Silence…

Stillness…

Only the sound of breathing and the soft whisper of wind slipping through the bamboo slats of an old hilltop hut accompanied the young man sitting cross-legged inside. His body was still lean, yet beginning to show signs of firmness. His face was calm, but in his eyes, there lay a wound too deep to measure.

Raka closed his eyes. Within the quiet of the Watuwulan Highlands at dusk, he attempted to carry out the final teaching of his master—Resi Gantarajaya, an old hermit with piercing eyes and a silver beard cascading to his chest.

“The essence of kanuragan lies not only in muscle and might… but in sunya,” the sage had once said.

“Sunya is not mere silence. It is the space where the spear of your soul is forged. You must be as sharp as a trident, yet as serene as a lake. If your heart is still in turmoil, how can you read the intent of your enemy before he even moves?”

Yet sunya… was anything but easy.

Behind his closed eyelids, Raka’s mind was in disarray. Waves of emotion surged wildly—echoes of clashing blades, screams from the past, and the scornful stares of a people who once praised him, only to trample him without mercy.

Visions of his father—condemned by an accusation of treason that was never proven. Of someone who may have been his sister—lost in a blaze during a night of bloodshed. And of himself… abandoned, cast aside, disgraced.

Though his body sat still, his thoughts roared like thunder. He tried to synchronize his breath with the flow of Éra—the primordial energy said to course from sky and earth through the vortexes within the body. But the Éra stalled, like a river blocked by a boulder. And that boulder… was his own wound.

“When will this pain end?”

“Can I truly seek justice… if I haven’t found peace within?”

In the midst of the chaos, one face appeared.

Rani Rengganis.

A village girl with coarse hands and a gentle smile. No noble blood. No inheritance but patience and loyalty. Yet she remained. Always remained. Even when every door closed, Rani stayed by his side.

She cleaned Raka’s wounds without flinching. Cooked corn porridge with moringa leaves to rebuild his strength. Bathed his fevered body in the river and hung his clothes to dry under the setting sun.

Not a servant. Not a sworn companion. Not anyone of status. Yet she endured. Quietly becoming the small pillar that kept Raka’s crumbling world from collapsing entirely.

And Raka… was struck by realization.

“Have I only burdened her… all this time?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one protecting her… not the other way around?”

Tears welled and trickled down his chin. But he clenched his jaw. In the teachings of Kadeyan—the spiritual path of inner tranquility—tears were not weakness, but a sign that the soul’s waters had begun to flow. He took a deep breath, drawing that sorrow into his being. Embracing it. Letting it dissolve into the Éra.

“Forgive me… Mbakyu Rani…” he whispered.

And then, a voice pierced the stillness of the evening.

“Kang Raka… the carriage is ready. Time to depart for the capital.”

Raka slowly opened his eyes. The outside world returned. Twilight had fallen, painting the sky with pale amber and muted violet.

At the threshold of the wooden barrack stood Rani. Her face was lovely, though untouched by makeup. Her long hair tied hastily, her rough hands still stained with soot. Her body weary, yet her eyes warm. She looked at Raka with a gentle smile—not one born of pretense, but of sincere affection.

“Thank you… Mbakyu Rani,” Raka said softly.

Rani was silent. That word—mbakyu—was simple. But in Maheswara society, it carried weight. A title of honor. A form of acknowledgment. And for Rani, who had lived all her life as a nameless commoner, that single word was like morning light breaking through a lifetime of fog.

Tears welled in her eyes—not of sadness, but gratitude. For the first time, she felt seen. Recognized. Respected. By one of noble blood who still upheld ancient virtue.

And in her heart, she made a vow:

“Someday… I’ll return. And when I do, I’ll bring happiness to him.”

Meanwhile, Raka climbed into the horse-drawn carriage. Upon the ridges of Watuwulan, the strong-hoofed horses began pulling them toward the capital of Indrabhumi. Cold air brushed his face, carrying with it the scent of damp leaves and earth.

He gazed at the clouds in the distance, remembering Rani’s face—like morning dew upon the petals of a kenanga flower.

But peace never lasts long.

“HEYYYY…!!!”

“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU PERVERTED BASTARD?!”

A shrill voice, like the screech of an old cartwheel, jolted Raka from his thoughts.

Across from him sat a young girl—pale-skinned, with piercing sapphire eyes and long ears peeking from beneath dark blonde hair. She clutched her mantrawan spellbook and her satchel tightly, expression ready to punch anyone who dared cross her.

“Look at me again and I’ll end you!” she snapped.

Raka blinked. He’d simply been staring blankly ahead, but their eyes had met by chance.

“I SAID STOP LOOKING!”

He quickly turned his face away, back toward the mountains, and took a breath.

“This woman… is loud. But when the wind blew her hair aside, there was a strange mark on her forehead. A scar? Or… a seal? And despite her wildness, her face… it’s beautiful,” Raka mused.

A new journey had begun.

The meditation had unearthed old wounds—but it also opened his eyes to feelings long buried.

And in the silence now broken by laughter and shouting, Raka knew—

his life would never be quiet again.