Kalandra Village, 6 years ago
The dusk no longer felt warm over the skies of Kalandra. The clouds hung low like unhealed wounds, bearing silent witness to a small world falling apart — the world of a child, crumbling for no reason. On cracked, drought-scorched soil, dust whirled in the wind, polluted by hatred.
A little girl, no more than eight years old, staggered as she ran, gasping for air. Her feet bled from shards of broken tiles and sharp stones. Her back was bruised, her arms scratched by the wild bushes she couldn't avoid. Yet none of that pain was the worst.
Behind her, angry voices echoed like war drums.
"Get out, cursed child!"
"Filthy half-blood creature!"
"Wretched Ardhakala, a blight upon this village!"
The first stone struck her shoulder, sending her sprawling. The second cut her forehead, warm blood tracing down her temple. Each throw was more than just physical violence — it was a declaration that she was unwanted, a mistake to be erased.
Her long ears — the mark of her Ardhian heritage — quivered as she rolled on the ground. She wasn't merely being attacked; she was being erased, slowly, by a world that refused her existence. Not fully human, not fully Ardhian — merely the remnant of a union unrecognized by law or love.
She tried to shield her head with her thin arms, curling into herself like a dry leaf caught in a storm.
Why?
Why does the world hate me just for being born?
Why do my ears make me worthy of being stoned?
Through the chaos, her small feet carried her back — back to the only place that still held a trace of warmth in a frozen world.
A ramshackle hut at the edge of the village.
Its roof leaked. Its walls were rotten.
But to Laras, it was the last embrace the world could offer.
Soft sobs filled the cramped space. The little girl knelt, hugging her knees. Her body trembled, her face covered in blood and bruises.
Her mother sat before her, hands clutching a cloth now soaked with her daughter's blood.
"Mom… am I a bad girl…?
Why does everyone hit Laras…?
If Laras wasn't here… would everyone be happy…?"
Laras' voice was hoarse and faint, like a broken twig. She pointed at her ears — two long, soft flaps that dangled like a curse.
"Is it because of these, Mom…?
Why are my ears different…?
Why don't they look like yours…?
Just cut them off, Mom… cut Laras' ears off…
So I can be like everyone else…"
At last, her mother's tears fell. She pulled the small body into her arms, hugging it as if it were the last treasure she had in this world — the body she'd always protect, even if the world cursed it.
"Forgive me, my child… Forgive me…
I'm the one who brought you into this cruel world…
It's my fault…"
That night, the world didn't just collapse — it became an abyss.
The days that followed were not life, but a slow march toward death. The whispers of neighbors turned to open scorn. Glances became daggers. Prayers turned into curses.
They were branded Ardhakala — mixed-bloods, children of sin, filthy spawn of a union that should never have been. Laras and her mother became living sins. Stains to be cleansed so the village could remain "pure."
The breaking point came swiftly, like a storm.
The Kingdom of Indrabhumi accused the Ardhian people of betrayal.
The War of Rêkasaloka erupted.
The Éra Rift split the earth, and from its shadows, monstrous beings crawled into the world.
When help never came, fear turned into madness.
One cold night, villagers raised torches. Their eyes burned with possession.
"Burn them!"
"Cleanse the village of the curse!"
"Let no filthy blood remain!"
Laras' hut was surrounded.
The first stone shattered the window.
The second torch ignited the roof.
Her mother held Laras tight, their bodies curled in a corner.
"Laras… close your eyes, sweet one. Don't look."
"Mom… don't let go of me, okay…?"
"No, darling. I'm here. Always here."
But the world didn't allow that promise to last.
Wood exploded. Someone broke in. A rough hand yanked Laras from her mother's embrace.
"MOM!!"
Her mother fought, trying to pull her daughter back — but a bloodstained plank struck Laras' head.
And light vanished.
In the haze of pain, Laras saw her mother one last time.
Her body lay limp.
Her eyes remained open — hollow, yet still trying to look at her daughter until the very end.
A faint smile tugged at her lips, forcing out one final breath.
"Laras… forgive me…"
And the world turned black.
**
As the night neared its end, with only screams and the stench of burning flesh lingering, heavy footsteps emerged from the darkness.
A man stood among the ruins.
His hair was long, ears pointed.
His body was clad in modest armor, but the air around him quivered like a storm caged within.
His eyes were gold — cold, sharp, and seething with rage.
He looked at the mother's corpse, then at Laras' small, unconscious form on the ground.
It felt as though his heart had been torn from his chest.
Without a word, he lifted them both — as if gathering two fragments of a soul that had been lost.
The sky rumbled.
The air pulsed.
He stared at the village.
The incantation was quiet, but echoed like the roar of gods:
"Rwa Bhineda…
Prabawa Maruta, kawiswakti…
Ngamuk sajroning angin…
Maweh pati, suja pati, suja pati…"
The Prawala Maruta incantation was released.
The wind screeched.
Invisible whips of air lashed out.
In an instant, blades of wind struck the villagers — slicing, tearing, rending.
No time to scream. Only dismembered bodies remained.
Blood flowed like rivers, soaking the earth.
The village became a slaughterfield.
Without mercy.
But the man was not yet done.
He raised his hand to the sky.
His chant thundered like the hammer of the gods:
"Candrabhaskara Murca!
Amblas tan kena kinira, tan ana tapak asma!"
The sky tore open.
A blazing meteor split the night, burning with the fury of the cosmos.
"JWADOOOOOMMMMM!!!"
Kalandra Village vanished in a sea of fire.
The burning wind carried the stench of flesh, wood, and death.
The sky turned black.
The world fell silent.
The name of that village was erased from maps.
No trace remained — only a faint whisper, forever drifting in the night wind:
"Laras…"