Lembang, West Java — Indonesia. Friday, 08:30 PM.
CRACK! A violent bolt of lightning tore through the sky, followed by a torrential downpour that threatened to shatter the floor-to-ceiling windows of Villa Cempaka. Outside, the pine forests of Lembang vanished behind a suffocating wall of white mist. Inside, however, the world was held in place by the comforting aroma of steaming coconut rice and the savory scent of fried salted fish.
Sanusi Sudrajat sat at the head of an ancient teak table, its polished surface gleaming under the amber glow of crystal chandeliers. He wiped his face slowly, brushing away a bead of sweat from his temple despite the room's chill. His silk batik shirt felt a little too tight tonight. At fifty-five, he couldn't deny his age, even if his latest highway tunnel project proved his muscles and mind were still forged from tempered steel.
"Everyone is finally here," Sanusi murmured, his voice raspy, nearly swallowed by the clinking of silverware. A faint smile played on his lips as he studied the faces before him.
"I told you, Pak. It's your fifty-fifth; the kids wouldn't dare miss it," Rully whispered beside him. She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before returning to the birthday cake, her modern batik dress rustling softly with every movement.
Sanusi gave a slow nod. His gaze shifted to Rifki, his eldest, who seemed restless.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Rifki's fingers drummed against the table in a frantic rhythm, his eyes glued to his phone. The corded muscles of his arms, hidden beneath a bomber jacket, were taut with tension. Sensing his father's gaze, Rifki quickly darkened his screen and forced a wide grin.
"Sorry, Dad. The field team in Kalimantan is acting up over the heavy machinery again," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. "But don't worry. Tonight, the Big Boss is priority number one."
"Big Boss? Hah, you hear that, Dad?" Ridha, the second child, chimed in. A former fencing athlete, she twirled her fork with lethal grace. "Big Brother is already sucking up. I bet he's going to ask for a budget hike for his new unit."
"Hey, watch it! I'm—I mean, I'm not that opportunistic," Roihan countered, lifting his phone to capture an aesthetic shot of the satay. Click. "Guys, look at this. Authentic Sate Maranggi on the night of Satu Suro. Exclusive!"
"Put the phone away, Han. The cellular signals died the moment the mist rolled in," Rizki interjected without looking up. His fingers danced across a tablet screen, auditing complex logistics spreadsheets. His glasses had slipped to the very tip of his nose.
"Kak Rizki is doing it too!" Rafidha, the twelve-year-old youngest daughter, huffed while crossing her arms. "Mom confiscated my phone, so why does he get to keep his tablet?"
"It's called age discrimination," Rafardhan, the ten-year-old, whispered with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Enough, enough. Ceasefire, everyone," Rully intervened with a light laugh. "Come on, Sanusi. Say a prayer before the candles melt into the frosting."
Sanusi fell silent. He glanced at the window, which rattled violently under the wind's assault. He took a slow, deliberate sip of water. "The night of Satu Suro, eh? No wonder the air feels… different."
He closed his eyes, whispering a short prayer. It wasn't about tenders or stocks. It was a simple plea for his family's safety. As he blew out the '55' candles, the flames vanished amidst a burst of cheers, but the darkness that followed felt heavier—more absolute—than usual.
"Oh, there's one more thing," Sanusi said after the servants flicked the lights back on. He pointed toward a dim corner of the room.
Standing there was a two-meter-tall bronze mirror. Its frame was forged from dark, twisted metal shaped into three wolves entwined with one another—their fangs glinting even in the low light.
"A fourteenth-century relic from Wallachia. They say it reveals one's true self," Sanusi announced with a hint of pride.
Rumaisha, the fifth child who had remained quiet until now, suddenly shivered. She hugged a sofa cushion tighter. "It's creepy, Dad… the wolves' eyes… they look like they're moving."
BOOM!
A thunderclap detonated directly above the villa. The very earth shuddered. Crack! The glass in front of Sanusi shattered for no apparent reason.
The chandeliers flickered wildly before plunging the room into total darkness. Yet, in that void, the mirror in the corner pulsed. Its surface began to throb with an eerie, violet-crimson light.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Their heartbeats were forcibly synced to the mirror's rhythm. A low, piercing hum vibrated through the air, sets their teeth on edge.
"What is this?!" Ridha shouted, her instincts kicking in as she dropped into a combat stance.
"Get back!" Rizki commanded, but his voice was drowned out as gravity suddenly buckled. The massive teak table, weighing hundreds of kilograms, slid across the floor on its own. Plates shattered against the marble.
"Grab my hand! Everyone! Form a circle!" Sanusi roared, his voice booming over the howling wind.
They lunged for each other in the dark. Rifki grabbed Roihan's collar to keep him from being pulled in. Rully pulled the youngest children into a desperate embrace. But the pull from the mirror was absolute—a hungry black hole.
"The Lineage returns. Awakening initiated."
The voice was cold, echoing inside their skulls rather than the air. The next second, a blinding white explosion consumed everything.
Gasp… gasp…
Sanusi—or the entity now inhabiting the body—jolted awake. Cold. The chill he felt was no longer the misty dampness of Lembang, but a piercing, stagnant cold that smelled of rust and burning lard.
He sat up, his head throbbing as if struck by a sledgehammer. Argh.
He looked at his hands. The smooth, manicured hands of a CEO were gone. In their place were hands covered in scar tissue, thick callouses on the knuckles, and a heavy silver signet ring bearing a three-headed wolf.
Lucian Sudrath. Duke of Northreach. Debt… gold coins… war…
Foreign memories flooded his brain like a tidal wave, forcing the remnants of the "Sudrajat Group" into the corners of his mind.
"Dad…?"
The voice was trembling. Sanusi—Lucian—turned. Around a rough oak table lit by guttering candles, his family sat with ghostly pale faces.
Rully was now clad in a faded blue velvet gown, heavy with patches. Rifki… no, Riven, wore boiled leather armor scarred by blade marks. Rizki—Rianor—looked thinner in oversized grey robes, but his eyes remained sharp even without his glasses.
"Steady," Lucian's voice came out heavy and commanding. "Breathe. Don't fight it. Let the memories settle."
Rianor was the first to straighten his back. He ran a hand over the rough wood of the table, then looked at Lucian with that flat, analytical stare characteristic of Rizki. "Father, this isn't a dream. It's transmigration. House Sudrath is on the brink of collapse."
"Explain," Roland—Roihan—muttered, scratching at his itchy wool tunic.
"We are bankrupt," Rianor answered curtly. "And our enemies are at the gates."
SLAM!
The doors to the great hall were kicked open. The night wind brought a spray of snow into the room. Three figures marched in with arrogant strides. The man in the lead was short and stout, draped in crimson silk that mocked the poverty of the castle.
Baron Gorm. Duke Varkas's lapdog.
Gorm walked with an insulting tap-tap-tap of his boots against the stone floor. He tossed a parchment scroll onto the table, right in front of Rianor's plate. Thud.
"A pathetic dinner, Duke Sudrath," Gorm sneered, eyeing a piece of dried meat with disgust. "The sun has set. Your time is up."
Gorm leaned in, the sour stench of his sweat filling the air. "Fifty-thousand Gold Sovereigns. Pay now, or hand over the iron mine deeds… and Lady Rhea comes with me tonight as collateral."
A deathly silence descended upon the room.
Rhea—Ridha—slowly shifted her steak knife. Her fingers didn't tremble. Her eyes narrowed, locking onto Gorm's bobbing Adam's apple. She knew exactly where to strike to ensure he died before he could scream.
But Rianor was faster. He unfurled the parchment with a calm, graceful motion—a tranquility that made Gorm visibly uneasy.
Scan. Rianor's eyes flicked across the ancient script in seconds. The corner of his mouth twitched. A cold, predatory smirk appeared.
"What are you smiling at, you bookworm?" Gorm snapped.
Rianor closed the scroll slowly. "Father, this document is garbage. The interest calculation violates Royal Decree Article 12, and the seal expired two days ago. Legally speaking, this is void."
Gorm gaped. He hadn't expected the usually trembling Rianor to speak with such iron.
"Roland," Rianor called out calmly. "Our guest needs a small… education in etiquette."
Roland stood. His diplomatic charisma flared. He began to circle the table, his steps light like a predator's. "Master Gorm, you entered without knocking. You insulted our food. And you dared to threaten my sister?"
Roland stopped directly beside Gorm, patting his shoulder in a gesture that seemed friendly but felt lethal. "Brother Riven?"
Riven stood. His chair screeched against the stone—skreeee. Standing at six-foot-three, his shadow swallowed Gorm whole. He looked like a titan birthed from the pits of hell.
"Close the doors," Roland ordered coldly. "It seems our guest isn't ready to leave just yet."
BAM!
The heavy oak doors were slammed shut by Riven. The candlelight in the hall flickered violently. The new House Sudrath… had awakened.