Raka's footsteps came to a halt on the desolate stone courtyard. The sky had darkened, but the pale glow of the moon still cast faint shadows across the old buildings and the rows of wooden pillars lining the corridor. The night wind rustled the dry leaves scattered on the ground, amplifying the eerie silence.
But it wasn't the wind that made him wary.
From afar—he couldn't tell how far, but it was certainly not near—he felt it. A gaze. Sharp, piercing, like a blade pressing against the nape of his neck. He turned his head slowly.
And in that moment, his heart nearly dropped.
The old man who had stood at the far end of the corridor was now standing barely an arm's length away.
"He's fast… I didn't even hear his footsteps," Raka muttered inwardly, his body instinctively stepping back half a pace.
The man wore a simple robe in the shade of earthy brown. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, but his eyes were keen—like those of an old hawk that had witnessed a thousand battles. Beneath the calm of his expression lay a crushing aura, like a mountain at rest, yet hiding embers beneath its surface.
"Stop right there, boy," the old man said. His voice was deep but steady, like thunder rumbling behind thick clouds. "What you just did... is not something you can simply walk away from."
Raka swallowed hard. Inside him, there were still smoldering embers from the earlier confrontation. But now, what stood before him was no arrogant youth like Yuda—this was someone far beyond his reach.
He braced himself—not to attack, but to defend, if it came to that. Yet the old man simply turned his head and motioned with his chin toward Yuda's remaining companions.
"Take him to the infirmary," he ordered. "And don't even think about doing anything foolish."
The two youths didn't respond. They only gave a quick nod, then lifted Yuda's unconscious body, casting fearful glances at the old man. Their faces were pale, as if they stood before something more terrifying than any demon.
Raka watched them quietly. He saw the fear in their eyes—fear not directed at him, but at the figure standing in front of him.
The old man turned.
"Follow me."
Without saying more, he walked slowly toward a dilapidated structure at the northern edge of the courtyard. Raka followed at a distance, still cautious, but his curiosity had begun to outweigh his fear.
The building looked like an abandoned barrack, faded in color, its wooden beams worn by time, its roof blanketed with dried leaves. But the moment Raka stepped inside, the atmosphere changed completely.
Though modest, the interior was clean and orderly. Wooden shelves were lined with ancient books and palm-leaf manuscripts. In one corner, a low table and a woven mat sat humbly. A faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of wood and damp earth.
The man sat cross-legged on the mat and looked at Raka with a deep, assessing gaze.
"My name is Resi Gantarajaya. Head and sole caretaker of the Brahmaputra Martial Monastery."
Raka flinched. That name wasn't unfamiliar. He had once come across it in an old, dusty book in the town library—the name of a legendary sage said to have once wielded the highest incantation in the Wira Brahmana Corps. A warrior of the past, who vanished from the world after a great tragedy.
"Resi... Gantarajaya?" he whispered.
"What does this all mean?" he asked, half-confused, half-wary.
Resi Gantarajaya gazed at him for a moment before speaking. "I know you were defending yourself. But that's not what caught my interest. You fought fast. Tactical. You used the narrow space to your advantage, targeting weak points in your opponent's body. And even more—you didn't use any incantations."
He leaned slightly back, as if weighing something deeper.
"That's not normal for a beginner."
Raka said nothing. He didn't know whether to feel proud or suspicious. But deep inside, he knew he had just opened something—a path that might only come once in a lifetime.
He bowed his head briefly, controlling his breath, then lifted his face to meet the sage's eyes.
"Resi Gantarajaya… please, teach me."
The old sage raised an eyebrow, but did not respond immediately.
"Why?" he asked, calm, but testing.
"I want to enter the Dwiwana Academy," Raka replied firmly. "I know I'm no one in this world. But I believe… if I want to survive, I have to learn from the best."
He clenched his fists. His eyes hardened, full of resolve.
"I want to understand… and for that, I must become stronger than anyone who has ever tried to bring me down."
A wise student will always seek a teacher, for he knows there is no faster path to greatness than to be guided by one who has walked further.
The words echoed in his mind, lines from the old books of philosophy he once read in his former world.
Resi Gantarajaya stared longer than before. His gaze was sharp, but deep—like an ancient lake that held the secrets of ages past. He gave a small nod, as if affirming something only he understood.
"Your words are too mature for someone your age. But I sense they're not empty."
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly.
"I cannot teach you all the ancestral knowledge of the Brahmaputra just because you show potential. But… you say you want to enter the Dwiwana Academy?"
Raka nodded at once. "Yes, Resi. I want to grow... I want to understand this world. And I must get in—for the sake of my future."
A faint smile tugged at the old sage's lips. "Then let us see... whether you are worthy to be my disciple."
He tapped the wooden floor before him. At that moment, the air in the room shifted. It was as if a wave of heat began to stir.
Raka felt something tingle in his palm. When he opened his hand, he was stunned.
A tiny vortex, like a faint swirl of flame, shimmered on his skin.
He stared at it, brows furrowed.
"Hmm…" the sage nodded slowly. "There's the problem."
"What do you mean?" Raka asked, confused.
The sage took a long breath, his voice heavy. "You lack éra. There isn't enough base energy in your body to channel advanced martial techniques. You couldn't even finish the mantra for Tapak Geni properly."
The words struck like a hammer against Raka's hope. But this time, he didn't falter.
He only bowed his head briefly and whispered to himself: "If I can't rely on strength… then I'll sharpen everything else. My mind. My strategy. My understanding of how this world works."
Raka's eyes reignited with unwavering determination.
Resi Gantarajaya watched him in silence. Then, in a soft voice, he said, "Very well. Return tomorrow—at the break of dawn."
Raka bowed respectfully, then turned to leave. As he stepped out of the barracks, the night wind greeted him with a gentle chill. But he no longer felt fear. Not anymore.
His steps were steady, his back straight, though his mind was heavy with thought. He knew—the road ahead wouldn't be easy. But he had chosen it.
At the doorway, Resi Gantarajaya stood in silence, arms crossed. He watched the young man's back fade into the shadows, then turned his gaze to the darkened sky.
The wind blew, carrying the scent of earth and ancient wood. All was quiet—save for a whisper that escaped the old sage's lips.
"Rangga Wirabumi… your son has grown."
A faint smile curved on his face—not just one of pride, but a smile that held a new hope, in a world that had begun to lose its light.