Dusk aged above the skies of Maheswara. The hue of blood-orange dripped slowly on the horizon, cleaving the sky like a wound that refused to heal. On the barren training ground, amidst the scent of soil evaporating with sweat, Raka sat. His frail body seemed ready to collapse, yet he still leaned on a will that refused to surrender.
His hands gripped the dry, hardened earth. His chest heaved, breath like a strangled gust of wind.
Amidst the endless rhythm of training — when his body had long given up but his mind hadn't — Raka fell once more to the ground. Dust clung to his sweat-drenched face. He gasped for air, eyes gazing into the blazing dusk sky like an open wound torn across the heavens.
In a hoarse voice, he whispered, "Status window… open."
Silence. Only the whisper of wind replied.
He let out a bitter laugh, almost like a madman.
"Status window, appear… please… interface, pop up… where's the notification?"
Nothing. There never was. No matter how hard he uttered the so-called magical game-like commands — nothing ever happened.
"Why? Shouldn't I get +5 STR after a thousand push-ups? Or at least a message saying, 'Quest Complete: Basic Training'?"
He stared at his trembling hands. His joints ached. His skin scraped. Fingernails dirty. There were no HP bars, no MP, no EXP meter. Only pain in his bones and the awareness that every drop of sweat was real — not a simulation of numbers.
"Where's the cheat code? Where's the tutorial system? Where's the mysterious sensei that shows up out of nowhere to guide me?"
He laughed again, bitterly.
"Maybe I'm in the wrong genre. This isn't an isekai power fantasy — this is an isekai reality check."
He bowed his head. Back in his original world, he had grown up on dreams fed by the stories he devoured: the nerdy kid hit by a truck, reincarnated as a demon king; the average young man who entered a dungeon and, within three months, defeated an ancient dragon using only farming skills.
They leveled up from killing their first goblin. Gained a harem from handing a flower to an NPC. Became legends simply for being "diligent and kind."
But Raka?
He had been in this world for weeks. The goblins here were no joke. They could tear open your gut, slurp your intestines while laughing. Harem? Even a smile from the kitchen maid took a month of labor and an unblemished reputation.
And the most painful truth?
The pain was real.
Not like in games or anime, where a character screams from a wound, only to rise the next day as if their body were made of binary data. In Maheswara, wounds took time. Bruises needed care. There were nights when his bones felt as though they burned from within, and all he could do was cry quietly in the dark training hut.
Even healing spells weren't instant fixes. They only assisted the body's natural recovery — they did not erase suffering.
Maheswara knew no shortcuts.
Days passed, and although Raka's body grew tougher from training, his mind remained haunted by failure and doubt. Yet beneath all that, a single, fundamental change had begun — unseen from the outside:
Maturity through suffering.
Raka began to understand that this world — unlike the virtual ones he knew — was a stage of reality, where strength came not only from numbers, but from choices and consequences.
He started noticing the little things. He learned that controlling his breath in a duel could extend his stamina. That the placement of one's feet determined balance during a strike. He began to grasp the patterns of éra flow within the body — not through books or interface systems — but through feeling. Through listening to his own body.
Yet amidst despair, something still smoldered. A spark. A tiny ember that refused to die, even when struck by the chill of night winds.
"If this world demands more… then I will become more than anyone ever has," he whispered. A voice barely audible, yet strong enough to shake his own soul.
And he rose. Again. And again. Like a leaf refusing to fall, though torn by storms.
Days passed like blades, wearing down flesh and spirit. Training was no longer routine, but purification. And Raka's body... was no longer the same. Though still thin, each muscle formed with natural tension. His tendons grew flexible, his veins empowered, and most importantly: his movements began to carry purpose.
But one thing still troubled him. Éra. The fundamental energy of Maheswara. Raka could feel it flowing — weak, uncertain, like water unaware of where to flow.
He tried meditating, tried the breathing techniques taught by the Resi.
But the fluctuations of éra in his body remained... almost unchanged. As if an invisible wall blocked the outpouring of his soul.
Until one noon, Resi Gantarajaya summoned him into the quiet wooden barracks.
"Your body has begun to change," said the Resi, his eyes piercing as if seeing through Raka's flesh and bone. "But your journey has yet to begin."
Raka was silent. He knew there would be a lesson today.
"Have you ever wondered why éra does not favor you?"
Raka nodded slowly. "Because I'm weak?"
The Resi chuckled. "Éra does not know strength or weakness. It knows harmony."
Raka frowned.
"Listen, Raka," the Resi continued. "There are three reasons one cannot channel éra fully. First, because their body is not yet mature. Second, because their mind is closed. And third…" The Resi stepped closer, his index finger pressing Raka's chest. "...because their soul is still imprisoned."
Raka froze.
"You carry wounds. Wounds you have yet to open, let alone tend to. And as long as they remain your prison bars, éra will only circle the edges of your soul."
Silence. But from within it, a crack of understanding opened.
That afternoon, the Resi spoke of the Akademi Dwiwana — the highest institution of learning in Maheswara.
"That academy is not merely a place of study. It is the scale of the era," said the Resi, pointing into the distance, toward the peak of Indrabumi city. "A place where future leaders are tested by knowledge, not bloodline."
Raka listened. Every word entered his mind like sacred beads strung one by one.
The entrance trial to Dwiwana consists of three branches:
• Kanuragan, to test strength, technique, and courage in battle.
• Kwisenan, to assess mastery of incantations, knowledge, and logic.
• Kadeyan, the most difficult test: a spiritual battle against oneself, misleading spirits, and illusions of darkness.
"That's not all," the Resi added. "You will be tested through three layers of consciousness: Raga, Rasa, and Rasa Maha. Many fail not because they are weak, but because they do not know themselves."
Raka lowered his head, reflecting.
"And you, Raka," the Resi looked deep, "carry a heavy burden. Your family name… is cursed by history."
"Caste can change," said the Resi. "But the people have long memories. They will see you as the shadow of a sin you never committed."
Raka clenched his jaw. Not from anger, but from the desire to fight the fate that mocked him.
"Then," he said, "I will forge a new name. Not from blood, but from resolve."
The Resi nodded. "Good. But remember. A name is not to be waved like a banner. A name is a legacy, and true legacy is shaped by endured suffering — not collected praise."
That night, as Raka trained alone on the courtyard, trying the newly-taught Langkah Cakra Dwiwara — a technique to control éra through the soles and breathing center — he felt something shift within his body. Not much, but enough to kindle a spark.
Éra began to respond. Not from strength. But from understanding.
And from afar, behind the shadowed thickets of the trees, a pair of eyes watched with burning envy.
Yuda.
"Why… why would Resi Gantarajaya choose to teach him?" he muttered, his voice laced with hatred. "I've come to him time and again… even offering dirhams, gold, and status…"
Yuda's fists clenched — not only out of anger, but from a wound within him that had yet to heal.
"If that's how it is… if the Resi would rather choose that forsaken child… then I'll show him who truly deserves it."
The night wind carried a dark whisper, while footsteps approached the gates of Dwiwana — one by one — paid with a heavy toll: betrayal, pain, and a battle against one's own self.
But Raka would not turn back.
Because he no longer asked why the world was unfair — he had begun to ask, what can I do, even if the world stays this way?
And thus began the first step of his reckoning.