony to how hard she'd been slammed against the wall of the teachers' lounge. Her left arm was no longer in one piece, and as consciousness slowly returned, so did the sound of approaching footsteps.
There—emerging through the smoke—Jeannette stepped forward, calm and deliberate. The sound of her sandals was soft, almost gentle, in stark contrast to the ruin around her.
"A tough decision to make, huh? But I get it—you weren't prepared enough to fully awaken your power," she said, now standing directly in front of Nita. "Still, I have to admit, your ability to read the situation was impressive. Thanks to you, Ikrar made it out alive. Pity you're the one left in pieces."
A faint, crooked smile tugged at Nita's lips. Though her vision was still blurry, she tilted her head to look up at her opponent's face.
"Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment," she said, her voice rough with pain. "And speaking of Wisesa... just how much intel did that bastard feed you about my ability?"
"Plenty. Enough to take you down completely."
"Ah... so that's how it is…."
Jeannette said nothing at first. The silence between them spoke louder than words.
"In the world of the Nusantarana, great power alone doesn't guarantee victory.
Every bit of knowledge about your enemy, no matter how small, can be a deciding factor when used right."
She raised her longsword high. Through the broken ceiling, a shaft of sunlight pierced the overcast sky and struck the golden blade—its gleam danced across the cracked walls like a flicker of inescapable fate. Then, in a voice that echoed like a judgment already passed, Jeannette continued, "Any last words?"
"Yes," Nita replied. "Tell Wisesa this: if I die, the reflection of my soul and spirit will never stop hunting him…"
She paused, breathing through the pain.
"…and if he dares to follow me into the afterlife, I will chase him even into the deepest pits of hell."
Jeannette didn't respond immediately. She simply gazed at her opponent with an expression that, for reasons even she couldn't explain, was hard to define—admiration, respect, or perhaps mere indifference.
"Very well. I'll deliver your message."
With all her strength, Jeannette brought down the longsword—but then came a sound she wasn't expecting.
A harsh metallic clash rang out, not the impact of blade against flesh.
Her arms trembled as she tried to force the sword deeper.
Only then did she realize what had happened—her opponent's right arm was now clad in armor.
"…Mangkar?"
Nita gritted her teeth. "Did you really think I'd go down that easily? I'll deliver my message to that bastard myself!"
Without warning, her left arm—which had appeared mangled just moments ago—was fully healed. A surge of ranah burst from her palm, rocketing toward her enemy.
Jeannette reacted fast. Releasing one hand from her sword's hilt, she threw it up to shield herself.
A powerful explosion rocked the room, sending shockwaves through the rubble. Jeannette was blown back, only managing to stay grounded by jamming her sword into the cracked floor.
"She's insane… That precision—she managed to minimize ranah collapse when shifting between abilities," Jeannette thought, her mind racing. "But even so, regenerative output like that comes with a heavy cost."
Across the debris, Nita emerged slowly from the smoke. She glanced briefly at her left arm, then shifted into a stance.
"It's not easy. But the risk had to be taken. The more severe the damage, the more intense the nirmala concentration needed for healing," she reflected. "As powerful as this ability is, not all 'serious injuries' can be regenerated. That's why I made sure to protect my head, chest, and gut above all else."
Jeannette took a firm stance, her long sword gleaming gold as it channeled her ranah energy along the blade's length.
"I'll admit it—my opponent's formidable. But that's not enough to make me back down now. Statistically, I still hold the upper hand. I haven't even shown my trump card," she analyzed, eyes locked on Nita.
Nita exhaled sharply, eyes unwavering. "To be honest, my ranah's down to less than half. I already used a chunk of it fighting Yuda. I'm no Putra Tigaaksara—I have to conserve what little I have."
Above them, the clouds churned into a thicker, darker mass—slowly swirling as if stirred by a storm not of nature, but of battle. From the heart of the clouds, three monstrous figures emerged. Wyverns—mythical beasts with lean but muscular frames, two clawed legs, wide leathery wings, and long, lance-like tails. Their sharp eyes scanned the landscape as they circled in the air, pouring out waves of hostile energy.
Nita squinted up through the glare breaking through the storm clouds. One of the wyverns lowered its head—and let out a piercing screech that rippled across the battlefield.
Without warning, it turned westward—toward where Ikrar was last seen.
"Damn it! Haven't you done enough by leveling half the school already?!"
Nita clenched her jaw, instinct screaming for her to intercept.
But before she could move, Jeannette dashed forward in a golden blur.
"Remember—your opponent is me. Let him face his fate alone!"
Nita braced herself, but then—another screech, this time from the east.
She turned just in time to see a massive Pteranodon slicing through the clouds, gliding with speed and purpose. Two figures clung to its back.
"What are they doing here—?! Tch, forget it!"
Her eyes narrowed, then she shouted with all the conviction left in her lungs.
"I'm counting on you two! Yuda, Guruh—he's in your hands now!"
***
The wind slapped against Yuda's face as the Pteranodon pierced through the clouds, heading straight for the Main Building—which, even from a distance, was visibly half-destroyed.
Without mercy, two wyverns released torrents of ranah energy in every direction, their blasts tearing through the sky and shaking the earth below. Down on the ground, Yuda spotted Nita engaged in an intense duel with a woman wielding a longsword—Jeannette.
"Who the hell is Nita fighting? I've never seen her before."
As he narrowed his eyes at the battlefield below, Guruh sat cross-legged behind him, fidgeting with his phone.
"No signal, Yud! How are we supposed to call for backup like this?"
Yuda turned his head, eyes narrowing even further when he realized Guruh was trying to log into an online game.
"I should've known better than to expect anything useful from you," he muttered.
The brief flash of amusement quickly faded. His expression turned grim as he noticed the phone screen—no signal bars, and the loading icon kept spinning endlessly.
"Communication's dead?" he thought. "At this altitude, we should at least be getting satellite coverage."
He narrowed his gaze toward the ruined Main Building below—the epicenter of the chaos. Two of the three wyverns still circled above, forming a defensive pattern in the air, as if guarding something.
"Is this area under some kind of isolation seal? Or has the enemy shut everything down from the inside?" he questioned mentally. "Either way, no data's going out... and none is coming in."
The Pteranodon banked sharply, sensing incoming danger.
Yuda looked at Guruh with a rare, deadly seriousness in his eyes.
"We're not getting help. Whatever's going on down there… we end it. Here. Now."
Guruh swallowed hard and slowly tucked his phone away. "Well then... I guess we're going all in for Miss Nita, huh?"
Yuda nodded. "Hold on tight—we've got a Wyvern closing in on us."
"Ah, damn it. And here I thought 'all in' meant praying hard while hiding in a safe corner."
Yuda didn't respond. Wind whipped against them as the Pteranodon dove to avoid the surge of energy coming from the roaring Wyvern behind. The air screamed in their ears as they shot downward, skimming between two crumbling buildings—concrete pillars nearly scraping the creature's wings.
Debris scattered in their wake as the winged beast pulled up sharply, narrowly avoiding a collapsed roof frame. In a flash, they ducked beneath a skybridge, the creature's wings nearly grazing the structure before climbing steeply back into the sky.
Behind them, a low, frustrated roar echoed—followed by a blast of energy that slammed into a building wall, blowing out a chunk of steel and concrete with explosive force.
Clinging for dear life in a prone position, Guruh's face had gone ghost-white. "Yuda, this is like riding a roller coaster—except there's no seatbelt and the track's trying to kill us!"
Yuda glanced down, his eyes scanning the ruined ground below. "Focus. We have to find Ikrar before that thing does!"
Guruh whipped out his phone again, trying to zoom in with the camera. "Oh, come on—my zoom isn't nearly enough for this!"
Behind them, the Wyvern roared—loud, guttural, and far too close. It veered in from the right, forcing the Pteranodon into a sharp, gut-lurching left turn.
Guruh staggered, nearly slipping off. "Yuda! I'm not the pilot, I'm the passenger! And passengers aren't supposed to dodge missiles!"
"Stop complaining and find Ikrar!"
Moments later, Guruh squinted at his screen—and there he was.
"Wait, is that…?"
Through the swirling dust below, they saw him—crawling through the debris near the collapsed teacher's gate.
But before they could descend, the Wyvern had already locked on—diving, fast and furious, a blur of rage and wings.
Yuda's jaw tightened. "Guruh—hold on. I'm pushing the Pteranodon faster!"
Guruh's scream was half-plea, half-hysteria. "Faster?! We're already breaking airline regulations!"
The wind howled as the Pteranodon dove like a javelin, bursting through clouds of rising ash and concrete. Its wings beat the air with savage force, slicing the sky in half.
Below, the Wyvern plummeted straight toward Ikrar, its shriek cutting the atmosphere like a blade. Energy surged in its throat—a radiant pulse forming, deadly and bright.
"Ikrar's too far! We'll never make it!" Guruh cried, voice hoarse from wind and fear.
But Yuda didn't reply. His gaze narrowed, unwavering. Both arms extended, lips moving fast.
"Ranah Energy: Maximum Release…"
And then—
The distance closed.
The Wyvern's breath attack surged.
The boy below struggled to rise.
In that heartbeat between action and consequence—
—everything froze.
On one side: despair, descending with fangs bared.
On the other: defiance, blazing in human form.
And the world held its breath,
waiting to see—
who would reach him first.