The bamboo chair creaked softly beneath him, swaying with each shift of the wind.
Jaka sat with his legs stretched out, arms draped loosely over the armrests, his gaze fixed on the dull orange of the western sky.
From here, on the upper veranda of the forge-house, the world appeared tranquil—lazy smoke rising from distant chimneys, children chasing a tattered kite across the field, a rooster crowing as if declaring war on an unseen enemy.
But none of it mattered.
Not when he knew what was coming—Kalentang, his home, his family. In three months, it would burn.
The thought pressed down on his chest like an anvil. But he didn't flinch. He had seen it. Written it, even. A passing note in a forgotten journal. A placeholder event meant to deepen someone else's arc. An incidental tragedy designed to give weight to Dyah Netarja's rise.
Just a sketch.
But sketches have a way of taking root.
To everyone else, this world was simply real—a string of days and nights, of harvests and misfortunes. A slow, predictable cycle.
But Jaka knew better.
He had built the scaffolding. He had written the bones.
Only he understood the truth: this world was a logic engine. A living narrative laced with hidden parameters. A system that once obeyed his hand—but no longer.
It had begun to improvise.
And that terrified him.
He hadn't detailed Kalentang's fall. No culprits, no cause—just a shallow reason cloaked in narrative sleight. A false flag of banditry to disguise an assassination attempt.
Nothing concrete.
Just intent.
But the system had scavenged that intent like a hungry beast, feeding on it until it became prophecy.
And worse still—
Ra Kuti.
A name pulled from forgotten scraps of thought. Once, he'd been a warrior-poet. A sword-saint of Dharmaputra. A north star for honor in a world that desperately needed it.
Jaka had intended the Dharmaputra to be the moral compass of Majapahit. A counterbalance to the treacherous victories of Gajah Mada as he extended his empire across the archipelago.
But the dev team had shot the idea down. "Historically inaccurate," they'd said. "Ra Kuti died during the second monarch's rebellion."
That should've been the end of him.
But just days ago, a man had walked into Wijaya's forge—his father. Tall, sharp-eyed, moving like a ghost, speaking like a myth.
And in that moment, Jaka felt the world tremble beneath him.
Ra Kuti had no reason to exist—unless the system had given him one.
Was he the assassin? A wandering mentor? A glitch echoing from a past that never was?
Jaka didn't know.
And that uncertainty gnawed at him like acid, burning behind his ribs.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, the cool wind brushing his face, a touch too gentle, almost painful.
For all his fear… he still loved this place.
Even if it was artificial. Even if it was born of narrative design.
He could still feel it—the warmth of a forged sunrise, the weight of soil beneath his bare feet, the sharp sweetness of riverfruit.
And the people…
His eyes fluttered shut.
Father, Wijaya, with his broad shoulders and calloused hands, always humming a tuneless song as he stoked the fire. Not real, perhaps. An NPC. A construct. But the way he looked at Jaka after a long day—that felt real.
Mother, Sekar, who wrapped leftover rice cakes in banana leaves for the neighbor's children. Who ran her fingers through his hair when sleep wouldn't come. Who wielded the mighty bamboo broom with divine wrath when needed.
And—
Laksita.
Her face appeared like the last ember in a dying fire. A girl his age, with a smile too wide for her face and laughter that cracked the silence like lightning.
He had created her years ago. A background NPC. Just a child meant to enrich the world. He hadn't even remembered if she had lines.
But she had lingered.
Shared mango slices with him by the river.
Scolded him when he slipped into the mud.
Laughed—too loud—during conversations that had nothing important to say.
She felt too alive now to be dismissed as a mere script.
He'd forgotten her. Written too many names since. But she had stayed, like dust in the corners of memory
If Kalentang burned… they would too.
Jaka opened his eyes. He couldn't let that happen. Not again. Not this time.
He pulled up the system interface with a quiet mental command.
[SYSTEM INTERFACE: Divine Path of Infinite Mystery]
Profile:
Name: Jaka Adiwasesa
Level: 1
Age: 10
Caste: Waisya
Familiar: None
Title: None
Core Attributes:
Strength: C (75/100)
Agility: B (81/100)
Dexterity: B (57/100)
Intellect: A (51/100)
Endurance: C (58/100)
Charisma: H (3/100)
Weapon Proficiency:
Blunt: E (3/100)
Blade: E (78/100)
Polearm: E (12/100)
Throwing: E (9/100)
Bow: E (81/100)
Job Proficiency:
Spoon Warrior: C (7/100)
Philosopher: A (48/100)
Fisherman: G (55/100)
Martialist: I (69/100)
Cook: I (90/100)
He stared at the screen, jaw tightening.
Even if he had designed the system for slow, meaningful growth—even if every level was meant to be earned—he couldn't afford to wait.
Not now.
To stand a chance at saving Kalentang, he needed more than stats—he needed pressure, a fire hot enough to forge him into something new.
He needed Ra Kuti.
He whispered the name aloud, tasting it like flint on his tongue—maybe the system had resurrected him for chaos, but chaos could be tamed.
If the world was scavenging through the grave of his forgotten stories, pulling out half-formed ghosts and giving them flesh.
Then Jaka would meet them, speak with them, learn from them, and bargain with them if needed.
Train.
He would find Ra Kuti again.
Understand him. Learn his rhythm. And maybe—just maybe—convince him to become his mentor.
The thought pulsed in his veins like a drumbeat: this wasn't about control anymore; this was survival, adaptation, evolution—and one day, rewriting.
He stood from the bamboo chair, letting the wind catch his loose tunic, his young body small beneath the sky that was both created and unknown.
There was still time—three months—to rise from pawn to player, to turn fire into light, and for the first time in days, Jaka smiled, not because he felt safe, but because he had a purpose again, and a story worth fighting for.