Yuda's seat remained empty.
Almost an hour had passed since the lesson began, yet he hadn't shown up.
Ikrar glanced at the wall clock, then turned his eyes toward Guruh, who sat a row behind him. Their gazes met—only briefly, but long enough to share a wordless unease.
Guruh leaned back in his chair, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"He's never been this late before."
Ikrar gave a small nod. "You're right. And not a single teacher's shown up either. Usually, if Ms. Siska doesn't come in, Mr. Windah takes her place."
Guruh clicked his tongue.
"Meh. Stuff like this happens all the time in schools. Rumor is, they're prepping for a special guest."
"Special guest?" Ikrar repeated, his expression now tinged with curiosity. "Who?"
"One of the Seven Celestial Guardians. Same rank as Mr. Windah," Guruh replied with little interest. "Lady Nita."
Silence.
A beat passed between them before Ikrar finally spoke again.
"That's odd. How do you even know something like that?"
He adjusted his glasses, the lenses gleaming white—opaque with suspicion.
Guruh glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
"Just rumors, you know?"
Catching the slight change in Guruh's tone, Ikrar pressed further.
"Are you sure? Are you sure about that?"
Guruh nodded—but this time, he didn't look at his friend.
Instead, he gave a low whistle, stood up, and wandered toward one of the classroom windows, as if trying to dodge Ikrar's suspicion… or perhaps searching for an answer to Yuda's absence—an answer no one in the room could give.
As he drew the curtain aside, his eyes caught something strange in the sky—
still snowing lightly
but not quite right.
Dark clouds were coiling in on themselves like a vortex of smoke, slowly churning above a towering building to the north. But it wasn't just any gray—there was a strange tint of bluish violet, threaded with flickers of static that pulsed from within like restrained lightning.
Guruh furrowed his brow. A faint tremor ran through his chest as he sensed the pressure in the air begin to shift.
"This… isn't normal weather."
A low rumble rolled in—barely audible, yet enough to draw the attention of a few students seated near the windows.
Their heads turned in sync, unease flickering across their faces.
So did Ikrar.
"Isn't that… the guild bureau? The one where Yuda's interning?"
Guruh didn't answer.
His eyes stayed fixed on the sky—unnatural and alive, as if something up there had just started to wake.
Seeing his friend frozen in place only deepened Ikrar's growing sense of unease.
There was something out there—something clearly disturbing Guruh—but Ikrar couldn't feel it.
And he knew why: because he was a Nusalain, untouched by the Awakening, unable to perceive what others could.
And when he saw both Riana and Aira turn toward the window, their eyes quietly narrowing, Ikrar could only sit in silence—trapped in a room that was steadily shrinking under the weight of not knowing.
"Hey, Krar."
Guruh's voice finally broke the silence, but it came laced with tight concern.
"Was Yuda… seriously interning there?"
The bespectacled boy nodded, still unsure where the question was going.
"Yeah. He said he'd be starting his internship there. Why?"
"Where exactly was it again?" Guruh pressed.
"Wait a sec, I kinda forgot."
Ikrar leaned forward, resting his chin on his wrist, racking his brain.
"Oh! Right—the very first guild founded in Nusantara: Semesta!"
"…Dammit!"
A bead of cold sweat slid down Guruh's temple, crawling slowly to the edge of his jaw.
His body remained rigid, but his gaze stayed locked on the sky, now clearly tainted with something unnatural.
He stepped back—once, then twice—but his heart remained behind the glass, fixed on the storm forming just beyond their reach.
Ikrar watched him, brow furrowed. "Ruh?" he called softly. "What's gotten into you—"
"Sorry. I don't mean anything by it, Ikrar. But can't you feel it?" Guruh cut in, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "This air… this pressure…"
"You've been reading too many conspiracy books, huh?" Ikrar tried to lighten the mood, though he knew Guruh wasn't joking—not this time.
Inside the classroom, things still looked relatively normal. The clock ticked on, the old ceiling fan hummed its tired tune, and the curtains swayed gently in the breeze. But for Guruh—and for the sensitive ones like Aira and Riana—the world seemed ever so slightly… misaligned. As if something vast was holding its breath, clenching its jaw, waiting to unleash its roar.
Yet one thing was certain: those who hadn't reached their Awakened State would never feel it. Never perceive it.
And Ikrar—seated in the middle row with snow-dusted glasses—remained unaware.
To him, Yuda was simply late.
The weather? A little strange.
The school? A bit quieter than usual.
But to those who could see the shift—that subtle crack in the atmosphere—it was more than coincidence. It was a warning. And when someone dares to repeat history… or worse, surpass it… the world always changes first, long before anyone gets the chance to say it out loud.
Among the four of them, only Ikrar had yet to awaken.
But the world never waits for someone to learn how to open their eyes.
Because out there, the tremor had already rippled through the air—a howl from an ancient being that should have never stirred again.
And two kilometers from that classroom, Nita was forced to leap backward, crashing against floating shards of stone as her eyes widened in shock—locked onto a silhouette that growled from the heart of the arena, low and feral.
"You… you managed to merge it?" she whispered, disbelieving.
Yuda staggered. His breaths came in ragged bursts, yet the triumphant smile on his lips could not be hidden.
"Not perfectly," he admitted. "But enough to make your skin crawl, isn't it?"
The creature had only revealed half its form. Its wings unfurled slowly, stirring the air as if each beat pressed down on the chest of any who dared to witness it. Scales shimmered along its frame, laced with flickers of unstable light—an unfinished skeleton still being sculpted by the world itself.
Its voice wasn't a mere roar, but an ancient resonance—an echo from a time long buried, calling out to something that had slumbered far too long.
But just as its aura began to push against the arena's limits, Yuda's body wavered. The hand he had raised dropped, as though the strength within him had been drained.
"N-not… finished yet…"
The words barely escaped his lips, more breath than voice, like wind from a dying flame.
Blood seeped from his nose, then from the corner of his mouth. He took a step forward—not to strike, but merely to remain standing. It was a step weakened by the weight of his limits.
And then he collapsed.
His body hit the stone floor with a sound softer than thunder—
yet heavier than silence.
And as Yuda's consciousness slipped away—
The creature shuddered.
Not from an enemy.
Not from any blow.
But because the tether that bound it—the soul of its summoner—had flickered out, if only for a moment.
Piece by piece, its form began to unravel, like thick smoke losing shape.
The wings folded.
Its tail and torso shrank.
Its half-formed head turned briefly toward Yuda—
then vanished, pulled back into the spiral of light from whence it came.
There was no explosion.
No storm.
Only dust.
And silence.
The arena lay in ruin. Stones lay fractured, the ground torn open. And at its center, only Yuda's body remained—still, unmoving. Like a child who had finally succumbed to exhaustion after chasing a dream too vast to hold.
The crowd, once holding their breath, began to murmur in hushed tones. Yet none dared to cheer. There was no applause. Only the faint sound of breath slowly returning, as if the world itself was still trying to comprehend what had just occurred.
Nita had not moved. Her eyes remained locked on the space where the creature had once been. Her stance was still held defensively—but now, her hands trembled ever so slightly.
She said nothing.
But she understood—just as everyone there understood—Yuda had not lost to her. The boy had simply leapt too far, too soon.
She should have acted. Should have stopped him before he dared something so reckless. Yet her body had frozen. Something in that silhouette—not its shape, but the aura surrounding it—had shaken her to her core.
Because she had felt it before.
Years ago, when all hope was unraveling—undone by two who had broken their oaths as Celestial Wardens. One of them was Sylvia, no longer a comrade, but a foe to be confronted.
In a final desperate stand to protect what remained, Karya had summoned something he never should have. A creature not born of this world—something conjured only to delay the inevitable.
But even then, that creature had not been enough to halt Sylvia, who had become something else entirely.
In the end, one of them had brought the warfield to silence with a single stroke of the blade—ending Sylvia's life, paying a price no one ever truly forgot. Alongside the scars borne by those who lived through it.
And those who lived through it… never truly returned whole.
Nita drew a breath, every memory carved deep into her bones—not merely because she had survived, but because none of them ever truly healed.
"Foolish child—you truly, so nearly...."
The words barely rose above the breeze that drifted softly through the arena, carrying with it the fading echoes of the battle just passed. Fine dust still hung in the air, and the ground bore scars—etched lines where the clash of ranah energy had struck deep.
Nita walked slowly. She stepped toward Yuda's limp body, lying unconscious at the center of the arena's ring. The hem of her Mangkar armor-robe lifted with each movement, sweeping over the cooling earth. The boy lay still, his breath labored, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm—but he lived.
Kneeling beside him, Nita reached out and gripped his fingers tightly, as if willing life back into him. He was far too young to carry such a burden.
Now, the stands erupted. Cheers rose like a breaking wave. Spectators stood, applauding, voices filled with awe for a boy who had nearly brought down one of the Seven Celestial Wardens. Amid the swell of admiration, whispers began to spread: "Karya reborn," "a miracle child," "the emblem of a new era."
But none of them—none—truly understood.
What they had just witnessed… was only the beginning.
Meanwhile, at the farthest edge of the stands, in a shaded corner untouched by light, two figures stood—barely noticeable. One leaned against an old ironwood pillar, arms folded, while the other—an elderly man cloaked in dark robes—ran a slow hand along his chin.
"I thought you wouldn't come," murmured the old man, his gaze fixed on Yuda and Nita in the center of the arena. "Don't you even want to greet your old friend?"
"No," the other replied calmly, void of emotion. "It's… not time yet."
Silence lingered between them for a heartbeat longer. Then, without a word more, they turned and slipped away—disappearing into the dark corridor from which they had come. No one noticed them leave. It was as if the world itself allowed their departure, without trace, without question.
Back in the arena, Nita held Yuda close, one arm wrapped around his shoulders.
Suddenly, she lifted her head.
A coldness crept along her neck—not the chill of night air, but the frost of something she had once known.
Her eyes swept across the stands, scanning the sea of cheering faces—until they halted at a single empty space. Empty, yet full.
"Wisesa...?" she whispered—barely audible, more like a breath escaping without permission.
She stared at that spot, at a void that felt unbearably present. Her gaze should have passed over it like any other seat in the crowd, yet it was caught—snared by the weight of something that had lingered too long, and had just barely let go.
No one stood there. No shadow remained. No footprint marked the stone.
But Nita knew.
Something had been there—and it had left behind a wound in the air.
A shiver ran down her spine.
That presence… it wasn't entirely unfamiliar. But it wasn't truly the same, either. Like a melody from the past, sung in a lower key—heavier, darker. Like gazing into her own reflection on murky water—the shape unchanged, but the soul fractured.
She closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
And in that fleeting breath of stillness, her heart—so long guarded against the sharpest of memories—opened a door that was never meant to be unlatched. A premonition, not born of logic, but of something far older: the instinct of someone who had once lost everything.
They had returned. They were never truly gone.
This world had never fully healed. It merely fell silent, like an old wound that crusted over on the surface, while festering beneath. And now—they were coming back, one by one. Not as ghosts of the past, but as players of the chapter yet to come.
Nita lowered her gaze, looking once more at Yuda's pale, unconscious face. In silence, she stroked his hair gently—like a mother would. Yet her eyes, forged through too many devastations, now held something deeper than tears.
"I won't let them take everything again," she whispered, this time to herself alone. "I… swear it."
The wind curled softly, lifting fine snowflakes that fell without sound, drifting like ash lost in the frozen air.
And somewhere beyond, behind the great tower of the Guild Semesta, the tall trees stood still—shedding leaves unseen from where she knelt.
The clouded sky tightened its voice—not with thunder, but with a hiss of silence… like something was approaching, but not yet ready to arrive.
And from far off, in a forgotten place where ruin once reigned, two of the three petals that had once witnessed this land's downfall… slowly began to bloom again.
But this time, they bloomed not to remember—
but to welcome.