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On a quiet and dimly lit highway, illuminated only by streetlights spaced far apart, a convoy of luxury cars and armored vehicles moved slowly but steadily. The sound of tires brushing against the asphalt whispered through the night, blending with the silence that seemed to hold its breath. Their destination was clear—toward a middle-class residential area on the outskirts of Tirtanegara.
But they weren't alone.
In the shadows of the pitch-black night, a figure moved with agility. Their breath was steady, their steps nearly soundless, flowing with the night wind. This figure was a member of the Atmadewa noble family, sent to tail the movement of the Darmasena group.
"Looks like they're heading to a third-class family," he muttered softly, his voice nearly drowned in the breeze. His eyes narrowed, locked on the moving vehicles. "Just as I thought… they're going to threaten the lower families that side with us. Hmph… a foul scheme."
His hand slowly reached into his belt, pulling out a small, thorn-like object that seemed ordinary—except for its aura—reddish, like fire dancing on a needle's tip. It glowed faintly, yet its presence pierced the air around him, vibrating the very atmosphere.
With swift, practiced motion, he threw the thorn toward the convoy. It flew with deliberate direction—not to harm, but to send a warning.
And sure enough.
Several vehicles near the rear and middle of the convoy abruptly stopped, followed by the hiss of punctured tires. Guards quickly exited the cars. Clad in light tactical uniforms, some took immediate defensive stances while others scanned their surroundings with wary eyes.
The leader of the group—a tall, sturdy man with a piercing gaze—stepped forward. His brows furrowed, lips tightened.
"Hmph… looks like we've been spotted," he said, voice deep and alert. "Quick! Change the punctured tires!"
His subordinates moved swiftly but remained on high alert.
Meanwhile, the leader closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again—his pupils now transformed, indicating that he was scanning the area with spiritual awareness. The air stilled, as if time had stopped. But there was no sign of an enemy presence.
"Come out! Don't be a coward if you dare face us!" he shouted—not with a normal voice, but using spiritual resonance that traveled far beyond normal hearing.
At that moment, the air trembled.
The hidden figure released a sliver of their Jagat Jiwa aura—not fully, but enough to reveal their level of power. The aura was a subtle pressure, like an unseen hand pressing down on the chest, making one's skin crawl. In the distance, the wind stopped, and the world seemed frozen in a single breath.
The leader's face went pale. His eyes widened, cold sweat trickled down his temple.
"Damn… that's Jagat Jiwa realm!" he muttered in a choked voice. He turned quickly to his men. "We must return to the Darmasena family compound! Now!"
Without waiting for a second command, his followers turned back immediately, abandoning the still-broken vehicles. They retreated in silence and fear, realizing they were being watched by a force far greater than they had anticipated.
And so… the conflict between the two major factions began—not with open war, but through covert strikes, deception, and calculated moves.
The Jayakarta nobility cunningly tried to outmaneuver the lesser powers below them, forming hidden routes, infiltrating with influence, and shaking the foundations of families allied with their enemies. Meanwhile, the Tirta Negara nobles cut off all supplies and reinforcements from Jayakarta destined for the Tirtanegara region. Roads were guarded, ports locked, even airborne cargo was inspected by their shadow sentinels.
Such conflict could never end quickly.
There were ancient pacts still in effect—national laws agreed upon by noble families, martial sects, and even the government itself. They all knew that if this conflict erupted and destroyed a major city, the government would intervene directly, along with neutral nobles and powerful sects safeguarding national stability.
Though the powers of the government, noble families, and martial sects were relatively balanced, if these two factions were besieged by a larger coalition, they wouldn't last. They would have to submit—or be obliterated along with all their legacy.
That's why the strikes were kept in secret. A shadow war behind the curtains. Manipulation and sabotage. No declaration of war, but death and ruin marched in silence.
But this fragile state would last only until patience wore thin. And when that moment came—a great war would be inevitable. Anywhere. Anytime. Without warning. The flames of vengeance had already been lit in their hearts.
Especially in this era… the Earth's vitality was abundant, spiritual energy easily fused with human will. Desires turned into power, and hatred into a weapon of untold destruction.
---
Meanwhile… in the heart of the city now gripped by tension and conflict, among the whispers of schemes and the march of conspiracies, in a quiet, secluded meditation chamber… Baskara remained calm.
He sat in silence, cross-legged. The room was lit only by the faint glow of a jagat candle. Wisps of incense curled gently toward the ceiling, and the voices of ancestors whispered continuously, guiding his thoughts.
Before him, secret techniques, ancestral wisdom, and inherited arts slowly revealed themselves—like the universe unraveling its mysteries to a tranquil soul. The world might be in chaos… but the universe within him must remain in balance.