Eight months had passed since Hasan and his group brought news of mutant movements on the border. In that time, CitraLand was no longer just a barricaded housing complex. It had evolved into a fortress of civilization, thrumming with life. Hasan, the middle-aged man who had once arrived breathless and terrified, now stood tall in a tactical vest. He had been promoted to platoon commander under Rizal's command. Behind him, the survival team that came with him had all found vital roles. Raka, the teenager who once wept hysterically, was now the ace sniper guarding the north tower. Bayu, the scout, moved nimbly along the outer perimeter, while Siti and Mrs. Darmi had taken over the communal kitchen and logistics with the other women. Mr. Harun, the old mechanic, had managed to bring the main generator back to life, giving their makeshift hospital a 24-hour power supply. Amidst all this progress, one thing had become the center of gravity for ev

The main study on the second floor of the luxury house went dead silent. The air seemed to be sucked out, leaving a tension that made it hard for anyone to breathe. Satria sat behind his large teak desk. Around him, his five women gathered. Cindy and Tri stood behind Satria's chair, placing their hands on the War God's shoulders to offer support. Abigail stood near the window, arms crossed with a tense face. Meanwhile, on the leather sofa not far from the desk, Sarah and Jessica sat carefully. The hands of the two loyal concubines instinctively rubbed their bellies which were now noticeably round—both were pregnant, a new blessing Satria had planted a few months ago, reinforcing the dominance of the King's dynasty in CitraLand. However, everyone's focus was currently on the dull object on the desk. Satria had just broken the red wax seal and cork from the glass bottle. The smell of sea salt, moss, and the musty sce

The silence following Satria’s slam on the table felt solid, as if time itself was holding its breath, waiting for the King’s decree. Every eye in the Command Room—whether filled with cold calculation or flooded with emotion—was locked on the single man standing at the head of the table. "You can't do both, Satria," Alexander hissed, breaking the silence first. "That's bullshit. You’re not God." "I’m not God," Satria retorted, his gaze as sharp as a spear tip. "I am the God of War. And a War God never retreats from two fronts. He destroys them one by one." Satria walked around the table, his aura radiating an absolute conviction that made the doubt in the room begin to evaporate. He stopped in front of the map of East Java, picked up the piece representing himself, and placed it back in the center of CitraLand. "Listen closely, because I’m only going to say t

(Flashback: Two Years Ago) The forest at the eastern tip of Java didn't just stay silent. The forest breathed. In the depths of Alas Purwo, Banyuwangi, giant banyan trees towered as high as skyscrapers, covering the sky with a canopy of leaves so dense that even the midday sun failed to penetrate it. The air here felt heavy, humid, and smelled of ancient earth mixed with the sweet scent of decaying chlorophyll. Elena walked slowly over a carpet of thick moss. Her wedding dress, once white, had turned dull gray, torn here and there by thorns. Her bluish-pale skin contrasted with the gloom of the forest. Beside her, little Sofia walked hugging her one-eyed teddy bear, her small footsteps making no sound. Behind them, thousands of zombies they brought from Surabaya stopped at the forest border. Their undead instincts screamed in fear. They knew, inside there, was something far older and hungrier than th

The afternoon sun hung low in the western sky, bathing the concrete walls of CitraLand in orange light resembling the color of rust. Outside the main gate, construction activity was at its peak. The sound of hammers, chainsaws, and foreman shouts filled the air. Alexander stood atop a pile of light bricks, holding a crumpled roll of blueprints. Beside him, Bima was wiping sweat with a dirty towel, while Hasan—now serving as tactical defense chief—was checking the trench slope angle with a serious face. "The angle must be forty-five degrees," Hasan muttered, pointing at the excavation. "Too steep, the soil collapses. Too shallow, Roy's troops can climb it while smoking." "But we're short on cement for reinforcement, San," complained one foreman. "Use bones," Alexander interrupted suddenly. He didn't look up from the blueprints, but his flat voice cut through the debate. "Tell my corpse arm