"You reek of sweat and poor decisions," Laksita said, fanning the air dramatically as she walked beside Jaka.
"And you smell like ink, nervousness, and crushed dreams of ancient scholars," Jaka replied with a grin.
Laksita rolled her eyes but smiled. Her satchel was stuffed with bamboo manuscripts and charcoal sketches of temple inscriptions, while Jaka's tunic was damp with sweat, his arms streaked with dust from a full morning of sparring.
"You know," Laksita said as they walked, "I tried a new recipe this morning."
"Oh no," Jaka said, grinning. "Am I going to survive it?"
"It was supposed to be lemongrass chicken stew," she said, pouting slightly. "But the lemongrass turned bitter and the chicken turned… philosophical."
"Philosophical?"
"It questioned its own existence. Loudly. In my mouth."
Jaka burst out laughing. "Bring it to me later. I'll give it a proper funeral. Inside my stomach."
She looked at him, half-scolding. "Jaka, no. It's awful. You'll faint again. Last time you were pale for two days."
"True. But that was the burnt jackfruit fritters. These sound different."
"Because they screamed, Jaka."
"Then I owe them silence. Through digestion."
She swatted his arm. "You're impossible."
"And hungry."
She sighed, then caught the flicker of sincerity beneath his teasing. He really would eat it. Not because he liked pain—or well, not only because of that—but because she made it.
Even when she told him not to. Even when she failed.
Her steps slowed a little, her lips twitching into a small, fond smile.
"You're a terrible food critic, you know that?"
"I'm the best kind. I only taste the effort."
"And the bitterness?"
"Part of the flavor profile."
She shook her head, smiling wider now. "You're going to die young."
"Probably from love. Or indigestion."
"Same thing."
She sighed, half-annoyed, half-admiring. "You're the only person I know who sees pain as proof of progress."
"I'm going to be a Ksatria. Not a temple scribe. Pain is part of the deal."
"I know," she murmured, quieter now. "Just… don't destroy yourself for it."
Jaka glanced at her, surprised by the sudden softness in her voice. But Laksita was already pretending to adjust her satchel strap, looking away.
To lighten the mood, she added, "Besides, who's going to eat my experimental cooking if you die?"
Jaka laughed. "Your cooking's not that bad."
"You're lying. The last time I tried to make a brand new rice porridge, it fought back."
"True," Jaka said, mock solemn. "But it tasted like ambition and effort."
"You mean 'ash and regret'?"
"Also that."
They both laughed, and she nudged him gently with her shoulder.
Truth be told, Laksita had improved.
Jaka had even admitted her roasted tempeh was genuinely good last week—despite fainting afterward and spending the next hour clutching his stomach like he'd been stabbed by a spirit of indigestion.
Still, he always ate whatever she brought him. No complaints. Just that same goofy grin, as if her efforts mattered more than the taste.
And maybe that's why Laksita kept trying.
Because behind his jokes and bruises, his stubborn drive and cocky grin, there was something fragile about Jaka. Something worth guarding. Something she cared about more than she could explain.
Even if he never saw it. Even if he never would.
As they reached the split in the path toward the blacksmith's quarter, Laksita slowed.
"I'm going this way," she said. "Don't collapse in training again or your mother will be furious."
"Yeah, but in a controlled way."
Laksita shot him a look. "Controlled? Last time she chased you with a bamboo broom."
Jaka visibly shivered. "The legendary mother's weapon… forged from mountain bamboo, blessed by generations of angry mothers."
"You were hiding under the rice storage for hours."
"It was self-defense! That broom doesn't break. I swear it has emotional trauma from years of disciplining dumb sons."
"Maybe don't give her a reason next time."
"I'm trying, okay? But pain is part of being a Ksatria."
"And being your mom is basically her full-time statecrafter."
"Truly… she is the Queen of the Realm, and I, the Crown Prince of Dodging. Even Father pretends to be busy when she's mad."
Laksita snorted. "Honestly, I'm starting to think your mom isn't human. She's like a domestic goddess of divine retribution."
"Oh, she is," Jaka muttered. "She smites with wood sandals and judges with side-eyes. No mortal survives unscathed."
She lingered for a second longer than necessary, then gave a small wave and turned toward the scholars' compound.
Jaka watched her go for a moment before turning to head home—just in time to nearly collide headfirst into a man stepping out of their front gate.
Jaka stumbled back with a yelp.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark green outer robe over travel-worn armor. His eyes were sharp like tempered steel, but his voice came smooth and courteous.
"Ah. Forgive me, young man," the stranger said, inclining his head.
Jaka blinked. "No—uh—sorry, I should've watched where I was—"
But something twisted in his stomach.
That wasn't just a soldier.
That was Ra Kuti.
And if this was real life—if the caste system still held weight like the ancient laws—Jaka's clumsy near-collision with a Ksatria of Dharmaputra rank could've gotten him whipped. Or worse.
And yet, Ra Kuti simply smiled and walked past, as if nothing had happened.
Jaka stood frozen at the gate, heart hammering.
What is he doing here? And why now?
Inside, the house smelled of oil, iron, and old wood. The forge heat had faded but lingered in the floorboards, making the air feel dense even without the flames roaring.
Jaka's father sat at the low workbench, hands stained with soot and metal filings. He didn't look up as Jaka entered—just picked up a cloth and began wiping down a half-finished Kris, its blade still dull, not yet awakened by polish or ritual.
"He came for a weapon," his father said flatly.
Jaka blinked. "Ra Kuti?"
A nod. "Said he wants a Kris. One that matches royalty."
Jaka swallowed. "That's not— That's not normal. Ksatria of his level already have lineage blades."
"He said he's searching for something 'balanced and precise.' Not just a weapon, but a statement. One-of-a-kind. Something worthy enough to help Majapahit's conquest across the Nusantara Archipelago."
That twisted feeling in Jaka's gut surged again.
A Kris requested by Ra Kuti. Something about that rang wrong—like a cracked bell or a line of poetry that ended one syllable too short.
His father continued, "I told him I'd consider it. But I haven't agreed to anything. A man like that—his name walks faster than his feet. You don't say no, but you don't say yes until you've read the weight of his silence."
Jaka stared at the unfinished Kris, the quiet hiss of the forge long gone but the heat still clinging to the air like breath held too long.
The world—this version of the game—started in the Third Monarch timeline. The beginning was Queen Tribhuwana's reign, not the chaos before it. By the official build, the Dharmaputra were long dead. Their legacy erased by the young Gajah Mada in the Second Monarch era.
He remembered the meetings. The whiteboards. The way his pitch for the Dharmaputra storyline was torn apart by the lead historians.
"Too fictional."
"Stick to verified sources."
"Gajah Mada doesn't need more rivals—he is the arc."
And so, Ra Kuti was never coded. Never modeled. Never approved. Just another ghost idea that lived in the design doc's graveyard.
So how was he here?
Yes, Jaka had noticed signs. The world had begun to… shift. NPCs muttering cut lore. Events echoing his old drafts. Forgotten mechanics showing up as rumors in market chatter.
He'd speculated the system was evolving—feeding off fragments of his discarded narratives. Scrapped content being stitched into the seams.
But Ra Kuti wasn't just a fragment.
He was an anomaly.
There was no design file, no branching dialogue tree, no animation rig or behavior set—Jaka would've known; he had written him.
And yet, Ra Kuti had just walked through the front door—alive, smiling, asking for a Kris—as if the script had rewritten itself to make space for him.
The rules were breaking.
And something—some force—was using his own imagination to do it.