Terakaca Square was always bustling with crowds of people. They gathered in front of a makeshift stage not far from the main road. They accompanied a woman in a long white dress, so clean that she looked as if she had been reborn. Every distance she left behind, every step she took, a fragrant scent reached the noses of everyone without exception.

  Mira was curious about the fragrance's source. She was drawn to get closer. Her head occasionally rose high, trying to peek behind the crowd, hoping to find the source of the heavenly scent.

  The crowd grew denser, limiting Mira's ability to get closer. She forced her way through, pushing and leaning her body to squeeze between people. Thousands of apologies escaped Mira's lips, but she didn't slow down, continuing to push forward.

  Finally, Mira found the source of the fragrance.

  Everyone focused on the woman, blinking, stunned. Mira was blinking repeatedly to confirm the authenticity of what was before her. The woman climbed the stairs one by one, heading up to the stage that awaited her.

  Up there, there would be a performance, a free show for anyone who watched. Once she was on top, the woman turned around, meeting every pair of eyes that stared at her.

  “Sirra?” Mira whispered in surprise. Her eyebrows knitted together, her forehead wrinkled, her eyes almost popped out of their sockets. She panicked and tried to run towards her sister. But to no avail, she was frozen in place, unable to move. She tried to speak, but no sound came out. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She tried to reach out, but her hands refused her command. She tried to turn her head left and right, but her neck felt like it had been frozen for thousands of years.

  Yes, Mira was forced to watch the performance in front of her.

  Sirra, her elder sister, knelt with hands pressed to her chest, bowing low in submission. Why was Sirra here? Mira strained against her invisible bonds, but all she could do was watch, powerless.

  A man dressed in blood-red clothing moved closer to Sirra. Mira, still confused, with only her eyes able to move freely, scanned the area, trying to find any clues. But there was nothing, nothing at all.

  The roar of the crowd filled the air, cheering for the sacrifice that was about to take place. Mira didn't understand what kind of sacrifice this was. Sirra was so far away, out of reach, and Mira couldn't do anything.

  The red-clad man had already drawn his sword, raising it high above his head. The crowd's shouts grew louder; they were extremely enthusiastic.

  Impossible, it couldn't be. Mira pulled her legs as hard as she could, but the ground still wouldn't let her go. Mira's eyes widened as the red-clad man prepared to swing his sword. In an instant, Mira's eyes met her sister's. Mira saw her brother smiling. Then, she gasped.

  Mira opened her eyes and saw a sea of stars greeting her, forming a stream that looked like a blue-green milk trail. The air around her felt hot, unnaturally hot.

  She tried to remember what had happened. She saw her eldest sister on the stage, ready to be beheaded. Then something pushed her, waking her to her current state.

  Mira's chest rose and fell irregularly, and sweat drenched her entire body. If she stood up now, she would probably find a small pool of sweat where she had been lying.

  The clanging of swords grew louder. It turned out that her city was under attack. She hurriedly tried to get up, but felt a sharp pain in her head. The more Mira forced herself to stand, the more the pain spread.

  “Princess Mira!” called Pati Tirta, who was standing not far from Mira. “Take Princess Sirra away from here!” He pointed to Sirra, who was lying behind her. He was trying to protect the heir from danger. But what danger?

  Mira blinked several times, trying to see what Pati Tirta was facing. It wasn't very clear, but there was definitely a figure standing amid the smoke.

  For some reason, Mira's instincts told her to leave immediately, and she forced herself to move towards her sister, slinging Sirra's left arm over her shoulder, then leaving immediately. Without looking back, without a word, she knew what she had to do. What Pati Tirta was fighting right now was not something she could follow.

  The sky above the ruins of the town hall was no longer the color of night blue, but rather a dark red, scorched by suffocating hot steam. After the two sisters left, Pati Tirta could now focus on the figure in front of him. He stood, breathing heavily, sweat pouring profusely from his temples. Not merely from exhaustion, but because the air around him had turned into a giant oven.

  As the smoke in front of him cleared, a sturdy figure clad in jet-black armor stood revealed, melting in places. The enemy, who had introduced himself as Muro, stood casually, holding a long black iron staff whose ends glowed like charcoal blown by the wind. The ground beneath Muro's feet hissed, the soil touching the soles of his shoes turning to ash in a matter of seconds.

  Pati Tirta flicked his wrist, summoning winds that spiraled around his feet, whipping pebbles and dust into a swirling barrier. The whirlwind climbed, enveloping his entire form.

  “It's useless to fight,” said Muro in a deep voice, as if it came from the friction of the earth's plates. “It's futile.”

  Pati Tirta did not answer; he stamped his foot.

  Pati Tirta shot forward, leaving a small crater where he stood. His speed was no longer human; he was now a bullet wrapped in a hurricane. A distance of ten spears was cut in the blink of an eye. He drew his sword, which was now covered in purple flames—a sign of combustion that had reached perfection.

  Pati Tirta slashed diagonally, aiming for the neck.

  Muro did not move; he only raised his staff with one hand.

  The collision of the two metals created shock waves that cracked the city hall floor. Pati Tirta's purple flames burst wildly, trying to lick the enemy's face, but were held back by a layer of thick magma that suddenly seeped out of Murou's staff.

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  Pati Tirta did not stop; he took advantage of the momentum, letting his body spin through the air with the wind. The second, third, and fourth slashes came in rapid succession from all directions. Each attack was accompanied by a deafening explosion of air.

  Muro seemed overwhelmed for a moment. He took one step back, then two. His magma defense began to erode as Pati Tirta's wind cut off the oxygen around him.

  Seeing this opening, Pati Tirta took a deep breath. The Intian inside his body surged.

  Wind Style Maximum Anthem.

  Pati Tirta thrust his sword into the ground. A hurricane of wind exploded from that point, carrying thousands of sparks from the sword, spinning like a deadly top, trapping Muro in the middle of a firestorm. The heat was so intense that the surrounding ruins began to glow red.

  Midst the firestorm, Muro's silhouette appeared blurred. However, instead of screaming in pain, a dry, sharp metallic sound could be heard.

  The Pati Tirta firestorm split in two.

  Behind a curtain of smoke, Muro stepped out. His long staff was now split into two short sticks in his left and right hands. Both ends of the sticks dripped thick orange liquid—pure lava.

  Muro now looked more like a predator than a walking fortress.

  Without warning, Muro charged. There were no more slow movements. With two weapons, his attacks were twice as fast and unpredictable.

  Muro's right staff swung at his head. Pati Tirta immediately drew his sword and parried the attack, but Murou's left staff had already swept towards his stomach.

  Pati Tirta was thrown backwards. His ribs felt broken, his breath caught in his throat. A burning sensation spread through his stomach, his armor melting where the metal had struck.

  “Is that all you've got?” said Muro. He banged his two sticks together, sending sparks flying in all directions. He felt superior, like a lion that had won a duel over territory.

  Pati Tirta forced himself to stand, ignoring the pain stabbing at his side. He knew he couldn't win a battle of strength. Muro's lava element was too dense, too heavy, too strong. Pati Tirta's only hope was the speed and precision of his wind.

  He had to risk everything in one attack.

  Pati Tirta concentrated all his remaining Intian. The surrounding flames died suddenly, sucked towards him. The purple flames on his sword shrank, condensing into a single dazzling white point at the tip of the blade. The sounds around him fell silent, as if nature was holding its breath.

  Muro realized the danger. He crossed his two sticks in front of his chest. The stone floor around him melted, rising up to form a bubbling magma dome that protected his body.

  Wind Style: Ultimate Move

  Flame Style: No More Pain Strike!

  Pati Tirta launched himself forward like a divine spear. His body became a single line of white light.

  The impact shook the entire complex of ruins.

  The Magma Muro wall exploded. Fragments of molten rock scattered like a mini meteor shower. Pati Tirta managed to penetrate the absolute defense. His sword, wrapped in wind and white fire, aimed straight at Muro's heart.

  However, Muro's combat experience spoke for itself. At the last second, as his magma dome shattered, he released the staff in his left hand. His now-free left hand grabbed Pati Tirta's wrist, which was holding the sword.

  The hissing sound was terrifying as Pati Tirta's leather gloves burned away, his skin coming into direct contact with Muro's palm, which was as hot as a volcanic crater.

  Pati Tirta let out a stifled scream, his attack stopping just an inch from his enemy's chest.

  “You're fast,” whispered Muro, his eyes staring intently into Pati Tirta's widened eyes. “But fire needs air. And lava... consumes everything.”

  Muro's right hand moved. The short stick he was still holding spun around, its blunt but deadly tip striking Pati Tirta's knee.

  Pati's kneecap shattered instantly. Pati Tirta fell to his knees, his balance completely destroyed.

  Before Pati Tirta could summon the wind to retreat, Muro made his final move. He pinched Pati Tirta's neck between the two hot iron rods, then pulled it with a strong jerk.

  Pati Tirta was thrown forward, his chest wide open and defenseless.

  The tip of the joined sticks was thrust downward.

  The sound of flesh being pierced and burned at the same time was heartbreaking. The sticks pierced the Pati's left chest, penetrated his back, and stuck into the stone floor beneath him.

  Pati Tirta gasped violently, his eyes wide as he stared at the red sky that was beginning to turn gray. His mouth opened, trying to gasp for air, but all that came out was boiling blood.

  The fire on his sword flickered once, twice, then went out. The wind that had been howling now died down, leaving a tense silence.

  Muro pulled out his staff with a rough movement. Pati Tirta's body slumped limply, falling sideways onto the hot stone.

  The Pati tried to move his fingers, trying to summon one last breath, but his nerves were already severed. Cold began to spread from his toes, an irony in the midst of such hot air. His vision blurred. Muro's figure, walking slowly away, became a black shadow swallowed by the night.

  In the last second of his consciousness, Pati Tira no longer felt any pain. He only felt the tremors of the earth beneath his cheek and the sound of his enemy's footsteps growing fainter, leaving him behind as part of the ruins. Then, flashes appeared.

  “Congratulations, sir, your baby was born healthy,” exclaimed a nurse as she handed the baby to Pati Tirta. The baby smiled broadly as he looked at Pati's face, as if he knew that the person he was looking at was his father. Then Pati Tirta held out his finger, which the baby welcomed. He grasped his father's index finger with both tiny hands, as if he didn't want his father to leave.

  “Starting today, I appoint you as Pati,” said Mahapati in his private room, handing him a sword with the words Pati Tirta engraved on the hilt, then patting the Pati on the shoulder. “I believe in you.”

  “I do!” Sari hugged Tirta as tightly as she could, responding to the man's proposal of marriage. The sunset sky and the crashing waves accompanied the happy moment.

  “What is more beautiful than the moon?” Tirta shook his head when Sari asked him that question as they sat together on the cliff overlooking the ocean. Under the canopy of stars, they looked like teenagers in love. “You, with your tomato-red face.”

  “I’ve been accepted into the Agnilith Military!” Tirta shouted happily to his family while holding a piece of paper. He showed the paper to each person, sharing the happiness he had received.

  “This is the most delicious food I've ever tasted!” Tirta, who was about to leave for the military academy, was eating a plate of chicken satay cooked by his mother. He dared to swear that of all the chicken satay he had ever tried throughout Netranata, his mother's cooking was the most unbeatable.

  “Remember, son, even if the world is cruel to you, you must continue to protect people.” Little Tirta rested his head on his mother's lap. His mother's slender fingers gently stroked Tirta's short hair, helping him fall asleep. “And no matter what happens in your life, I will always love you.”

  The Pati smiled, grateful to still be able to witness happy moments at the end of his life. May they be well.

  Pati Tirta took his last breath, and at the same time, the sun began to reappear.