NO FORGIVENESS FOR YOU

That night, it was as if the moon was being torn apart by the black clouds that rolled thickly across the sky of the Land of The Old Malayan. The night wind blowing from the north did not bring the freshness of dew but rather was full of the smell of blood washed away mixed with Javanese incense smoke that pierced the nostrils sharply. Under the dense canopy of the Liputra Forest, which had never been touched by development, darkness dominated everything. Zakil, a man in his early 30s, stopped in his tracks. He leaned against a giant merbau tree whose veins were as tall as a man. His breathing was controlled slowly, trying to minimize the sound. He wiped the cold sweat that was dripping heavily on his forehead with the cuff of his worn and torn gauze shirt in several places. His loose cotton pants were covered in sticky mud and the skin on his legs had been thinned by thorns and thistles since the evening before. On his shoulder, he carried a faded duffel bag. It did not contain much; only a small copy of the Quran wrapped in green velvet, a coca rosary left by his father's spirit, a chicken spur folding knife, and a box of pepper pots plus a cane of a cobra. No flashlight. He was guided only by his own instinct and the light of the night stars that crept in through the leaves. The purpose of his journey across the country was only one, which was to seek white knowledge in Islam mantra. More precisely, the knowledge of clairvoyance, the art of inner self-defense, and the way to know God more nearer. Zakil was not a Lebanese or a religious teacher. Ten years ago, in the dark alleys of Pudu and Bukit Bintang in Kuala Lumpur, Zakil's name was quite popular. He was a former gangster and debt collector. His hands had broken human bones, illicit money was his flesh and blood just to collect money. However, this dark luxury was paid for with the highest price in his life. Three years ago, his mother and sister died in horrific circumstances. Their bellies were being cursed and swollen, they vomited blood mixed with rusty nails and rotten hair, they were victims of random magic sent by their black business enemies of their family. When they were no longer able to fight face to face then magic was the last resort used by the enemy. Even more unfortunate, the enemy only bewitched Zakil's whole family, but not him, perhaps to make Zakil miserable with his emotions. Zakil still remembers that at that time he was very trapped. The money and the long machete in his hand were completely useless in the face of supernatural attacks and curse powder. The night his mother breathed her last, Zakil howled on the mat, feeling small. From that day on, he threw away all his illicit possessions, cut off his long hair, repented of his sins, and began to wander from one hut to another in the recesses of the peninsula. He wanted to atone for his sins. He wanted Allah to forgive his sins. He wanted to find 'Light of Sukuk' to fight 'Darkness'. However, he had a strong feeling that his steps that night were wrong and it seemed that he was heading towards the valley of shadow of the devil. The people at the coffee shop he had visited the night before gave him a stern warning. "Don't set foot in the Liputra Village Souls, young people. Even the communist police don't dare go there. That's not a place where people seek God. That's a place where people make the devil as their god," said an old spiritual teacher while smoking a leaf cigarette and enjoying a cup of teh tarik. But Zakil was stubborn. Rumor has it that there is a very pious old teacher hiding in the mountains outside this village headman. He had to take a shortcut to reduce this hell. Zakil's steps were reorganized. He stomped on the forest floor using the hammer technique, making sure the rotten branches did not break under his feet. Suddenly, his ears caught a sound from the devil's valley ahead. The sound of a sweet potato drum being hammered with a slow but very strange sound from nearby. Dum... dum... dum... The rhythm was not the same, as if it was beating in time with Zakil's own heartbeat, making his chest feel happy and hypnotized. Zakil lowered his body. Behind the giant ferns, he could see the reflection of a reddish light twisting through the darkness. He crawled slowly towards the small cliff, peering through the cracks of the supporting roots that smelled like an old grave. His eyes widened. His heart beat fast, pumping blood to his ears. In the middle of the field covered in red clay, there was a blazing bonfire. However, the fire was not yellow, orange, or blue, but it burned a dark red, as if it was licking from a crater filled with congealed blood. Thick plumes of smoke rose into the air, but the smoke was not blown away by the wind. It swirled in one place, forming images of many heroic faces that seemed to scream in pain and suffering. Dozens of corpses surrounded the burning fire. Men and women, all dressed in seamless black. They prostrated, not towards the Qibla, but towards an old man who was sitting cross-legged on a very scary throne. The silver throne was made of wild animal bones, monkey skulls, and on the armrests, two yellowish human skulls were clearly visible. The old man was called Kiwaii Gussur. His face alone was enough to describe the extent of the cruelty of the magic that was lodged in his chest. His skin was pale, with wounds like a corpse that had been buried for several days. His white hair flowed to his shoulders but his eyes were bright red and shone in the dark like the eyes of a real tiger. In his right hand, he held a rusty nine-shaped dagger, but the blade of the dagger emitted a thick black vapor that flowed against the pull of gravity. "Blood for the Horned One! Life for eternity!" Kiwaii Gussur's hoarse voice echoed, breaking the silence of the forest. His voice was not like a normal human voice, it was layered and echoed oddly, as if several other entities were speaking simultaneously from inside his throat. "Grant... grant..." said the congregation of magic worshipers in unison. They began to recite spells in an ancient language and roaring sounds that sounded like the hissing of snakes, growling of wolves and the howling of dogs and some crying sound of hyenas. Each verse of the spell made Zakil's hair stand on end. The air around him suddenly became freezing cold, as if an invisible hand was crawling on the back of his neck. Kiwaii Gussur raised his keris high into the air. Immediately, the beating of the yam drum stopped. The atmosphere became silent, only the sound of red fire crackling and eating wood. From the direction of the bamboo cage in the corner of the field, two heavily built and shirtless followers dragged a village youth. The youth was wearing torn cloth pants. He struggled with all his strength, his body covered in rattan marks and his face was badly bruised. "Please! Please let me go, Kiwaii! I have a pregnant wife in this village! Please!" the youth screamed, tears flowing from his eyes mixed with blood and sweat. "I do not want to follow your heretical teachings! I believe in Mighty Allah and the Messenger!" The man screamed again. Kiwaii Gussur's laughter erupted, loud and ear-splitting, causing several bats to fly out of a nearby cave. "Lord, you must not interfere in the affairs of the Liputra Village Chief, you foolish servant! Here, I am the one who gives life, I am the one who takes life! The blood of your descendants tonight will ensure that my pet perennials continue to live on the ground!" “With your sacrifice, new devil's blood will be born and will grow roots again!” The young man was kicked in the crease of his legs until he knelt before a red fire crater. Kiwaii Gussur slowly stepped down from his bone throne, approaching his prey like a hungry angel of death. The youth shirt was fully torn and fully naked with his blood pouring down from his heart. Behind the supporting roots, Zakil gripped his pestle until the fifth knot turned white. His teeth were clenched tightly. His blood was boiling rapidly. His memory returned to his mother's memory of vomiting blood and nails before her mother breathed her last. The same cruelty now unfolded before his eyes. He knew, logically, that he was alone. He had no machete, no firearm, let alone martial arts knowledge or supernatural powers to fight the dozens of black magic practitioners before him. However, letting innocent lives be killed before his eyes went against his vow of repentance. He had promised God, he did not want to be a coward who returned to injustice. Without realizing it, Zakil's right hand slipped into his shoulder bag. His index finger and thumb began to twist the beads of the coca wood prayer beads. His mouth began to lock. Allahu la ilaha illa Huwa… Al-Haiyul-Qaiyum... La ta'khudzuhu sinatun wa la naum... The holy verses of Ayatul Kursi were recited. Not just on the lips, but they echoed from the deepest depths of his heart. Zakil focused his intention, cast aside all fear of creatures, and surrendered wholeheartedly to ask for the protection and power of the Almighty just to save the youth. Waves of pure, clean and surrendered energy began to vibrate in the air, spreading out from their hiding place and continuing to collide with the frequencies of black magic in the ritual place. Suddenly, a miracle that violated the laws of nature occurred. The red fire that towered high in the middle of the open area roared loudly. The fire shrank quickly, twisting and turning as if hit by a hurricane, before extinguishing in the middle of the road, leaving behind smoldering embers, covered only by a bucket of ice water. The wind that had previously smelled of smoke and loosened the throat now changed in the blink of an eye, bringing with it a thin, refreshing scent of musk, which pierced the nostrils of all the heretics there. Kiwaii Gussur was panting heavily. His steps stopped. The nine keris in his hand trembled on their own. His head turned quickly, his bright red eyes glancing sharply through the darkness of the night, staring straight at the thicket of ferns where Zakil was hiding. "There is a stench in our holy place! I can smell it. Strongly!" shouted Kiwaii Gussur. His voice trembled with extreme anger, the black veins on his neck and forehead seemed to be tense. "There is a deviant light bearer who dares to trespass! Who is the wild boar who dares to recite the taboo verse in front of me?!" shouted Kiwaii Gussur with almost uncontrollable anger. All the black robed followers quickly got up from their prostrations. The situation became dark. They began to hold various types of sharp weapons from the Japanese era, rusty long machetes, wood-cutting machetes, keris and bamboo spears. Kiwaii Gussur snorted in the air like a hunted dog with a howling cry. His eyes were focused directly on the supporting roots of the merbau tree. His sharp teeth with saliva dripping. "There! Behind the giant merbau tree! Catch him! Cut his flesh into pieces for our food in the cave! Don't let him live to see the sun tomorrow!" Zakil knew he had been impressed. His tactic to cancel the magic had revealed his position. Adrenaline rushed into his bloodstream, making his heart beat like a train engine forced to work beyond its limits. "Woe," Zakil hissed softly. His intention to jump out to save the village youth would have to be buried. If he died here, the youth would still die and no one in the outside world would know about the existence of this cult. He continued to spin, kicking tree trunks for propulsion, and ran as hard as he could through the darkness of the wilderness. Dead branches, thorny canes, and tree branches slapped his face and arms until they bled, but he didn't care. The physical pain was nothing compared to the threat of the horde of demon worshipers behind him. Behind him, the sound of screams and howls began to echo through the silence of the Liputra Forest. It wasn't just the sound of human footsteps. Zakil could hear a very strange roar, rough wings flapping in the air and a howl that sounded like a hungry hyena. Kiwaii Gussur not only mobilized his students, but he also unleashed his magic, sakti and pet jinn to hunt down the intruder. Zakil accelerated his run, jumping over the tangled tree roots. However, the forest in front of him seemed to be alive and in cahoots with the enemy. The meranti trees seemed to be closing their distance, making Zakil's path even narrower and more suffocating. The roots that spread across the wet ground suddenly moved like pythons, trying to bite and wrap around his ankles. This was not just a physical victim, but illusion and black magic manipulating his vision and the space around him. "O Allah, protect me," Zakil prayed, breathless. He continued to recite surah Al-Falaq and An-Nas over and over again, trying to ward off the illusion of the black shadows that were trying to obscure the cornea of ​​his eyes. Zakil jumped over a fallen tree. Suddenly, from the top of the dark branches of the fig tree in front of him, a black shadow jumped down quickly and pounced directly at him. Zakil, who was used to street fighting in Chow Kit, acted on reflex. He dropped his body and rolled onto the muddy ground, managing to avoid the fatal blow. When he looked up properly, he saw one of his followers who was dressed in black. However, the man’s face made Zakil’s blood drip. The man no longer looked human. His eyes were completely white without any black eyes, black veins ran like roots all over his cheeks, and the nails on his ten fingers were sharp, curved and black like hooked knives. The man might have been possessed by a demon. The undead roared wildly and pounced towards Zakil with a speed far beyond the capabilities of a normal human. Zakil, who was still on his knees, crossed both his arms in front of his face to block the attack. Zap! The sharp magic nail tore and tore Zakil's gauze sleeve, leaving three deep gashes on his left arm. Hot red blood spurted out, dripping onto the dry leaves. The pain and heat burned to the bone marrow, as if his arm had been soaked in acid. But Zakil just stayed calm and didn't scream. He gritted his teeth on his stomach. Using the momentum of his enemy's forward-leaning attack, Zakil brushed aside the possessed man's legs, then stood up at once while simultaneously delivering a single kick, in a style similar to the fight in the alley earlier, and right at his enemy's solar plexus. The beam man fell backwards, breaking the moss-covered tree trunk with a loud thud. His body jolted briefly on the ground, before going rigid again. Zakil held his badly bleeding arm. His breathing was rumbling. He needed to keep moving fast. The smell of his fresh spilled blood would surely attract more supernatural and physical predators towards him. He continued running down the hill. However, suddenly a strong night wind blew from behind, carrying hot dust and the smell of camphor. Kiwaii Gussur's voice echoed again, but this time it did not come from far away. The voice echoed continuously inside Zakil's skull, as if powered by black magic telepathy. "You think you can escape the clutches of my leader, servant?! Your white aura is disgusting! Full of the pretense of a supposedly holy human! Are you a dog sent by that old bastard Tok Kelinga?! Someone sent you to spy on my work and put out my fire?! Answer me before I use your tongue!" The sound rang in Zakil's eardrums, making Zakil's steps stagger slightly as he held back his dizziness. Zakil's steps stopped for a moment behind a tree, his chest heaving as he searched for oxygen. Tok Kelinga? His brain was busy processing the information he had just received. Throughout his search from the south to the north of the peninsula, he had never heard that name. Not one of the ustaz or kiai of the pesantren had ever mentioned that name to him. But the fact that the name 'Tok Kelinga' was mentioned in a tone full of hatred, full of anger and a hint of hidden fear by a high-ranking heretic leader gave Zakil a very clear answer. Tok Kelinga was the sworn enemy of this blood magic practitioner. If he is the enemy of the devil in this village, that means, Tok Kelinga is a very great white magic and clairvoyance expert! The name of the teacher he has been looking for all this time seems to be close to this area. He is a phenomenal witch. A cynical smile appeared on Zakil's lips, even though he was anxious and his arms were throbbing. He looked back immediately, breaking the silence of the forest by roaring into the darkness. "I don't know who that human named Tok Kelinga is! But if he is your enemy, the devil he is my friend! And I will find him to destroy you and your heresy to the ground!" Zakil shouted loudly, deliberately provoking his enemy to break the concentration of their illusionary magic. His roar was met with roars and screams of rage that shook all the trees in the forest. "Kill him! Capture him alive if you can! I want to wear his hair and make him my footstool! Hurry!" howled Kiwaii Gussur from afar, his ego completely shattered. The forest became thicker, darker and the shape of the earth's surface became steeper downward. Zakil's breathing became shallower, his lungs felt like burning charcoal. He could hear his pursuers' footsteps getting closer and louder. The sound of machetes hitting branches, the rustling of black robes and the howls of those being crushed could be heard from all directions, left, right, and behind. He was systematically surrounded like a hunted deer. Suddenly, in the midst of the chaos, his ears caught a different sound. The sound of roaring water was very loud and fierce. He rushed towards the sound, hitting the last thorny palm tree. Zakil's steps suddenly stopped. The tip of the ship was only inches from the edge of the fragile rock hole. In front of him, stretched a very wide mountain river. The water flowed down the rapids with great speed, separating the Liputra Forest area from the mysterious mountain area shrouded in thick fog on the other side. The river water was turbulent, with white foam, dark brown mud, and crashing against the giant rapids with a deafening sound. There was no wooden bridge. There was no boat access. If you miscalculated, this violent whirlpool could crush human bones in just a few seconds. Zakil looked back. His hope of escaping by land was shattered. More than twenty black-clad corpses slowly emerged from the gaps in the trees, forming a semicircle that surrounded him tightly on the edge of the cliff. In their hands, they held bloody machetes, keris and bamboo torches with bright red flames. In the air, clouds of black smoke resembling the faces of jinn flew straight at him, hissing hungrily, waiting for directions. From between the followers, a burly, bald man in the middle, clutching a rusty ship's anchor chain, smiled and glided. His teeth were sharp, tapered, completely blackened from chewing betel and incantations. "Your path ends here, city servant. Kiwaii wishes to meet you," the burly man whispered. His voice was hoarse and heavy. He swung his large iron chain into the air, sending sparks flying as he fought against himself. Zakil stood on the edge of the cliff. The strong wind from the swirling river below blew his hair and shirt wet with sweat. He looked at the rushing current of the river, then at the faces of the demons wearing human masks before him. He felt the bag on his shoulder, making sure his green velvet copy of the Quran was safe and sound. He held the prayer beads in his pocket with his right hand, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He surrendered his spirit and body completely to God's will. "Bismillahilladzi la yadhurru ma'asmihi shai'un fil ardhi wa la fis sama' wahuwas sami'ul 'alim..." (In the name of Allah who does not harm anything on earth or in the heavens, and He is the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing...) The recitation of bismillah from bismillah 5 was recited by Zakil calmly, while his body was ready. The sturdy man roared and rushed forward, swinging the iron chain of the ship's anchor right around Zakil's neck to crush his neck. Without the slightest hesitation in his heart, Zakil retreated, letting his feet climb the steep rock cliff. His body fell into the air, facing the gravity of the earth into the darkness of the village. The heavy iron chain only split the empty air where Zakil stood for a moment. "He jumped off the cliff! Damn it!" shouted one of his pursuers who was in a rage. They turned to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the echoing river. Zakil's body was slammed hard by the surging surface of the river. The freezing cold current continued to hug his body, pulling him under the surface forcefully. The whirlpool raged, twisting his body mercilessly. Zakil held his breath, trying to avoid being hit by the sharp rapids hidden in the riverbed. His vision was pitch black, filled only with the white foam of the murky whirlpool. His lungs began to scream for oxygen, but he let the strong current of the river carry him away from the hellish area of ​​Liputra Forest. On the bank, Kiwaii Gussur's followers stared at the river that swallowed their victim with anger and disappointment. "He will surely die. No man or animal can survive these deadly rapids, the priest will surely not like the news tonight." said the burly man as he spat his betel saliva into the echoing river. At the bottom of the river, Zakil was still struggling with the grip of death. However, despite the pain in his body and the pain of the magical wound on his arm, a new spirit began to burn fiercely in his chest. The journey was not over. He had found his first clue in this Malaya. If he was allowed by God to survive this whirlpool, he knew whose name he should look for. Tap Kung! To be continued....