The narrow alleys behind the training barracks felt more like traps than paths home. Cramped, suffocating, and damp with a dew that never dried. The dim glow from oil lamps revealed only fragments of brick walls, overgrown with old moss. The air reeked of rusted metal, dried blood, and something foul—like the breath of unseen ghosts. It choked the lungs, as if gripped by a phantom hand.

Raka’s footsteps slowed the moment a voice echoed from the shadows—a voice laced with venomous spite, one all too familiar.

"Still alive, Wirabumi?"

That tone—it lashed like a whip. It tore open old wounds, dragged back the pain, the scorn, the trauma.

"What… My Tapak Geni wasn't hard enough last time, huh? Raka, the traitor's spawn."

Four figures emerged from the gloom, like devils ripped straight from the abyss of memory. At the front stood Yuda Brajamukti—broad-chested, shoulders squared, the Garuda sigil tattooed on his arm pulsing with every beat of his heart.

His hair was braided back like some barbaric warrior. His piercing eyes locked onto Raka like a hunter cornering wounded prey.

"Yuda Brajamukti… The Marked Garuda."

Raka clenched his fists. His body tensed—not from fear, but from memory. He knew that man. The pride of the barracks’ outskirts. A bully, a brute… and the wielder of Tapak Geni, the technique that had nearly crippled him once.

Three others flanked Yuda, smirking. Each twirled long wooden staves in their hands like instruments of judgment.

Raka froze. The past came crashing down like a tidal wave—sharp pain in his chest, heat across his back, the thud of being thrown to the dirt… and the sound of their laughter echoing above him.

“But… how do they know who I really am?” Raka’s eyes narrowed.

“Traitor. Spoiled noble running from his duty,” one of them sneered.

“Playing commoner, are we? You think we don’t know your father?”

“How many died because of your family?” Yuda added, voice dripping with cruel delight.

Mocking laughter exploded. Spit hit the ground. Once—Raka would’ve bowed his head. Stayed silent. Maybe even run.

But this time was different.

This was not the Raka they once knew.

This was Raka… reborn.

He raised his head slowly. His eyes—like blades tempered in resolve.

“Newton’s Second Law,” he murmured. “F = m × a.”

“Force equals mass times acceleration.”

But to him, it was no longer just a law of physics. It was a creed. A weapon.

"My body… is still weak. But it has mass. And now, with intent as my acceleration—"

"Every step, every strike, becomes force."

Raka inhaled deeply. In his mind, the battlefield unfolded in a blink. A narrow corridor, single direction. A crack in the right wall—usable. Broken wood on the side. A metal pail behind. Rain-slicked earth beneath his feet.

“Four enemies. Two armed. I'm just one. But I have—tactics.”

The enemy advanced.

"You think you can run from this, Wirabumi?"

Raka didn’t answer.

He moved.

Tap.

Step one: Left. Shrink the enemy’s maneuvering room.

WHUSS!! A wooden staff sliced the air.

Too late.

Raka ducked low, twisted his hips, and—THUD!!—rammed his elbow into the first attacker’s knee.

A grunt. Followed by a heavy blow to the chest that hurled the man into the wall. CRACK!! Bricks fractured. Dust exploded.

Before the second attacker could react, Raka swept his leg—SWAPP!!—and snatched the fallen staff. Without hesitation, WHUMP!!—he flung it straight into the mocking one’s face.

“AAARGH!!” Blood sprayed from the man’s nose. Two down.

Step three.

The metal pail.

Raka grabbed it, spun once—VRUKKK!!—and hurled it like a frisbee. It smashed against the third man’s head with a loud clang. The body dropped, unmoving.

Only one remained: Yuda.

His face hardened. Eyes burning red. Flames sparked from his fingers, crawling up his arms. The air grew heavy, hot.

“Ajian Tapak Geni…!” he roared.

Raka felt the phantom burn across his back—the old scar hissed in memory.

Every technique had a casting time. And Raka… didn’t plan to wait.

“My strike… is law. I… am the force.”

He surged forward.

WHUP!! A precise kick—right at the weakness every man shares.

“UUUARGHH!!” Yuda howled, folding over.

Raka’s right hand clenched tight. The once-overlooked muscles now fueled by sheer will.

No pause.

BUK!! An uppercut smashed into Yuda’s jaw.

His body lifted slightly off the ground, like a discarded doll.

THUD!! He crashed down. Unmoving.

Silence.

Raka’s breath came heavy. Shoulders rising and falling. Adrenaline surged like a wild storm—but what he felt wasn’t fear.

It was relief. Satisfaction.

A small victory… that felt like the world.

Rain began to drizzle. A breeze swept through the corridor, carrying dry leaves into a swirling dance.

Raka stood tall. No longer bowing. No longer retreating.

But just as he turned to leave—

Tap.

Someone stood at the end of the alley.

A gray cloak. White hair tied in a knot. Eyes like an eagle—sharp, unblinking.

He stood there, calm. But from his aura… Raka knew: this man was no ordinary person.

"Interesting," the man spoke quietly. His voice calm, but heavy with weight.

Raka faced him, alert. But in his heart… he knew one truth:

The real battle… had only just begun.