The hall was vast, larger than any temple Aryasa had ever seen.
He stepped inside, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. At the center stood the drum not carved from wood, not built from stone, but formed from eternity itself, shimmering faintly with light that was not of this world. Its surface rippled, reflecting faces that were not his own guardians long gone, villagers forgotten, ancestors lost.
Mangku Gede's words lingered in his mind: "The drum does not beat. It remembers. And memory is heavier than silence."
Aryasa pressed forward. The ground pulsed beneath his feet, each step resonating with rhythm that was not his own. He closed his eyes, and the world shifted. He saw visions—faces of guardians long gone, their voices fading, their bodies collapsing. He saw Rangda, her laughter sharp, her hands tearing silence from the air. He saw his father, standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes heavy, his voice trembling.
"You are chosen."
Aryasa gasped. He opened his eyes. The drum shimmered. Eternity screamed.
The drum was not silent.
It pulsed with rhythm, each beat carrying the weight of centuries. Aryasa felt the whisper surge within him, louder now, sharper, filled with something that pressed against his chest.
"You are wound. You are memory. You are silence reborn."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The drum surged. Eternity screamed.
The battle began.
Aryasa struck, each blow guided not by strength, but by rhythm—the rhythm of memory, the rhythm of silence, the rhythm of the veil itself. The kris sang. The drum screamed. The world pulsed. Eternity faltered.
But the rhythm did not vanish. It remained. Waiting. Watching.
Aryasa fell to his knees, breath ragged, chest burning. The ground shimmered faintly. A single ember rose from the drum, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "Eternity."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But eternity is endless. And you cannot carry it alone."
Aryasa looked at the kris. He was no longer just a boy with a blade. He was the wound. He was the memory. He was silence reborn.
And tonight, the veil trembled.
Aryasa rose from the hall, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was eternity itself.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has carried eternity," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.