Bip.
Bip.
Bip.
The alarm shattered the silence.
Khai jerked awake from his nightmare. His eyes opened slowly. His cheeks felt cold and dry. The floor beneath him was hard.
He had fallen asleep there.
Without a blanket.
Without realizing when the tears had stopped.
His body still heavy, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His gaze swept across the room, blurred and swollen. He grabbed the phone from the bed and tapped the screen, silencing the stubborn alarm.
5:30 a.m.
He rubbed his throbbing head. His eyes blinked repeatedly, trying to piece reality together.
Only then did it hit him.
He had cried himself to sleep.
He stretched his body. The early morning breeze slipped through the window, brushing his skin with a cool calmness.
He swung his right leg.
Then the left.
He bent forward, reaching for his toes.
He touched them.
He stayed there for a moment before rising again, rolling his shoulders in slow circles.
A long breath in.
His chest expanded.
Then he let it out slowly.
Fresh.
At least his body was.
He went to the bathroom, showered, and prepared to head to the mosque for the Fajr prayer.
The rows grew fuller. Khai stood near the back, his eyes closed as he recited Al-Fatihah. The imam’s voice echoed through the mosque, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
The video.
Who—
“Sami’allahu liman hamidah.”
Khai bowed into sujud. His forehead touched the prayer mat.
Cool.
For a moment, the outside world disappeared.
There was only him and God.
And the question still hanging unanswered.
“Assalamualaikum wa rahmatullah.”
The imam’s salam ended the prayer. Worshippers began rising, slowly leaving the rows. The mosque returned to life with the sound of sandals and footsteps.
Khai slipped on his sandals.
He looked up at the sky, still dark, though the road outside the mosque had begun to stir with early traffic.
“Ustaz!”
A young boy waved at him, a wide smile on his innocent face.
Khai returned a small smile and nodded politely.
The boy ran back to his mother.
Khai looked down at his own hands.
Hands that taught children to read the Quran.
Hands that had torn apart pelesit just hours ago.
He crossed the street and slipped into a long narrow alley.
The alley was tight. Moss clung to the old brick shop walls. Five grey concrete steps descended into a dry drain. An orange cat slept on top of a faded Milo box.
Tap.
Khai’s steps were slow. His hands slipped into the pockets of his sweater, searching for warmth. His eyes faced forward, but his thoughts spun like a broken wheel.
Who recorded it?
Three million views in three hours.
The video spread like a disease, crawling across every corner of the region. Maybe further.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Who leaked it?
Zingforce? Impossible. They wanted him hidden.
The video exposed everything.
What was the gain in revealing Kenz?
Public fear?
Political pressure?
Or…
To lure him out of hiding.
Khai stopped walking.
Ordinary Zingforce cameras couldn’t function properly inside a Zing field. Static interference always ruined the signal.
But that video…
It was too clear.
Tap.
Another step touched the ground.
Not Khai’s.
He didn’t realize he was being followed.
Slowly. Carefully. Without excess noise.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Khai spun instantly.
A thin man stood there. Hollow cheeks. Round black sunglasses still on even though the sky hadn’t brightened yet. Earrings swayed slightly from his ears.
“Assalamualaikum, Ustaz Khai.”
Azazil.
A smile spread across his lips.
A chill crept down the back of Khai’s neck. His nostrils flared instinctively.
The smell of rusted iron.
Pelesit.
Khai immediately grabbed the man’s wrist and yanked him forward.
But Azazil was faster.
A kick slammed straight into Khai’s chest.
Khai staggered back several steps. His grip broke.
Silence.
Neither of them moved.
Only their stares crossed within the narrow alley.
Pelesit rarely approached civilians without reason.
Khai glanced around. The shop houses on both sides were still asleep.
He couldn’t wake anyone.
He didn’t activate Zing radiation.
Too close to civilians.
Too costly in energy.
Azazil grabbed a long wooden stick from a pile of trash and swung it immediately.
A crude attack.
Wild.
Khai dodged with minimal movement. Every inch of distance measured.
His jaw tightened when he saw Azazil smiling, as if this were just a game.
Khai opened his clenched hand.
Ping.
The air shifted.
A subtle vibration brushed across the skin. Gentle heat wrapped around the alley. The walls blurred slightly, like fogged glass.
Zing Field.
An invisible sphere with a ten-meter radius centered on Khai.
The sounds of the outside world vanished completely.
Silence became absolute.
Azazil raised an eyebrow.
His smile twisted into a grin.
“Interesting.”
Inside this field, no one could hear them.
No one would know what happened.
Khai clenched his fist again.
Is he the one behind it?
Khai’s gaze flicked toward the trash bin beside Azazil.
Rusted metal.
A crooked lid.
Azazil’s eyes never left him.
The stick tightened in his grip. Veins rose along his thin arms.
Khai’s shoulders stopped rising and falling.
His breathing adjusted.
Short.
In.
Out.
The alley felt narrower.
He stepped forward.
Just one step.
Azazil seized the opportunity instantly.
The stick swung high, brutal, full of killing intent.
No technique.
No discipline.
Just raw anger.
Khai shifted slightly to the left.
The movement was small. Almost lazy.
The swing passed just inches from his head.
His hand rose.
Blocking Azazil’s arm from the inside.
Elbow tight.
Position precise.
A short punch fired.
Bup.
The sound died quickly.
But the impact lived.
Azazil’s breath caught in his throat.
His body stumbled half a step back.
His glasses tilted, almost falling.
Khai saw the eyes behind them.
Red.
Not from pain.
From excitement.
Azazil chuckled softly.
Low.
Raspy.
He changed his grip on the stick.
Both hands now.
Wider stance.
A horizontal swing came next.
Heavy.
Merciless.
Target: Khai’s left shoulder.
Khai had read the intention before the stick even moved.
His hand snatched the trash-bin lid.
Tranggg!
The clash echoed loudly within the Zing field.
Metal vibrated violently up Khai’s arm.
He didn’t fight the force.
He redirected the angle.
The iron shield pushed the stick downward.
Khai stepped back once.
Then again.
Not retreating.
Calculating.
Azazil wiped saliva from his lips.
The smirk never left his face.
He was enjoying this.
Azazil attacked again.
Swing after swing.
Relentless.
No rhythm.
No pause.
Khai moved through the strikes.
Dodging with minimal motion.
Delivering a teep kick whenever Azazil tried to close distance.
Each kick reset the space.
Each step locked the lane.
But sweat began forming on Khai’s forehead.
His breathing remained controlled.
But heavier.
Azazil, on the other hand, still looked fresh.
As if pain never reached his brain.
Can’t drag this out.
Khai’s eyes scanned the surroundings.
Right wall.
An old crack.
A hollow gap between the concrete blocks.
Big enough.
He lowered his guard slightly.
On purpose.
Just a little too low.
Azazil noticed.
His eyes lit up.
The full swing came instantly.
This time with no hesitation.
No restraint.
Khai bent his body.
The stick sliced only the edge of the air.
PRANGGG!
The wood smashed into the wall.
Jammed into the concrete gap.
Stuck.
Azazil pulled.
It didn’t move.
His eyes widened.
For the first time—
panic.
Khai was already inside his space.
The metal lid slammed down over Azazil’s hand gripping the stick.
Heavy pressure crushed his fingers against the concrete.
Khai’s right fist rose.
It came down on the arm.
Crack.
The sound was clear.
The grip loosened.
The stick slipped away.
A back kick followed.
Azazil’s body flew backward.
Rolling several feet away.
He got up quickly.
Too quickly for someone who had just broken a bone.
Before he could stabilize—
The trash-bin lid flew through the air.
Spinning like a blade.
Azazil blocked with his arm.
Pap!
That wasn’t the attack.
It was bait.
Khai’s knee was already in front of his face.
The glasses shattered.
His kneecap smashed into Azazil’s nose.
The sound of bone breaking vanished into the silent Zing field.
Azazil fell flat on his back.
Warm blood flowed.
Khai stepped forward.
Glass crunched under his foot.
Skrak.
His foot pressed down onto Azazil’s chest.
Heavy.
Unmoving.
Azazil smiled, gasping.
“Go ahead. Kill me.”
His tone carried pride.
As if that would be victory.
Khai lifted his foot.
Turned away.
“I’ll kill you if you touch another human.”
He walked off.
Purple smoke still wrapped around his arm.
His breathing slowly returned to normal.
Azazil lay there.
The sky had begun to brighten.
A moral code.
Interesting.
“Wait, Abang Khai.”
Khai stopped.
“I got some good info.”
Khai turned.
His stare empty.
Sharp.
“Why did you fight me earlier?”
“Boss attacked first,” Azazil grinned, holding his crooked nose.
“Leave.”
The tone wasn’t a threat.
It was an order.
“Wait, Kenz—”
PRANGGG!
Azazil’s neck was suddenly seized.
His body slammed against the wall.
Concrete cracked.
Air locked in his throat.
His lungs felt like they were burning.
Khai’s eyes blazed bright purple.
Zing smoke thickened around his arm.
The grip did not loosen.
Azazil struggled.
His face reddened.
But his lips curled upward.
He was satisfied.
“How did you know?”
Khai’s voice was low.
Dense.
Held back by the last thread of self-control.
