The days following Dyah Netarja's departure to the village were marked by an intense and unforgiving training regimen that Jaka had no choice but to endure.
Ra Kuti wasted no time—his expectations were high, and he was not one to allow weakness to slip through.
From the very moment Dyah Netarja left, the boy was thrust into a brutal schedule that would stretch his body and mind beyond what he thought possible.
For an entire week, Jaka's days were consumed by sweat, pain, and relentless instruction. Ra Kuti's methods were harsh, but every moment spent under his tutelage was designed to forge Jaka into a warrior. It began before the sun even touched the horizon, and it did not end until the sunset.
Each morning, while the village still slumbered under the cool embrace of night, Jaka would be on his feet. His legs burned as he ran lap after lap around the training grounds, the dust beneath his feet swirling up with each stride. His body protested, every muscle aching and begging for rest, but there was no respite.
Ra Kuti stood watch, his eyes sharp and unwavering. "Faster, boy!" he would call out from the sidelines, his voice cutting through the cold air like a whip.
Jaka's heart thudded in his chest, and his breath came out in ragged gasps, but he did not stop. His body was exhausted, his legs like lead, but he pushed through, determined to honor his mentor's commands.
The sun had barely kissed the sky, and already, Jaka felt like he had been running for hours. The sharp pangs in his side were a constant reminder of how far he was from his goal.
As the days wore on, Jaka began to understand something deeper than mere physical endurance.
It was not just the pain that mattered; it was the willingness to face that pain, to continue despite the voice in his head telling him to quit.
He had to learn to ignore it, to keep pushing, to keep striving even when his body screamed for him to stop. It wasn't just about becoming stronger—it was about mastering the art of perseverance.
Once the sun began to rise and the morning chill faded, they moved on to the sword training.
Each day, Jaka would hold his wooden sword, feeling its weight in his hands, and practice his stance, strikes, and footwork. His body ached, but Ra Kuti would not allow him any mercy.
Every movement was scrutinized.
Each misstep was corrected with a stern word or a precise adjustment.
"Your strike is too wide," Ra Kuti would say, his voice a low growl. He would step in, his hands strong as he adjusted Jaka's form. "A warrior must move like water—swift, yet controlled. If you make a wide strike, you leave yourself open to attack."
Jaka's body ached as he adjusted, as he honed each movement. The wooden sword felt heavier with each day, and his grip tightened, his palms slick with sweat.
But despite the exhaustion, the fatigue, and the burning in his limbs, there was no stopping. Ra Kuti's words echoed in his mind, each correction a reminder that pain was the price of strength.
The afternoons were no less grueling. Ra Kuti would teach him not just the mechanics of swordplay, but the deeper philosophy behind every move.
"Every warrior must understand balance. The sword is an extension of yourself—your will, your intent, your spirit," he would say, his voice low and deliberate.
"If your heart wavers, your sword will falter. Every strike, every defense must be executed with the purity of intent."
Jaka found himself growing increasingly frustrated. His progress felt slow. Each night, his body was sore beyond recognition, and his mind teetered on the edge of exhaustion.
There were times when he could barely hold his sword up, his hands trembling with fatigue. But Ra Kuti's relentless pace never slackened.
"Pain is the price of strength, boy," Ra Kuti would remind him, his voice firm but not unkind. "If you seek to be strong, you must learn to embrace it. Only then will you begin to understand the path of the warrior."
In the evenings, Jaka would collapse into the makeshift bed Ra Kuti had set up for him, the weight of the day's training still pressing on his muscles, then he go home before sun finally set.
The exhaustion was unbearable, but there was something deeper, something driving him to keep going. There was a fire within him, a fierce determination that burned hotter with each passing day.
By the end of the week, Jaka had grown stronger.
His movements had become more fluid, sharper, though still lacking the perfect finesse that time would bring. His body was no longer the same; the rawness had been tempered, and he could feel the power within him beginning to take shape.
But even with the progress, he knew that he was still far from where he needed to be.
And through it all, Dyah Netarja was absent. She had left for the village just before the training began, and by the time the training ended, she was still not back.
Dyah Netarja couldn't help but feel a tinge of curiosity. She had heard little of the progress, as Ra Kuti had kept to himself about the boy's development. She had, of course, been focused on the village's economy, but she couldn't ignore the shift in the air. Something had changed.
One night, after just returning to the Royalty Camp, Dyah Netarja wandered toward the training grounds. The sky was a deep indigo, and a faint breeze rustled through the trees.
She found Ra Kuti standing still, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His posture, usually rigid and commanding, was relaxed—as if tending to an invisible tree, waiting for it to bear the richest and greatest fruits of his labor.
He looked up at her approach, acknowledging her with a brief nod.
"Ra Kuti," she began, her voice edged with curiosity. "I've just returned. How has he been? I see the boy is no longer here."
Ra Kuti turned to face her fully. The sharp, calculating gleam in his eyes remained, but something had softened—a glimmer of approval, faint but unmistakable.
"He has trained well," he said simply. "His body has grown stronger. His movements, though still raw, are sharper than before."
Dyah Netarja's gaze drifted to the quiet grounds, the dust settled, the silence thick with memory. "So, he has improved," she mused, hiding the intrigue in her voice. "You've pushed him hard, I trust?"
Ra Kuti gave a small, thoughtful nod. "I did. But it was not just his body that was tested. He began to understand something more vital—the will to endure, to go beyond what he believed he could survive."
Dyah's eyes lingered on the earth where footprints had once been. There was a shift in the air, something subtle, like the echo of a transformation. "You've had your sights on him for a while," she said, her voice quieter now. "But tell me, what do you truly see in this boy?"
Ra Kuti turned his gaze back to the horizon. "There is something within him. Something fierce and untamed. Something... ancient. Higher. Divine. I cannot name it, but I see it in his eyes. He has the potential to be more than just a warrior—he may become someone who walks beyond the boundaries of this world."
His words settled into the space between them, weighty and strange. Dyah Netarja blinked, something stirring in her memory. A flicker of a boy standing in a river, eyes clear, spirit wild, spearfishing with such grace she couldn't explain.
Her breath caught slightly.
"Could it be...?"
Her expression remained calm, but a spark of recognition lit behind her gaze. "And yet, you haven't told me his name."
Ra Kuti's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "The boy's name is not important... not yet. He must earn it. When he has proven himself fully, then perhaps I will tell you. For now, he is simply... the boy."
She stood in silence for a moment longer, listening to the quiet rustle of leaves. Something inside her whispered that Ra Kuti's words were not just about training.
"Will he continue to grow?" she asked finally, her voice softer. "Can he endure what lies ahead?"
Ra Kuti's answer was steady. "Time will tell. But he has taken the first step. That is more than most."
Dyah Netarja nodded slowly. She turned her back to the training grounds, but her thoughts lingered where Jaka once stood. She could still feel that presence—the fire, the promise, the weight of something waiting to awaken.
"Jaka... is that truly you?" She didn't speak the name aloud. Not yet.
But her heart knew.