2026-08-20 22:52:18"Look at him sitting there like a dead fish," a rough, nasal voice grated from the shadows of the narrow, rain-slicked alleyway behind the tenement complex. "Uncle Slamet wants to make sure the message is carved deep this time. No more second chances from the bosses."
"Just hold the light straight, Joni," a second, heavier voice grunted, the metallic clink of a heavy steel pipe dragging against wet asphalt scraping the air. "The kid's already half-dead from the family purge, anyway. We just need to break his other arm so he signs the deed tomorrow without crying."
Raden Kusuma Wijaya walked with a measured, unhurried cadence, his steps landing with absolute silence despite the loose gravel and broken glass littering the ground. His oversized, faded hoodie hung loosely over his frail frame, but his spine was as straight as an ancient spear.
"Hey! The cripple actually stands up straight for once," the man holding the pipe, a bulky street enforcer named Mardani with a jagged tattoo snaking up his thick neck, sneered. He planted his boots squarely in the center of the narrow path, blocking the exit. "Lost your voice, Kusuma? Or did your useless relatives finally beat the attitude out of you?"
Kusuma did not stop. His obsidian eyes remained fixed straight ahead, cold, flat, and entirely devoid of human warmth or hesitation.
"I asked you a question, you little—" Mardani raised the steel pipe, stepping forward to deliver a casual, humiliating strike across Kusuma’s shoulder.
Before the heavy iron could complete its downward arc, Kusuma’s right hand flicked out with blinding, unnatural velocity. His fingers wrapped around the descending pipe with the iron grip of a vice. The kinetic force of the swing vanished instantly, absorbed by a frame that looked fragile only to the untrained mortal eye.
Mardani’s smug grin evaporated, replaced instantly by a mask of sheer confusion. "What the—let go, you ungrateful—"
Crack.
The sound was sharp, dry, and terrifyingly final. Kusuma didn't pull or twist; he simply pivoted his wrist and applied localized pressure using a centuries-old joint-shattering technique derived from the forbidden martial arts of the ancient archipelago. Mardani’s forearm bent backward at an impossible angle, bone piercing through cheap denim and skin in a sickening spray of dark arterial blood.
"Aaargh! My arm! My fucking arm!" Mardani shrieked, his knees buckling as shockwave after shockwave of blinding agony paralyzed his nervous system.
"Mardani? What the hell are you screaming about?" Joni dropped the cheap flashlight, his eyes widening in horror as he fumbled inside his jacket for a concealed switchblade. "You clumsy bastard, did you cut yourself on—"
Joni stopped dead. The flashlight rolled across the damp pavement, casting erratic beams of light over Kusuma’s face. There was no anger there. No adrenaline-fueled flush. Only the chilling, analytical gaze of an apex predator looking at an absolute insect.
"Who sent you?" Kusuma’s voice was a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate directly inside Joni’s skull, bypassing his ears entirely.
"Go to hell!" Joni panicked, lunging forward with the switchblade aimed straight at Kusuma’s throat, putting all his weight behind a desperate, lethal thrust.
Kusuma sidestepped the clumsy charge with a fraction of an inch to spare. His left palm struck Joni’s sternum with a sharp, concussive thwack that sounded like a butcher’s cleaver hitting a wooden block.
Joni’s breath exited his lungs in a single, explosive gasp. Every single rib in his chest cage caved inward simultaneously, piercing his heart and lungs before his body even began to fall. He collapsed onto the wet asphalt like a marionette with its strings abruptly cut, his eyes glazed over and staring blankly into the dark sky.
Mardani, clutching his mangled, dangling arm, pressed his back against the rough brick wall of the alley, hyperventilating as warm urine soaked through his trousers. "You... you killed him. You actually killed Joni. Uncle Slamet is going to skin you alive—he has guns, you crazy bastard, he has whole squads of—"
Kusuma stepped over Joni’s motionless body, the soles of his worn sneakers splashing softly in the growing pool of blood. He stopped directly in front of Mardani, towering over the shivering enforcer despite his modest physical stature.
"Tell Slamet," Kusuma whispered, his voice carrying the crushing weight of a thousand forgotten battlefields, "that the real owners of this city are returning. And he is standing in my way."
"Please... please don't—"
With a swift, casual flick of his foot, Kusuma kicked the discarded steel pipe upward. It caught Mardani squarely under the jaw, snapping his neck with a crisp, echoing pop that silenced the enforcer forever.
Kusuma didn't look back as he stepped over the second body, wiping a stray drop of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. His internal energy hummed steadily through his newly mended meridians, warmer and stronger with every breath he drew in this polluted concrete jungle.
The first wave of opposition had been swept away without leaving a single ripple in the vast, indifferent currents of the metropolis. But as Kusuma emerged from the dark alley onto the brightly lit main avenue, the neon signs flashing overhead reflecting off the damp pavement, a sleek, black luxury sedan screeched around the corner at high speed.
Tires smoked against the asphalt as the vehicle drifted wildly, pursued instantly by two heavy SUVs with blacked-out windows and modified frames. Gunfire flashed from the rear windows of the pursuers, shattering streetlamps and sending civilian pedestrians scattering in blind panic.
The luxury sedan clipped a concrete barrier, spinning out of control and slamming hard against a structural pillar right beside the mouth of the alleyway where Kusuma stood. Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood, and the driver's side door jammed shut under the heavy impact.
From the shattered passenger window, a woman clad in a torn, high-end corporate blazer scrambled out, her dark hair matted with sweat and dust, a desperate, calculating fire burning in her sharp eyes. She caught sight of Kusuma standing silently in the shadows, watching the wreckage with detached curiosity.
"If you value your life, move," Sekar Arum hissed, leveling a compact, high-caliber defensive pistol straight at his chest without a moment's hesitation. "Or die right here with me."
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
Chapter 106: The Quiet Horizon
The wooden table wobbled slightly against the uneven floorboards of the coastal café, the salt-bleached grain showing years of exposure to the damp ocean air that rolled in off the breakwater every morning at dawn.Sekar did not look up when the young waitress set the heavy ceramic mug down, the dark, bitter liquid sloshing slightly over the brim to form a small, dark ring upon the unvarnished timber."More sugar?" the girl asked, her voice flat, carrying the casual, unhurried cadence of a town where time seemed to stretch indefinitely between the arrival of the morning trawlers and the heat of the midday sun."No," Sekar said. Her voice was steady, perfectly level, stripped of the authoritative edge that had once made senior bureaucrats and syndicate enforcers freeze in mid-sentence. "This is fine.""The morning paper just came in," the girl added, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, her eyes darting toward the leather briefcase resting against the table leg.
Chapter 105: Crossing the Strait
The rusted passenger deck of the evening ferry shuddered violently as its twin diesel engines heaved into a deeper, guttural rhythm, vibrating through the wet steel floorboards right into the soles of Kusuma’s worn boots. The salt-crusted windows of the shelter cabin were streaked with greasy spray, blurring the distant, amber lights of the mainland into formless smudges that slowly dissolved into the churning black abyss of the strait. Above, the sky was the color of a wet slate roof, low and heavy, threatening a downpour that never quite broke.Kusuma leaned his forearms against the damp, ice-cold railing, his knuckles raw and calloused, dark smears of old machine grease still permanently ingrained into the deep lines of his skin. He didn’t look back. The coastline of the province—the endless stretch of concrete piers, skeletal warehouses, and neon-lit transit hubs where he had spent a lifetime driving heavy trucks, hauling contraband, and running errands for men who were now ghosts
Chapter 104: The Ledger’s End
The glass doors of the Department of State Registry swung shut with a muffled, airtight hiss, sealing out the damp, sulfurous heat of the regional capital's afternoon traffic. Inside, the air was aggressively chilled, smelling faintly of old paper, industrial floor wax, and the metallic tang of ozone from the overworked photocopiers humming behind the frosted glass partitions of Records Room B.Sekar paused at the base of the worn, concave marble staircase, her heels clicking sharply against the checkerboard tiles. The lobby was a vast, cavernous expanse of peeling art deco plaster and yellowed municipal notices pinned to corkboards behind scratched acrylic sheets. She adjusted the heavy strap of her leather briefcase over her shoulder—a gesture entirely mechanical, born of decades spent hauling files through the labyrinthine corridors of government bureaus and syndicate warehouses alike—and began her ascent.At the second-floor landing, a clerk in a grease-stained beige uniform was wr
Chapter 103: The Hollow Citadel
The mountain estate loomed out of the pale, creeping mist like a carcass stripped to the white bone by scavengers.Danu sat in the center of the wide veranda, his heavy wool coat pulled tight across his chest, though the cold he felt had nothing to do with the altitude. The massive timber mansion behind him—once a fortress of unquestioned authority, where regional governors, syndicate lieutenants, and corrupt magistrates had queued for hours just to catch a nod of his approval—was now entirely silent. The electricity had been cut three days ago when the municipal utility board finally processed the administrative forfeiture order, leaving the chandeliers overhead as dead and useless as glass icicles.The large stone hearth in the main salon, which had burned continuously through winters of violence, political extortion, and shifting alliances, was now filled with grey, stagnant ash.A rusted tin bucket sat on the wooden floorboards between his boots. Inside it, a single red ember glowe
Chapter 102: Convergence
The neon sign above the entrance of the harbor-side café flickered once, buzzing with a high-pitched, metallic whine before stabilizing into a steady, sulfurous amber glow that cast long, distorted shadows across the damp concrete esplanade. Outside, the evening tide was rising, pushing the heavy, salt-laden scent of decaying kelp and diesel fuel against the seawall. Gulls wheeled overhead in the gathering dusk, their sharp, mournful cries cutting through the low, rhythmic rumble of cargo cranes operating further down the southern piers.Sekar sat alone at an isolated metal table near the edge of the terrace, her posture as rigid and uncompromising as a steel beam. Her dark wool coat was buttoned to the collar, shielding her against the chill dampness rolling off the harbor. On the scarred laminate tabletop sat a thick, matte-black leather portfolio—its brass latches firmly clicked shut, sealing away the final, irrevocable administrative audits of the Danu syndicate’s asset liquidation
Chapter 101: The Last Shift
The rusted aluminum siding of Pak Joko’s repair shed rattled violently as a heavily laden poultry truck roared past on the cracked asphalt outside, kicking up a dense cloud of grey grit that drifted through the open garage doors and settled thickly over the grease-stained concrete floor.Kusuma stepped out of the swirling dust, his canvas bag slung over one broad shoulder, its faded blue fabric darkened by sweat at the seams. He didn't knock on the warped wooden doorframe. He simply walked straight into the dim, oil-scented interior, his boots crunching on a scattering of rusted washers and metal shavings.Pak Joko didn’t look up from the intake manifold he was vigorously scrubbing with a wire brush. A thick smear of black motor oil streaked across his high forehead, and a cigarette butt, unlit and chewed to a sodden pulp, bobbed in the corner of his mouth."The compressor's dead," Joko rasped, his voice gravelly from decades of inhaling exhaust fumes and solvent vapor. "If you're here
You may also like
Life as A Servant
TheCrow387.9K viewsVengeance of The Reborn Heir
Cindy Chen21.9K viewsXianXia : Sovereign of the Gods
kalki_gsk20.9K viewsREBIRTH OF A WARRIOR
Highpriest 19.9K viewsThe Supreme Mage in a Loser's Body
Encantadick405 viewsThe Alchemist's Kitchen
chan_girl189 viewsThey Called Me Forsaken, Not Knowing I Was the Dragon God
Moody 202 viewsThree Losses, One Second Chance
Masiur211 views