"You... failed to protect them. You... traitor..."
The whisper slithered through the thick fog, slicing like a cold blade grazing the nape. The voice was familiar, yet unrecognizable—like a ghost from a past he wished to forget.
"You are unworthy of the name Wirabumi..."
A heart-wrenching scream echoed. Blood pooled on the ground. Cries pierced the sky. Fire devoured the wooden walls and thatched roofs. A small figure lay still amid the flames. A woman ran, her face pale, stricken with terror.
"RAKA!"
A man in ceremonial armor stood at death's threshold, blood spilling from a spear wound in his abdomen. He smiled faintly, as if surrendering to fate, before collapsing into the earth—meeting death in silence.
Raka's body jolted. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. That dark world vanished in an instant, replaced by a ceiling of woven palm leaves, dimly lit by the morning sun.
Cold sweat soaked his skin, seeping through the coarse fabric wrapped around his body. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, needing a few seconds to realize he was no longer in his room—or at least, not the room he knew.
He sat up on a straw mat that itched his back and turned his head. Simple wooden walls, a bamboo shelf with clay jars, and a small table holding a rolled lontar leaf inscribed with foreign symbols alongside a bone-handled knife. No lamps, only sunlight peeking timidly through the cracks in the wall.
Outside, roosters crowed—not joined by horns or traffic—but by the soft notes of traditional instruments: bamboo trumpets, gong chimes, and market bells.
"Where... am I?" he murmured hoarsely.
He stood. A woven cloth wrapped around him, crossed with a leather sash where the knife was tucked. No jacket, no jeans, no phone. Only a world that felt like it had leapt out of an ancient painting or a museum diorama.
With heavy steps, Raka opened the door.
And a new world unfolded.
Earthen-red roads stretched before him, buildings of andesite stone and carved wood lined the paths, and colorful flags fluttered in the breeze. The scent of spices and incense mingled with the fragrance of damp soil and fresh leaves.
People passed by, dressed in traditional garb he had only ever seen in epic historical films—headscarves, patterned cloth wraps, leather vests, and kris blades tucked at their waists. Merchants sold glowing herbs, children played with floating toys, and guards in deerskin armor carried softly glowing spears.
Raka spun around. His mouth parted in awe. His eyes scanned every corner of the street.
"This... isn't Jakarta..."
Then he pinched his arm. Hard. The pain was real.
"...but this isn't a dream either."
"Raka..."
The voice was soft but carried a firm resonance. A woman approached with steady steps. Her face was serene, her black hair partially tied up while the rest flowed freely. She wore a simple kebaya of woven cloth and a thin shawl draped over her shoulders. She looked to be in her late twenties, but her eyes... held the weight of a long and weary tale.
"You're finally awake, Kakang Raka..."
She stopped a few steps before him, her expression a mix of relief, hesitation, and sorrow.
"Who... are you?" Raka asked stiffly.
"My name is Rani Rengganis. I... was your caretaker since you were little. Don't you remember me?" she asked gently.
Rani stepped closer, her voice lowering.
"...It seems you haven't fully returned yet..."
Raka clutched his head. A sharp pain shot through like lightning. Fleeting memories flashed—blood, screams, his father's face, a child, fire.
"I... I don't understand... This world..."
Rani took a long breath. She guided Raka to sit at a small stone patio by a clear pond, where sunlight danced on the water's surface. In the distance, an old man sold scrolls of spells, young people practiced martial forms under a master's watch, and a woman channeled energy into a jar with her softly glowing hands.
"This place is called Indrakarta, a city under the Kingdom of Indrabhumi," Rani whispered. "This is... Jagat Maheswara."
"Jagat... Maheswara..." Raka echoed, as if trying to carve the name into his fragmented memory.
"Here, everything revolves around a force called Éra," Rani continued. "Éra is the breath of the universe. The source of life and death. By harnessing it, people can change the world—ignite fire, heal wounds, even summon lightning."
Raka narrowed his eyes. "Like... magic?"
Rani gave a faint smile.
"What is magic, really...?" she mused, before continuing,
"But it's more than that. Éra flows through three primary paths: Kanuragan, the path of physical strength and martial arts; Ajian, the path of spells and Éra manipulation; and Kadeyan, the spiritual path connecting humans with spirits and the astral realm. There's also Kwisenan—the pursuit of knowledge, science, and mystical wisdom beyond the veil of the mundane."
Raka watched the youths practicing nearby. Their breaths synchronized with their movements, like a dance. Across the yard, someone raised their palm and conjured a small flame, which vanished as they smiled in satisfaction.
Everything... felt real.
Not like a game. Not like a dream.
"But this world is also harsh, Kakang," Rani's voice softened. "There are beasts beyond understanding, cursed caves, living forests, and relics filled with ancient secrets. Many seek treasure. But some... seek redemption."
Raka turned.
His eyes met Rani's. Within them, he saw long-buried pain.
"Kakang... you were once a noble. Of the Wirabumi family. Known as protectors of the realm. But now... that name has been erased. Your family was accused of treason. They were all... slaughtered."
Raka's heart pounded. That word—"traitor"—he'd heard it before. In a dream. In whispers.
But also... deep within himself.
Rani looked down. "I don't believe it. You're not a traitor. But something was hidden. I believe... there was a betrayal far greater than what was seen."
Raka fell silent. He closed his eyes.
Raditya.
Raka.
Two souls, two worlds. Yet their wounds... the same. Loss. Disgrace. Hope torn away.
If this isn't a dream...
"If I die here... will I really die?" Raka whispered to himself.
The sky slowly shifted hues. Orange and gold flooded the horizon. In the distance, a towering mountain loomed, its peak cloaked in thin mist. A massive garuda bird soared overhead, its golden wings spread wide over the setting sun.
The twilight glow bathed Raka's face. He lowered his head, touching his chest. His heartbeat… still erratic. But he was alive.
Amid the confusion, only one thing was certain:
There was no turning back.