Chapter 168
His eyes stared into the distance, toward the hill of Uhud that was now growing redder by the moment, as though he were gazing upon rows of exalted beings who once made the universe tremble with nothing but the sound of their footsteps.
"And their lives, Nirma, were filled with the Abnormals—a collection of beings who never asked to be born as 'abnormal,' who never chose to be different, yet were punished for that difference cycle after cycle, apocalypse after apocalypse."
Arya, standing there with the wooden staff he now gripped like an anchor amidst a storm, asked in a voice he tried to keep steady.
"If they are that powerful, then to whom do they devote themselves?"
And the old man smiled—a smile no longer bitter, but filled with mystery, like someone hiding an ace card behind the palm of his hand.
"A fitting question, child. Because even beings on the level of gods still need something to believe in, someone to serve, a reason to continue moving within a universe that endlessly collapses and is reborn without ever asking for permission."
Hoooh!!
"In the novel Abnormality, near the ending—when everything seemed to be over, when the blood had dried and that three-story pool had been cleansed of mutilated flesh—the Great Abnormals, who had once sworn loyalty to Bi Fitri, transferred their devotion directly to Sinta Melina Ningsih," the old man said, and every word leaving his mouth felt like stones dropped into an impossibly deep well, his voice echoing between the slowly swaying palm leaves.
Nirma felt the bandage over her right eye pulse once more, no longer like knocking, but like something trying to scream a name from behind walls far too thick.
"It happened immediately after Bi Fitri was finally defeated," the old man continued, his eyes now fixed upon Nirma with a sharpness far too intense for someone his age, "but not by Sinta."
The silence that followed those words became so dense that Ashita, standing beside him, could hear the beating of her own heart, and Tegar, who had remained silent behind the old man all this time, spoke for the first time with a hoarse voice rough as sandpaper.
"If not Sinta, then who?"
The old man slowly shook his head, and within that motion was something that made the hairs on Arya's neck stand upright.
It was not ignorance, but deliberate restraint, like someone who knew the answer yet chose not to speak it aloud because some doors, once opened, could never be closed again.
"The novel Abnormality never clearly explained who that character was, Tegar. Theo Vkytor—the writer who created this world from words written inside a room we have never seen—tried to close his novel's ending in the strangest way possible: he made the readers wonder. About who helped Sinta. About that nameless presence. About the shadow moving between the final pages without ever receiving a single sentence sufficient enough to be called a description."
Faaah!!
The old man drew a long breath—not the breath of someone preparing to rest, but the breath of someone about to leap from a cliff because he knew that below, even if sharp rocks awaited him, at least there would no longer be uncertainty.
"You ask, Nirma, Arya, Ashita, Tegar—you all ask in silence who the mastermind is behind the chaos threatening to shatter the crucial moments of the five great religions: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism. You chase shadows you believe to be enemies, you devise strategies against entities whose faces you do not know, and you are restless—I can see it from the way you stand, from the way you grip your weapons as though releasing them even for a moment would cause you to collapse."
His gaze shifted from one face to another, and for the first time, there was no mystery within his eyes—only the same exhaustion, the same wounds, the same anxiety they had all believed they carried alone.
"The mastermind is neither a demon, nor a god, nor a monster from another dimension. The mastermind is the Great Abnormals. The very beings I spoke of earlier. Those whose power nearly rivals angels and gods. Those who have lived without purpose ever since Sinta disappeared. Those who now hold knives within the same hands that once swore loyalty to a girl who slaughtered her own family."
Arya, upon hearing that, felt his wooden staff grow heavier than before, and unconsciously he asked in a hoarse voice:
"They intend to destroy the history of the five great religions simply because they are bored?"
The old man shook his head—a slow, heavy motion, like a tree branch on the verge of breaking yet still struggling to endure.
"Not because of boredom, child. Nor because of revenge. They do it because of despair. And a desperate person, Arya, never thinks about who will be hurt—they only think about how to make the pain they feel finally stop."
Hhhh!
"They wish to bring back Sinta Melina Ningsih," the old man said, and every syllable leaving his mouth felt like bricks being stacked one by one upon the chest of everyone listening, "not because they miss her—though perhaps some of them do—but because without Sinta, the Great Abnormals and their descendants live without a leader, without guidance, without someone they can point to and say: 'She is the reason we continue moving forward.'"
Nirma felt the bandage over her right eye pulse with a different rhythm this time—not like knocking upon a door, but like a heartbeat racing too fast, like someone running even though nothing was chasing them.
"So they are willing to destroy the foundations of time—to disrupt the sacred events upon which the faith of billions of people stands—just to summon one person?" Nirma asked, her voice emerging from beneath her veil with a tone she could not hide.
A mixture of anger and disbelief.
The old man smiled bitterly, a smile that deepened the creases near his temples like wounds that had never been stitched shut.
"You see, Nirma, when someone has lived through ten million apocalypses, when they have watched entire civilizations rise and die like leaves falling every autumn, then the value of a 'sacred event' to them weighs no more than a name written upon sand—the waves come, the waves go, and nothing remains. They do not hate those religions. Nor do they hate those beliefs. They simply do not care. And indifference, my dear, is a weapon far sharper than hatred, because hatred at least acknowledges that what is hated still matters—while indifference merely says: 'You never mattered from the beginning.'"
Nirma felt something strange within her chest—not pain, not tightness, but as though knots that had bound her thoughts for so long were suddenly coming undone one by one, accompanied by sounds only she could hear.
"So all this time… Sinta and her Society never truly disappeared," she said slowly, her voice emerging from beneath her veil with a different tone than before.
Not confusion, not anger, but clarity, like water finally settling after a storm has passed.
"They vanished not because they did not wish to exist. But because no one believed they deserved to exist."
Arya, standing beside her, turned his head, and for the first time he saw his companion standing in a way he had never witnessed before.
Firm, unwavering, like someone who had finally found footing upon ground he had always believed would forever tremble beneath him.
To be continued…