NARAK: The Blood Covenant

Eighteen years agoJakarta – Top floor of Menara Avatara GroupSubject: Arana Shadripus Moha

He signed contracts like they were spells.

He smiled like it hurt to pretend he wasn't devouring the room.

He walked through glass offices like a priest walks through fire.

Moha was the kind of man you didn't trust,but still gave everything to.

Suits. Stocks. Syndicates.

Secret wars behind boardroom curtains.

He didn't inherit wealth. He took it.

Piece by piece. Soul by soul.

His competitors?

Gone.

Ruined.

Dead.

But no one could prove it.

Because Moha didn't kill with guns.

He killed with rituals.

Black books. Dead languages. Spilled offerings.

In the quiet of midnight, in glass towers filled with LED shadows, he whispered mantras not meant for humans.

"Fall, fall, fall. Let me rise."

"Burn, burn, burn. Let me freeze their fate."

And they did.

Then Vicki was born.

And for a moment, just a moment, he paused.

He watched his son laugh.

Watched his little fingers grasp for things Moha never touched, hope, love, morning light.

Seventeen years agoJakarta – Moha's Penthouse, 3:21 AMVicki: 1 week old

The city lights crawled through the windows, but inside the room, all was silent, except for the soft, rhythmic breathing of a newborn swaddled in ivory.

Moha sat nearby.

Shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes bloodshot from work.

On his table: stacks of documents, property contracts, mergers, blacklisted executives, hidden ledgers.

And among them—

A photo.

Of Vicki.

He picked it up with two fingers. Studied it.

The baby looked calm. Too calm.

His fingers trembled. He set the photo down.

"Just a child."

But he didn't believe that.

That night, something happened that Moha never admitted to anyone.

Not even himself.

A soft knock echoed in the room. Not at the door. Not in his mind.

Just—suddenly—there.

And then a boy was standing beside the crib.

Not older than ten.

Hair white like starlight.

Eyes a glowing violet, like dusk refusing to die.

Moha didn't know how he got in.

Didn't even try to stop him.

Because the room shifted.

Became lighter. Softer.

The boy smiled.

"Such a fragile spark."

He picked up Vicki, gentle as a breeze. The child stirred, but didn't cry.

Instead, he looked up at him.

Like he knew him.

Like he remembered.

"You won't remember this, little one," the boy said softly."But part of the flame must survive. In case he fails."

He pressed his fingers to Vicki's chest.

A tiny pulse of violet light flickered.

And then—gone.

The boy laid him back in the crib. Whispered something Moha couldn't hear.

Turned around.

And smiled at Moha.

"You'll forget this soon. But not completely."

Then the boy vanished.

Moha couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't understand.

He blinked.

Suddenly, it was morning.

But he never forgot.

Not really.

And over the years, the memory returned.

Distorted. Twisted. Mutated by fear.

"Eyes like a ghost."

"No record of him. No footage. No door opened."

"What did he put in my son?"

Vicki grew.

And with him—oddities.

Mirrors cracked when he cried.

Flames danced in strange shapes when he laughed.

Once, an entire room of houseplants withered when he was scared.

Moha stopped seeing him as his son.

He saw a threat.

A danger to his wealth, his future, his control.

He began to hear them.

The whispers.

They slithered between spreadsheets.

Spoke from the margins of contracts.

Echoed in the hum of elevators.

"He will undo everything.""You gave him your blood. He will take your soul.""Unless you take his first."

One night, Moha stood in his study, staring at his own reflection.

It blinked before he did.

He slammed the mirror.

And behind the cracks—he saw the same boy again.

Smiling.

That's when Moha made his decision.

"If my son is meant to end me… I'll end the world before he can."

The next morning, he booked a flight to a ruined monastery in the Kalimantan forest.

Inside a scroll wrapped in goatskin, written in ink made of ash and memory, he read the words:

"The Nameless Balance. A power that erases cause and consequence. To claim it, you must surrender all names. Even the ones you love."

Moha's hands didn't tremble anymore.

He burned the scroll after reading it.

And disappeared from the world.

Two years later.

Somewhere in the jungles of Java.

Abandoned Temple of Bisu.

Moha's hands were bloodied, cut from unlocking a sealed chamber hidden behind statues that didn't exist in all of history.

In that ancient silence, he found it—

Not a relic. Not a jewel.

A sentence burned into obsidian:

"To Name What was Never Named, is To End What was Never Begun."

He laughed.

Not because he understood it.

But because for the first time, he felt small.

And he liked it.

The Nameless Balance.

One that sat between chaos and order, before either were born.

He walked through ghost markets and hollow monasteries, collecting names of forgotten gods.

He fed on curses.

He burned his identity.

He let go of being Arana.

He became Moha—a man without attachments. Without fear. Without balance.

And when he was ready, when his body could finally contain the impossibility of the Nameless Balance.

He returned.

But not to Vicki.

Not to family.

Not even to revenge.

He came back to erase the system that dared to forget him.

Two months before

Unknown location — Sub-dimension of Residual RealmsA battlefield long forgotten

The air trembled.

Time fractured.

And in the middle of what looked like a battlefield torn between eras, realms, and beliefs— a woman stood barefoot on the edge of a shattered temple, holding something that pulsed with impossible silence.

The Chaos smiled.

"You wanted this," she whispered.

"You've been chasing it through your shadows."

Across the cracked ground stood Moha, cloaked in shadow-stitched robes, his eyes swirling with silver and void.

His voice was calm.

"The Nameless Balance."

"You stole it from the battlefield when no one was looking."

The Chaos giggled. "Please. I rescued it. Everyone else wanted to destroy it."She stepped forward, tendrils of ink trailing her feet.

"But not you. You understand it. Don't you, darling?"

Moha didn't blink.

"It doesn't want to be understood."

"Good," she purred.

"Then you two are a perfect match."

She held it out.

The sigil flickered in mid-air—like a scar carved from nothingness itself.

Moha reached out, and as his fingers touched the fragment...

The world stopped breathing.

His eyes widened.

Not in awe.

But in revelation.

Visions.

He saw everything at once.

His empire burning.

His son staring at him with Avici's flame behind his eyes.

A future where names were erased like chalk on fire.

A past where he had never been born.

And in that moment…

He laughed.

"Of course."

"This isn't balance between chaos and order…"

"This is balance between existence and erasure."

He took the Balance.

The sigil vanished into his chest like a whisper returning home.

The ground shook.

The Chaos clapped softly.

"I knew you were the one. I knew it."

Moha looked up.

Silent.

Still.

And then he create a barrier, a void one. 

"I'll begin my ritual to absorb this power"

"Meanwhile, you can play with they at the temple

After that, this what happen when Moha finally have that ancient power.

He move to the temple and crushing The Chaos.

"You've been useful."

"Excuse me?" she blinked.

"You brought me what I needed. But you talk too much."

And before The Chaos could even blink, she was already unraveling.

Not dying.

Being forgotten.

Every thread of her essence turned to mist.

Her voice turned to dust.

Her name fell apart mid-scream.

"No—wait—wait, you ne—"

Gone.

Moha stood in the aftermath.

Surrounded by silence.

And for the first time…

He smiled.

Back in the present.

The temple remains cold.

Vicki still stares at the spot where Chaos was obliterated.

Avici, inside him, whispers:

"That's not just power anymore.""That's someone who thinks he's already won."

Daramahesa mutters, fur tense:

"The last time someone absorbed the Balance… was never."

Arkana's voice comes like a frozen wind:

"We are no longer dealing with a man.""We're facing a void wearing his skin."

Above them, in the ruins of space between worlds, Moha watches.

He says nothing.

Because silence has always been the final word.

Back in the present...

He stands on a cliff outside reality.

The Balance hums in his veins.

And his eyes are no longer warm.

He watches a ripple in the air, Vicki, standing in a ruined temple, confused, broken.

"You were never meant to be my son," he whispers.

"You were meant to be… my warning."

The world was silent.

The Chaos had been unmade.

In her place was only dust, silence, and a man too calm for what he had just done.

Moha stood unmoving, eyes shut, his breath steady—like the destruction of a primordial entity was just another item on his to-do list.

Then he spoke aloud, not to anyone, but as if the air itself was listening.

"One down."

He stepped over the ash.

The Balance pulsed faintly across his spine, now glowing with dark roots that veined into his skin like burning scriptures.

He knelt beside a broken obsidian shard from The Chaos's throne, tapped it once and from it, a projection formed.

A map.

Each labeled in ancient tongue, but he read them aloud as if the language was born inside his brain:

"Chaos…""Question…""Pleasure…""Suffer…""…Death."

The five Untold.

"They are the pillars of resistance," he whispered."As long as they exist, the lock on Narakasura remains whole."

The word trembled.

Even speaking it carried weight.

Narakasura.

The Devourer.

The Monster of Ten Million Names.

Imprisoned beneath layers of reality by beings long forgotten.

But Moha didn't want to release it. No…

"I want to become it."

He touched the center of the projection.

It flared—glimpses of apocalypse, oceans boiling, mountains screaming, the sun cracking like a mirror.

"Not chaos. Not balance. Not fate."

"Me."

He turned, as if sensing something.

And smiled.

Meanwhile, in a forgotten library between time.

A shiver ran through the Archive.

Daramahesa lifted his ears.

"Something just died. Again."

Avici whispered in Vicki's mind:

"Brace yourself. The true war hasn't begun."

Avici gritted his ethereal teeth:

"...I know that voice. It's crawling through the cracks again."

Back to Moha.

He stepped through a gate carved in bone and whisper.

And spoke, with divine calm:

"Next… I find The Question."

And somewhere far away…

In a ruined temple carved with no entrances, a statue of a woman with no mouth…

began to cry.