Chapter 8

+ CHAPTER 8 +

The Hollow Blade Awakens

 

The night was thick with mist in the hills above Kampung Menanti. Crickets chirped in a slow rhythm, broken only by the occasional flap of wings as Kenyalang soared overhead. Beneath the starlit canopy, Kelana trained in silence, sweat clinging to his brow as he moved through the silat forms Perak had passed down to him.

 

Each strike was fluid. Each step purposeful.

 

Komeng, now nearly a head taller and broader of shoulder, watched with folded arms. “Your stance is stronger. But your mind still wanders.”

 

Kelana exhaled. “I dreamed of the blade again. The Keris Matahari. I could feel it... humming.”

 

Perak, seated cross-legged by the fire pit, opened one eye. “That is no ordinary dream. The keris calls only when the spirit is ready.”

 

Kelana sat beside him, the night wind brushing through his hair.

 

“I want to understand,” Kelana said. “Why does it feel like something inside me is missing? Like I’m only half awake.”

 

Perak looked to the sky. “Because you are a child born of two worlds—destined to heal what others seek to break. The hollow blade awakens not to strike first, but to restore balance.”

 

Just then, Kiambang entered the clearing, her expression grave.

 

“Riders came through the pass,” she said. “From the capital. War councils are forming. The king has sent word: we must prepare.”

 

Kelana’s hands clenched into fists.

—

That very night, under a shroud of moonlight, Prince Musang and his loyal men breached the red brick walls of Kota Singgahsana. It wasn’t without struggle—half of his army clashed with palace guards at the outer courtyards, creating a brutal distraction. Meanwhile, Musang, cloaked in shadow, slipped swiftly down the familiar hallways of the palace he once called home.

 

He reached the throne hall alone. The wide chamber glowed faintly with the silver cast of moonlight, filtering through latticed windows.

 

“I’m sure you never expected me, your favourite brother, would do this to you and our brothers,” Musang said as he stepped through the doors.

 

Deramang turned calmly to face him. “Why did you kill our brothers and their families, Musang? It was unnecessary. As cruel as you believed they once were to you and Mawar.”

 

“They were cruel to me,” Musang replied. “But I spared you because you were kind. Still, you stand in the way of my destiny.”

 

Deramang’s voice lowered with sorrow. “What you’ve done is beyond reason. They had changed. They repented. They even wished you well. You should’ve given them a chance.”

 

“Enough of this idle talk!” Musang snapped.

 

“You don’t need to become king to live a good life,” Deramang said. “Power without purpose is hollow. Wealth without peace is a curse.”

 

“I do need it,” Musang replied. “As king, I could finally stop everyone from bullying me. I’m tired of being dismissed like a little prince.”

 

“I defended you when others mocked you,” said Deramang. “When you were wounded, I tended to you. Is this how you repay me?”

 

Musang stepped closer. “Hand me the Keris Matahari.”

 

“No,” Deramang said. “You’ll use it for greed and tyranny. Only a righteous king may wield it.”

 

“Then you leave me no choice,” Musang hissed. “Guards, seize him!”

 

The throne room shook as chaos erupted outside. Loyalists fought furiously at the gates, buying time.

 

Inside, Musang threw a kris dagger, which Deramang halted mid-air with a simple raise of his palm. The blade clattered harmlessly to the floor.

 

Musang lunged forward, and they clashed—two brothers in a flurry of silat, strikes echoing across the marble. Backflips, evasions, telekinetic bursts—the throne room shook with their fury. Musang flung a bronze incense burner with his powers; Deramang cleaved it mid-air with his serpentine sword.

 

“Dinda, please,” Deramang said breathlessly. “This isn’t the way. The evil in you—fight it, not me.”

 

“Then fight me bare,” Musang shouted. “No magic. No blades.”

 

Deramang nodded and dropped his sword. “If you insist.”

 

As they grappled, a sudden electric shock jolted through Musang’s body. He collapsed to one knee. The Keris Matahari, from afar, had intervened.

 

“You promised not to use magic!” Musang barked.

 

“I didn’t,” Deramang said calmly. “The keris made its own choice.”

 

Above them, Kenyalang circled once, then vanished into the sky. A storm of wind burst through the windows, scattering the torches.

 

Musang’s army stormed the palace, subduing the remaining defenders. All who had sworn fealty to Deramang were dragged away—scholars, officers, and even servants.

 

The next day, under the blazing afternoon sun, the central square became a place of blood and terror. Musang ordered mass executions—not only of loyalists, but of their families.

 

Cries pierced the air. Innocents were cut down. The cobblestones drank their blood, and no amount of washing could erase the dark stains left behind.

 

“Your saviour king is gone,” Musang proclaimed from atop the execution dais. “Let this be a lesson. Those who cling to Deramang will suffer the same fate.”

 

Mawar turned her gaze from the massacre, her expression unreadable.

 

“I’d be honoured to be your consort,” she said quietly.

 

“That’s good, Mawar,” Musang replied, donning the royal tengkolok. “Now they know who rules. They won’t dare challenge my authority.”

 

But as word spread across the land, the response was swift.

 

The eight other monarchs of Benua Tenggara—kings and queens who had long supported Deramang—refused to recognise Musang’s claim. The Conference of Rulers, once a symbol of unity, now stood fractured.

 

King Musang’s rise was deemed a coup, and his crown illegitimate.

 

He ruled from a throne built not by consensus—but by fear and blood.

 

And far away, as news reached Kampung Menanti, Perak and Kiambang looked to the boy they had raised.

 

Kelana stood at the edge of the hilltop, watching dawn break.

 

The hollow blade within him stirred.

 

A reckoning was coming.

 

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