The killing cold was the first thing that stole Damang’s consciousness. The waters of the Baram River no longer felt like liquid, but like a solid concrete wall slamming against every inch of his skin as he fell from the height of the bridge pillar. Dark. Thick. The sound of the thermobaric missile explosion above only reached him as a dull thud far beyond the layers of muddy water. Damang tried to move his arms, but a sharp pain immediately locked his nervous system. A suspension steel beam from the bridge, weighing hundreds of kilograms, had landed directly on top of his body, pinning his waist and left leg against the rocky riverbed. His lungs began to throb, demanding oxygen that did not exist. “One... two...” Damang counted in his head, trying to control the panic. “Don’t open your mouth. Don’t let the water in.”He forced his eyes open. Through the murky water clouded with mud and engine oil, he saw reddish lights moving along the surface. It was

Sali crushed the dark red roots inside a stone mortar with a steady rhythm. The sound of stone striking stone echoed throughout the cave chamber. Smoke from burning agarwood and incense began to fill the air, making the view slightly blurry and breathing feel heavy. In front of them, a stone altar whose surface had been hollowed out by age stood proudly. On top of it, Panglima Nyarung’s sacred Mandau lay motionless. “Take off your shirt, Damang. Sit cross-legged in front of that altar,” Sali ordered without turning around. His voice sounded lower and more authoritative than usual. Damang removed his tactical vest and his torn black shirt. His body, covered in scars and the Rajah that had recently turned black, was exposed to the cold cave air. He walked slowly, feeling the rough stone beneath his feet, then sat cross-legged facing the Mandau. “What exactly are we going to do, Sali? I need a medical explanation or at least a technical one ab