The basement parking level of Mega Corps Bintaro smelled like a mixture of gasoline, luxury sedan polish, and fresh, unadulterated dread. Amar stood near a concrete pillar, his chest heaving slightly after his frantic exit from the building. Above him, the fire alarms of the upper floors wailed like banshees, a rhythmic sound that made his heart pump pure adrenaline through his veins. He didn't make it to the main gate. Standing in the middle of the ramp were six men. They were an odd, shivering bunch—barefoot, draped in flowing white robes stained with bits of dried turmeric and smelling like funeral incense. At their center stood Surya.He looked different. Gone was the sleek, slicked-back corporate attorney look. Instead, his hair was messy and grayed prematurely, and he stood hunched, his hands vibrating with the residual energy of dark talismans held between his trembling fingers. He looked like he hadn't slept for a week, his eyes sunken into bruised-looking hollows. He wasn't

The Mercedes ground to a halt at the edge of the sprawling, overgrown graveyard on the city’s perimeter—a place where the humidity of Jakarta hung heavy with the smell of wet earth and ancient moss. The tall, rusting iron gates were draped in chains that had been reinforced with silver seals—the spiritual containment grid meant to keep the 'lost' things from wandering into the streets.Amar climbed out of the car, his pigeon-feathered armor rustling as he stepped over a collapsed stone funerary slab. Beside him, Astraeus’s presence flared—not with its usual arrogance, but with a strange, jagged vibration."Stop," the God of War hissed inside his head. "Do you feel that? The hum of the earth here… it matches the frequency of my old battlefield-banner.""You mean to tell me your legendary bodyguard is hanging out in a public graveyard?" Amar muttered, eyes scanning the rows of crumbling headstones. "If this is another trap, Astra, I’m trading your soul

The sound of the high-rise explosion at The Zenith was still echoing through the metropolitan news cycle when Amar found himself standing in the center of the Galeri Seni Nusantara. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo anymore; the B-Grade pigeon armor was hidden beneath an oversized designer trench coat he’d "borrowed" from Erisia’s luxury wardrobe. "Stay close," Erisia whispered, her hand looping through his arm. Her grip was tight—less like a romantic gesture and more like a guard holding a prisoner. "This gallery isn't just about abstract canvases and pretentious sculpture. It’s the front for the Malakor Sector's biggest black-market artifact auction. If we don't recover the Tear of Astaroth from tonight’s inventory, their containment loop is going to tighten, and every stray god-spark in this city will be sucked into a vacuum by midnight."Amar adjusted his collar, his fingers tracing the bronze Spear-Hand Gauntlet that sat unnaturally heavy beneath the sleeve of his coat. "Relax. I didn'

The harbor roared, not with the sound of waves, but with the tearing of reality. The main power conduit Amar had punched exploded into a shower of white-hot plasma, turning the warehouse into a blinding kiln. Malakor didn't flinch. He swiped his hand through the air, and the white-hot arc of electricity simply bent, parting around him like water flowing around a stone. His cowl shimmered, revealing a face of shifting, illegible features—features that could be anyone’s nightmare."Impressive," the God of Vice muttered, his voice sounding like two gravestones grinding together. "Most would be charcoal. You, however, possess a certain... resilience that is remarkably grating."Amar skidded back, his pigeon-feather armor smoking. The heat was immense. He could feel the internal components of the pigeon suit straining, its protective feathers turning crisp and brittle. “The conduit’s overload is fading!” Astraeus yelled, his voice suddenly sharp, clearer than it had ever been. “He is sta

The concrete beneath their feet didn’t hum like an office; it vibrated with the deep, sickening thud of subwoofers and the frantic clicking of dice. Beneath the crumbling span of a West Jakarta flyover, where the smell of motor oil and rotting sewage masked the expensive perfume of the criminal elite, stood The Underside.Amar pushed through the heavy, velvet-lined steel door, the transition from the rainy street to the kasino's interior jarring. The air was a thick haze of gold-tipped cigarette smoke and the ozone-heavy scent of magically charged chips. At the center of the vast, circular basement stood a singular mahogany table."Look at them," Surya muttered, adjusting his trench coat. "They aren't just gambling money. They’re betting lifespans, memories, and 'future fortunes.' Malakor doesn't need to steal gold when he owns the reality that decides who keeps it."Amar walked with a loose, predatory swagger, his pigeon-feather armor invisible unde