Several months before the incident at Goa Candramaya…
The sky over Jakarta hung low that afternoon, gray like a sorrow that refused to fade. The clouds didn't just cover the heavens—they blanketed the hearts of everyone walking beneath them. Skyscrapers stood stiff and cold, like colossal tombstones pressing down on millions of souls—too high to reach, too cold to comfort.
At the top floor of one of those buildings, behind a wide and gleaming glass wall, stood a young man named Raditya Mahesra. His posture was firm, his gaze sharp, but a faint tremble danced at his fingertips as he stared at a sheet of white paper marked with a bold red stamp in the corner.
"Not accepted."
Those two words echoed louder in his mind than the sounds of traffic outside—more painful than any physical wound. It was as if the world had just nailed the label "failure" to his forehead.
In front of him sat a man in full military uniform. His face was expressionless, his voice heavy. A man too used to crushing others' dreams, turning it into mere routine.
"Your academic scores are flawless. But, Raditya…"
Silence. The words cut like a blade—not to kill, but to humiliate.
"You didn't meet the field's physical standards. And…—"
Raditya stared straight at him, his eyes sharp, as if trying to rip the truth from the man's lips.
"And what?" His voice was flat, calm—like the wind before a storm.
The interviewer took a deep breath, then said something never written in any official selection handbook:
"You're not a general's son. Not the grandchild of a government official. No one can guarantee your life on the real battlefield."
The air in the room froze. Even time itself seemed ashamed to hear such a naked truth.
"This isn't about capability, son. It's about… connections. Reality."
"If you're willing, there's a special track. But, well—you know how much it costs."
His smile was thin. Cynical. As if the world didn't belong to those who struggled, but to those who could pay.
"This world is cruel, kid. Not everything can be bought with idealism."
Raditya clenched his fists. Silent. But his eyes sparked—lightning without thunder. Deep within, the foundations of his beliefs began to crumble. Since he was a child, he had believed that hard work would pay off. But today, he realized: the world was not an arena of justice, but a stage of theater that only valued lineage and legacy.
"Thank you for your time, Sir," he said at last.
He stood up, bowed slightly, and folded the rejection letter slowly. There was elegance in the sadness he held back. No tears. Only a wound swallowed in silence.
"But I won't sell my dignity."
And with that, he walked out—leaving the room, the building, and the dream he had nurtured since his teenage years. The world didn't expel him. It rejected him with a fake smile and twisted norms.
Outside, the rain began to fall. Jakarta, once hot, now turned cold. Each drop added weight to his steps. He walked without destination, letting his feet carry him away from reality.
Every passing pedestrian looked like a shadow. The sound of vehicles became empty echoes. The streets became a stage for emptiness.
"Why me?" he thought.
Memories surfaced like old wounds tearing open again—his late father and mother, their corpses cold and silent. Friends who once called themselves loyal had vanished like smoke. Life had never given him luxury, but today, it had stolen the one thing he was proud of: his purpose.
At a narrow street corner near an empty bus stop, a faint voice called out:
"Son… looking for something more precious than life?"
Raditya stopped. An old man sat under a torn canopy, surrounded by dusty old books almost forgotten by time. Amidst the cluttered stacks, one book stood out. Its cover was pitch black, etched with strange glowing letters—they seemed to pulse… alive.
"This…" said the old man, his voice like a whisper from a tunnel of time, "…is no ordinary book. This… is a choice."
"How much?" Raditya asked without thinking.
"For you… no need to pay. This book chooses its own master."
Raditya hesitated. But his right hand moved on its own, reaching for the cover. It felt as if the book breathed. As if it had been waiting.
Later that night, in his rented room…
The room was small, almost cramped, but it felt like its own world. No paintings on the wall—only shelves filled with books: histories of world wars, Eastern and Western philosophy, military strategy manuals, ancient texts, and classic novels faded by time.
There were hand-drawn maps on the wall. Arabic calligraphy mixed with Javanese script. Tiny annotations in every book corner, proof of his burning passion for learning.
A dim lamp glowed. The scent of old paper filled the air. Rain tapped gently on the window, as if wanting to read with him.
Raditya sat on his thin mattress, his body limp, his face hollow.
"I failed." "I'm nobody." "My parents are gone. My friends left. And the world… laughs at me."
He closed his eyes. His left hand gripped the bed, trying to suppress the storm within.
"If I could live in another world… maybe I could breathe."
His eyes fell to the book on his table. Still closed, yet it seemed to gaze back at him—inviting him.
He opened the first page. Ancient Javanese and Sanskrit letters flowed into sentences—moving on their own, alive.
"Sapa kang maca Serat iki, amung siji dalan kang bakal kapilih. Luluhna jiwa, satukan rasa. Ngèlmu kawruh, nuwuhake jagat."
Raditya held his breath.
"What does that mean…"
His right hand touched the text. Cold. Yet alluring.
Then he read the words.
"Ngèlmu iku kalakone kanthi laku…"
ZRRRAAAKKK!!
Suddenly, wild wind burst into the room. The book exploded in a golden light that didn't belong to this world. Éra—the pure energy of the Maheswara universe—erupted uncontrollably.
Raditya's body was lifted. His eyes rolled back. The world around him shattered. He didn't scream out of fear—but because his body and soul were being torn from within.
"AAAGGHH!!"
Darkness.
Then—pain.
Not physical pain. But memories forced into him. Image after image: blood, fire, screams, death. A crying child. A young man humiliated. A family slaughtered.
Raka Wirabumi.
That name branded itself into his mind. But it wasn't just someone else—it was him too. Two souls now fused: one from a world that rejected, one from a world that burned.
Both hearts carried wounds. Both lives were stolen.
Then, from the darkness, an ancient voice echoed:
"Welcome to Maheswara… Raditya Mahesra."
And from the ruins of himself, a new world began.