Akasa now stood at the crossroads of his fate—at the gates of the Ardana Kingdom.
Elsewhere, far beyond his sight, a malevolent power stirred—sharpening its fangs in silence, watching from the shadows.
To the northwest of Ardana lay a desolate land.
A wasteland where ancient trees stood dead and charred, their remains blackened like coal after centuries of fire.
Rivers of molten lava carved glowing paths across the land, exhaling smoke and unbearable heat—enough to melt stone and flesh alike.
These rivers flowed from an ancient volcano known as Prama—“the End”. A mountain that never ceased vomiting what lay within: stone, gas, ash, and scorching clouds.
Dark volcanic smoke towered into the sky, smothering sunlight until noon turned dim and crimson.
Red lightning struck the heavens relentlessly—five, sometimes ten times a minute—violent and merciless.
Yet the greatest horror lay below.
At the foot of Mount Prama stood a palace—rooted into the remains of a colossal primordial tree that had died thousands of years ago.
Its branches were dry and skeletal. Its blackened trunk rose like the spine of a giant corpse.
Thorned black rose roots coiled wildly around the structure, while jagged cliffs and serrated rock formations formed a natural fortress around it.
The land itself exhaled sulfur gas mixed with the stench of decay—rotting carcasses reduced to bone. The air was foul, burning the lungs with every breath.
Siluman. Monstrous beings roamed freely—most neither fully human nor fully beast—in that land.
Orion.
In the local tongue, it meant: “Child of Fire”. A realm governed by hierarchy and caste—much like a kingdom.
And upon its throne sat a queen whose mastery of black sorcery was said to be unrivaled.
Lusila — the Demon Queen.
For centuries, she ruled every entity that dwelled within Orion. Her vassals were scattered across the continent, each tasked according to their terrifying power.
One of those vassals possessed the ability to become a swarm of bats—serving as a scout across eastern and southern lands.
At times, he even crossed into the human world—slipping through gaps in the dimensional veil when it weakened.
The veil between realms ebbed and flowed like the tide. When full, crossing was near impossible—like diving into the abyss without protection. But when it receded, a passage opened.
Recently, the veil had thinned. And so the vassal crossed. Now, it was time for him to return—to the palace beneath Mount Prama.
Thousands of bats converged in the sky before collapsing into a single form—a middle-aged man clad in a traditional Javanese surjan, gripping a wooden staff.
He knelt in the throne hall.
“Salam, Kanjeng Ratu Lusila, Panguwaos Kenalendran Agung Orion!”
(“Greetings, Queen Lusila, Sovereign of the Great Kingdom of Orion!”)
The throne chamber was dark. Only massive torches lining the walls cast light. The air reeked of incense and metal.
Queen Lusila sat upon a throne of obsidian stone—engraved with dragons and the sigil of a black rose.
“Lowo, huh …?” she murmured.
“Piye menungso kui? Wis ketangkep?”