THE BLUE BOTTLE CONTRACT

3. A Small Display of Power

The black liquid felt like hot asphalt being forced up his throat. Arga coughed, his chest tightening as if his heart had just been squeezed by a giant hand. In front of him, Raka still stood at the ruined doorway, grinning widely while clutching Arga's mother by the hair. The sight should have triggered Arga's rage, but the pain coursing through his body was too overwhelming.

"Look at that, Raka. The pauper is puking his guts out. Looks like he ate too many expired antacids," mocked one of Raka's men standing behind him. Their laughter broke out, echoing through the vast warehouse.

Zat floated beside Arga, watching the black puddle on the floor with an unreadable gaze. "Ugh, you're really disgusting, aren't you, kid? Those are just the scraps of negative energy from my bottle. Your frail body can't even handle a little 'seasoning' from me. So weak, honestly."

"Zat... help... Mother..." Arga groaned, his voice nearly gone.

"Mother, mother, mother. So noisy," Zat grumbled. He then turned toward the door. His bright blue eyes met Raka's gaze. Of course, Raka couldn't see Zat clearly, only a distortion in the air that looked like a mirage.

"Hey, Arga! Are you deaf?!" Raka shouted again. He yanked Arga's mother's head until the old woman groaned in pain. "Give me that bottle now, or I'll give your mom to Mr. Bakri's men for some 'entertainment' tonight!"

In another corner of the warehouse, Jaka and Soleh—Mr. Bakri's henchmen—began to stand up. They were still staggering after the previous air blast, but seeing Arga slumped helplessly, their courage returned. Jaka spat, wiping blood from the corner of his lip.

"I don't know what kind of magic trick you used earlier, you stinking brat," Jaka hissed, twirling his machete. "But you won't be able to run anymore. Hand over the bottle!"

Jaka and Soleh stepped forward, surrounding Arga from the left and right. Meanwhile, in front of him, Raka and his gang watched with satisfied faces. Arga was cornered. He had no power, no money, and now, he was in danger of losing the only person he loved.

"Zat," Arga whispered, this time with a different tone. It was no longer a moan; there was a vibration of cold fury. "You said you're a war djinn. You said you could make kings bow. I don't care if I have to die after this. I just want them... to feel what fear is."

Zat fell silent. A thin smirk appeared on his pale face. "Now, that's more like it. That's a frequency I like. Pure hatred, without any of that trashy drama mixed in."

Zat floated upward, his hand rising slowly. "Alright, Master Broke. Since you've asked quite 'politely' by low-life human standards, I'll give you a little demo. Just so they know they're nothing but dirt under my fingernails."

Zat snapped his fingers.

CLICK.

The sound wasn't loud, but the effect was instantaneous.

Suddenly, the horrific screeching of metal echoed throughout the warehouse. Jaka, who was just about to swing his machete, was suddenly lifted into the air. He didn't jump; it was as if the floor beneath his feet no longer had any gravity.

"Huh? What?! What's going on?!" Jaka screamed in panic. His heavy body floated irregularly, his legs kicking at the empty air.

Soleh met the same fate. His iron pipe slipped from his hand, floating toward the warehouse ceiling as if gravity had just reversed. Before long, wooden crates, old machines weighing hundreds of kilograms, and even the dust on the floor began to rise.

"Hey! Put me down! Dammit, why is this happening?!" Soleh screamed hysterically as his head nearly slammed into the corrugated metal roof.

At the doorway, Raka and his friends stood agape. They tried to enter, but their steps were halted at the threshold. There was an invisible wall that caused anyone attempting to pass to be instantly flung upward. Arga's mother slipped from Raka's grasp; she fell into a sitting position on the ground outside that chaotic gravity zone, staring at the scene inside the warehouse with wide eyes.

Arga himself remained on the floor. He was like the epicenter of this gravitational storm. He looked up, watching Jaka and Soleh spinning in the air like astronauts who had lost control in space.

"Do you see that, Arga?" Zat spoke, his voice now sounding like thousands of thunders merging into one. "Humans are funny. They feel powerful because they have muscle or money. But as soon as I tweak the laws of nature just a bit, they're nothing more than upside-down cockroaches."

Zat moved his hand downward abruptly.

SLAM!

Gravity returned to normal in an instant, but with ten times the force. Jaka and Soleh were slammed onto the concrete floor with terrifying speed. Their bones cracked loudly. Jaka shrieked before finally passing out from the excruciating pain. The concrete floor beneath them cracked into a spiderweb pattern.

Before Raka could react, Zat snapped his fingers again. This time, the gravity around Jaka and Soleh began to swirl. Their bruised bodies were dragged forcefully across the floor, spinning like tops, slamming into the piles of scrap metal in the corner of the warehouse over and over.

"Mercy! Mercy, Arga!" Soleh screamed while weeping. His face was already covered in blood.

Arga stood up slowly. The pain in his body hadn't vanished, but the sensation of power flowing from Zat made him feel as if he could crush concrete with his bare fists. He stepped forward toward the door, where Raka stood frozen.

Raka tried to back away, but his legs were shaking violently. His courage withered instantly as he saw his previously arrogant friends being toyed with like ragdolls by an incomprehensible force.

"Ar... Arga... what... what kind of shamanism is this?!" Raka's voice trembled.

Zat floated behind Arga's shoulder, whispering something only Arga could hear. "Ask him, Arga. Ask him what his life is worth now. I'm really in the mood to tear his head clean off his neck."

Arga stared at Raka with eyes that now glowed a deep, intense blue. "Raka, you called me poor, didn't you?"

Arga raised his hand, pointing toward Raka's luxury car parked a few meters behind the young man.

Without even touching it, the car suddenly lifted into the air. The two-ton vehicle floated as light as a feather, rotating slowly above Raka's head. The car's shadow masked Raka's face, which had now turned deathly pale—paler than a corpse.

"You wanted this bottle, right?" Arga asked coldly. "Take it. But first, you have to withstand the weight of your own car."

"Don't, Arga! I'm sorry! I swear, I was just joking!" Raka fell to his knees, tears starting to flow. He was absolutely terrified. All his arrogance and his parents' wealth were useless in the face of the phenomenon he was witnessing.

Zat burst out laughing. "Look! Look at that loser's face! This is way more fun than watching gladiators in Rome! Come on, Arga, drop the car! Squash him like a tin of sardines!"

Arga felt the urge. The urge to destroy. The power of Zat within him seemed to whisper that killing Raka would bring immense satisfaction. He only needed to lower his hand, and all the suffering from Raka's bullying would be over.

But amidst that bloodlust, Arga saw his mother. She was staring at him in terror. Not fear of Raka, but fear of the version of Arga standing before her.

"Arga... son... stop..." her weak voice broke Arga's concentration.

Arga flinched. The blue glow in his eyes dimmed slightly. He lowered his hand slowly, and the car slammed back to the ground with a heavy thud, crushing its own suspension.

"Tch, pathetic," Zat grumbled, looking disappointed. "It was just getting to the good part."

Suddenly, the sound of police sirens echoed from a distance. Not only that, several heavy motorcycles with roaring engines began entering the warehouse area. The headlights shone directly at Arga.

"Hey! Mr. Bakri is here!" shouted one of Raka's lackeys who had been hiding behind the car.

A middle-aged man in a black leather jacket with a cigar in his mouth climbed off the lead bike. His face was covered in scars, and his eyes radiated a dark aura unlike any typical street thug. This was Mr. Bakri, the cold-blooded loan shark.

Mr. Bakri didn't seem surprised to see the dented car or his downed men. Instead, he stared at Arga with a hungry gaze. "So... is that the bottle? The legendary Al-Azat Spirit Bottle?"

Zat, who had been relaxed and sarcastic, suddenly tensed up. He flew low, staring at Mr. Bakri with a sharp intensity Arga had never seen before.

"Kid," Zat whispered, his voice no longer joking. "We have to go. Now."

"Why? You can take them all out, can't you?" Arga asked, confused.

"He's not a normal human, you idiot!" Zat snapped. "He's carrying something that can pull me back into that bottle! Run!"

Before Arga could take a step, Mr. Bakri pulled out a silver necklace with a single-eye pendant that glowed reddish. As soon as the pendant was revealed, Zat screamed in pain, his body starting to be sucked toward Mr. Bakri as if a vortex was pulling only him.

"Zat!" Arga panicked.

"Run, Arga! If I get caught again, you and your mom are finished!"

Arga hesitated. On one side was his weak mother; on the other, Zat was fading away. And in front of him, Mr. Bakri walked closer with a terrifying, victorious smile.

"Hand over the bottle, Arga. Or I'll make sure your mother never sees the sun tomorrow morning."