The sky above Indrakarta that morning glowed golden—not merely from the sunlight, but as if the very realm of Maheswara was humming with life. The morning rays danced gently across the spires of ancient temples, slipping between thatched rooftops and terracotta tiles of the city's bustling markets, brushing the faces of merchants and gamelan players who stirred the square to life. Dew still clung to the tips of wild grass, reflecting glimmers like fragments of Éra—pure energy visible only to the attuned.
Raka stood before a small library nestled in a corner of Kampung Pelataran, a humble place where orphaned children and low-caste students often came to read. His tattered cloak fluttered in the morning breeze. His fingers brushed the surface of an ancient andesite stele that guarded the building's entrance, tracing the contours of the strange script carved into the stone—curved and coiling letters, like the engravings on old mandalas or statues found in mountaintop sanctuaries.
At first, the letters made no sense.
But gradually, something shifted in his mind—as if a veil were lifting from the surface of a deep lake.
"Old Javanese...? But… how am I starting to understand this…?"
Letter by letter, the meaning came into focus—a verse about wisdom, about knowledge that liberates. It was as though this world was not only inviting his mind to adapt but urging it. A cascade of memories surged forth: a mother's gentle lullaby, a sister's laughter, the scent of incense wafting through the family yard… Images and voices not just of Raka's past, but of Raditya's—his other self from the distant world—blending together into a singular awareness, harmonizing with the laws of Maheswara's reality.
In the days that followed, he explored.
He devoured every palm-leaf manuscript within the library, sketched every symbol etched on temple walls, examined the insignias worn by palace guards, and studied the colors and shapes of gemstones used as talismans. This world could not be understood through sight alone; it had to be felt, interpreted, unraveled. Maheswara whispered secrets through the cracks in ancient walls, in the rhythms of rebana drums, in the shifting clouds above the towering Mount Ardhakesuma that loomed to the city's north.
Though Indrakarta was but a modest city within a great kingdom, it throbbed with life—brimming with color, sound, and scent. The markets sold spices he had never known: petals that stirred dreams, powdered roots to open the third eye, meat from jungle spirits said to grant strength. Traders with small horns on their brows spoke in blended tongues. Children ran by, tails swishing behind them, their laughter echoing down the alleys. A masked market spirit danced among glass bottles of dreams for sale.
Marvelous. And terrifying.
Yet amid the strangeness, Raditya's logic—the mind of a modern man from the Jagat Asal—began to realign. Physics, space-time theory, even quantum mechanics lectures he once read or watched online stirred from dormancy.
"Time here… it's not constant. Could this be the effect of dimensional flux?"
"Éra behaves like… raw potential energy, yet it responds to intent."
"Are these mantras… a form of quantum-entangled reality manipulation?"
"This world's structure… perhaps it's a parallel stream in a multiverse framework…"
What was once myth began to feel like undiscovered science. He started to build bridges between Maheswara's miracles and modern theory—between spellcraft and wave mechanics, between spirits and bound energy.
He watched street performances of sorcery: a windshaper twirling through dust devils, a warrior flashing like living lightning through bursts of Éra. Artifacts shimmered behind glass cases in the palace, protected by wards against theft. In the training fields, Kadeyan students clashed with booming chants and waves of scorching air that made the ground tremble.
But beneath the marvels, darkness stirred.
He saw Éra miners beaten by overseers for failing to pull their carts. Sudra beggars driven away from wells for daring to drink. Ardhakala children—scorned hybrids—pelted with stones by laughing young nobles. Slums hidden behind high walls, as though unfit for the eyes of the world. This realm was a masterpiece painted by divine hands, but its canvas bled with cracks.
"This world… beautiful, majestic, as if painted by gods—yet behind its colors lies blood."
And yet, instead of despair, that truth lit a fire within him. He wanted to know more. About the castes. The ajian. The ancient histories, the artifacts, and the beings unknown to his former world. If he was to survive—no, if he was to win—he had to become more than strong. He had to be clever. Ruthless, if needed. He had to know this world's laws down to their very roots.
As twilight descended and the sky burned crimson-orange, Raka walked a narrow corridor behind an old training barrack. Sunset glinted off cobblestones, casting long, warped shadows. At the end of the passage, figures emerged from the dark—faces he recognized. Faces from a past that refused to die.
A cruel laugh echoed. The clang of metal boots rang against the stone walls.
"Still alive, Wirabumi?"
The voice was cold, cutting. Sharp eyes and a mocking smile stabbed through his memory.
"What? Was my Tapak Geni yesterday still too gentle for you?"
Raka said nothing. His left hand trembled—not from fear, but restrained fury. A fury now fused with resolve. He would not back down. He was no longer the old Raka. Nor merely the powerless Raditya.
He was both.
And this world had not yet seen what they could become—together.