CESAGA

The Jyala villagers unloaded their goods under the watchful eyes of the Orcs. Hrakas, however, remained seated on his cart, stopping in the center, unmoving, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

This defiance did not go unnoticed. A towering Orc bellowed at Hrakas, demanding he dismount and deliver his tribute immediately. The brute's roar echoed through the square, drawing the attention of villagers and Orcs alike.

Steeling himself, Hrakas stepped down from his cart.

"Release my grandson," he said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him. "I've brought something His Highness Erabis has long dreamed of. It's in the barrels—alive and dangerous. You'll need more guards."

The Orc's eyes flickered toward the barrels, noticing their faint tremble. Its suspicions piqued, the Orc barked orders for Hrakas to step back.

With a deep, guttural roar, he called for reinforcements. All the Orcs guarding the gathering square—nine of them, fully armored—approached, forming a tight circle around Hrakas's cart, their spears poised and aimed at the shaking barrels.

The air grew thick with tension. All eyes were locked on the containers, waiting for whatever lurked inside to emerge.

Slowly, the barrels stopped shaking. One Orc, wary but determined, stepped forward. His massive hand gripped the wooden lid, and with a swift motion, he wrenched it open.

The barrel's contents revealed only peanut sauce. As the other Orcs leaned in to inspect, a sudden splash of hot sauce splattered across their faces.

Purnama and Suria burst from the barrel, tossing aside the thick, round plates that had separated them from the spicy gravy. The terrified villagers, eyes wide with fear, huddled against the square's walls.

"What an entrance! Even if it wasn't exactly comfortable, you've always had a flair for the dramatic," Suria quipped with a smirk.

Purnama chuckled.

"Sometimes, a little discomfort sharpens the mind."

Draped in a long brown wool cloak, Purnama leaped nimbly from Hrakas' cart.

"Don't overdo it, Suria," he cautioned. "Protect the others. I'll handle Erabis."

Suria's eyes gleamed with determination as a faint light began to glow at her fingertips.

"Too long have I waited to get my hands dirty. Time to teach these lesser Puaka a lesson. Go! I'll handle this."

As the Orcs wiped the stinging sauce from their eyes, Purnama sprinted up the winding spiral staircase leading to the platform above.

Inside the palace's cavernous hall, Erabis sat at a massive stone table, tearing into his meal with brutal indifference. Rows of Orc soldiers lined the walls, tense and vigilant.

Erabis, a towering Rakshasa Puaka, was a sight to behold—his skin a deep, blood-red, contrasting against the green-skinned minions that served him. His thick, black hair flowed like a dark river down to his waist, framing his monstrous presence. Massive tusks, sharp as swords, jutted from the sides of his face, curving menacingly.

An iron helm, scarred and battle-worn, covered his head, leaving only his mouth visible—a gaping maw that twisted into a snarl. Deep scars crisscrossed his muscular frame, each one a testament to the countless battles he'd survived.

Chains wrapped tightly around his wrists and legs, clinking with every movement, as if they had once bound him but now served only as trophies of his power.

Standing at twenty feet tall, Erabis towered nearly twice the height of his Orc soldiers, a hulking mass of pure, raw power. His piercing eyes glowed with a cold, savage intelligence, while the scar across his lips made him look even more terrifying.

As he feasted, his aura of dominance filled the room, a dark energy radiating from him, palpable even to those who dared not approach.

Two Orc guards were suddenly hurled through the castle's wooden door, aiming straight for Erabis. With a swift, effortless swing of his spiked iron club, Erabis deflected their bodies, sending them crashing into the stone walls.

The Orcs lay lifeless, immature dark orbs starting to form around them. Without hesitation, Erabis absorbed the dark energy.

He rose from his seat, a towering figure casting a long, dark shadow across the room. His long, black hair swayed behind him, alive and restless like a predator poised to strike. His gaze narrowed as he fixed his eyes on the silhouette framed by the doorway.

"A CELESTRIAS!" His voice boomed through the hall, shaking its foundations as he hurled the meat bone to the floor with a deafening crash.

Tiny ice flakes swirled around Purnama, forming into the towering shape of an ice moose, nearly as tall as Erabis. As Erabis barked orders, his Orc soldiers surged forward with brutal coordination.

Purnama remained calm, his gaze fixed on the advancing horde. With a fluid motion, he shrugged off his cloak and leaped onto Zirko's back.

Zirko spun, unleashing a storm of icy wind that froze the Orcs mid-attack, locking them in place alongside the palace walls. The storm subsided, leaving the soldiers encased in a frozen prison.

Erabis' eyes burned with fury as he witnessed his forces immobilized.

It was then shards of ice erupted from Zirko's body, shattering the frozen Orcs into a cloud of crystalline fragments.

From the shattered ice, immature dark orbs floated toward Erabis, vanishing as he absorbed their power. Purnama watched, his grip tightening on the hilt of his kris. He tried to draw the blade, but the sheath remained stubbornly sealed.

"My kris won't budge, Zirko," Purnama muttered, frustration evident in his voice. "Looks like it's going to be a bare-knuckle brawl. These Puaka are disgusting creatures—not only do they talk, but they also siphon life force for their own twisted ends. Who knows how much power this one has hoarded?"

"We need to be cautious, Purnama," Zirko warned, his voice filled with a sense of urgency. As the two faced off, a fierce battle loomed on the horizon.

With a savage roar, Erabis charged forward, his spiked club raised high. Purnama and Zirko braced themselves for the inevitable clash.