The rhythm of students' footsteps echoed cheerfully through the long corridors of the school. Outside, a gentle drizzle fell steadily, painting the asphalt courtyard with a silvery sheen. Some stood beneath the roof, seeking shelter, while others lingered in the open, welcoming the chill that drifted in the air. It was recess time. Joy seemed to bloom everywhere—in the hallways, in the courtyard—but for one person, it made no difference.
Ikrar, a sixteen-year-old boy, sat alone at a corner of the school canteen, his back slightly hunched as he delved deep into the thick book before him—The History of Ranah. His gaze remained locked on the pages, each word drawing him inward, as if transporting him to an era long gone, where The Founding Fathers of Nusantarana had once clashed in a battle of unimaginable scale.
Though laughter rang around him, and voices collided in careless conversation, none of it stirred him. The clatter of food trays, the smell of warm meals—all faded into a distant hum. His lips moved slightly as he read, each sentence pulling him further from the present. Despite his calm appearance, his eyes carried a silent sharpness, a yearning curiosity that refused to rest.
At that moment, Ikrar was not just a boy in a school canteen—he was a traveler, drifting across pages steeped in history, retracing the echoes of old wars, forgotten truths, and the origins of power.
Each line he read was a gate.
Each word, a whisper from the past.
He turned a page with a quiet reverence, as if disturbing sacred ground. Behind the clarity of his calm demeanor, a storm of questions stirred—questions about destiny, about the cost of peace, and the weight of legacy. His eyes, still and sharp, betrayed a soul that had wandered far beyond his years.
"Awesome! Totally awesome!" Ikrar exclaimed, his voice brimming with admiration. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he read the tale in the book. He took a deep breath, as though reluctant to miss any detail of the grand scene unfolding before him. Carefully, he reached for his bookmark and underlined the moment that had captured his attention the most.
"And in the midst of the uncontrollable surge of ranah energy, those two unleashed their final, decisive blows. The once united land of Sundaland was torn apart." Ikrar's hand trembled as he marked the passage, as if he could feel the intensity conveyed within the words.
"Imagine, their battle was so powerful it could shatter an entire continent," he whispered to himself, envisioning the great islands being separated as a result of their duel. His eyes swiftly moved across the text, following the narrative that described the moments when Sundaland slowly broke into several vast islands.
"A power so great... If only I could have witnessed it myself." In his mind, he wasn't just reading a history; he was living it, witnessing the proof that the battle was real. A shiver ran down his spine as he imagined a force strong enough to reshape the world's map.
Amidst the bustling noise of the school cafeteria, which never seemed to truly quiet down, Ikrar remained lost in his own world. His fingers gently flipped from page to page, while his eyes remained glued to the words—more alive to him than the chaos around him. The book was old, nearly falling apart, but there was no treasure greater than these pages recounting the past of the Nusantarana.
Yet calm was never meant to linger, merely a hush before the world remembered to breathe.
Eyes began to settle on him—probing, not in wonder, but with the kind of cold scrutiny reserved for anomalies. He could feel it: that silent accusation that he didn't belong. And then, predictably, the silence cracked.
"Oi, Bookworm!" a girl's voice rang out, coated in amusement far too sharp to be friendly. "What are you even doing?"
Ikrar startled, like a deer catching the scent of a trap. His mouth opened, words fumbling their way out. "Ah, n-not much, Ri. Just... reading about the old days. Heh."
He tried to smile—small, nervous, rehearsed. But before the moment could recover, a second voice slipped in—lower, heavier, tinged with the weight of something unspoken.
"You smiling at my girl?"
Toni.
He rose without haste, yet there was a gravity to his movements that pulled the room's attention. No raised voice, no flaring temper. Just the steady, quiet kind of anger that needed no performance. In one fluid motion, the book vanished from Ikrar's hands.
"Ton, c-can I have that back?" Ikrar's voice barely held. He stood, reaching up as if the world might suddenly shrink to meet him—but it didn't. It never did.
Around them, the cafeteria began to listen.
Earlier, the air was filled with scattered laughter and casual chatter. But now, everything fell silent—like a stage with its lights dimmed, leaving only two actors behind in the growing hush.
Toni stood tall, his shoulders lifted high, as if the book in his grasp were a trophy from a game that had never even begun.
"No need to waste your energy jumping around like that," he scoffed. "You really think it's cool, reading stuff like this?"
Ikrar stopped reaching. His breath grew shallow, and the faint smile on his lips faded into a silence that weighed heavy.
To Toni, that book might be nothing more than brittle, aging pages.
But to Ikrar, it was a doorway. A bridge to a world he could never quite step into.
The only key he had to a universe that always shut him out.
A place where the wielders of Ranah walked proudly, spoke boldly, and fought for honor.
A world where someone like him... was never truly welcome.
"Nusalain like you are just wasting everyone's time," Toni added, his tone now sharpened like a blade drawn from memory.
"People like me—and Rinda—are the ones meant to read the history of Nusantarana."
Nusalain.
The word cracked through Ikrar's thoughts like a whip.
It was the name given to those born without the ability to wield Ranah.
No power. No place.
Because in this world, being a Nusalain meant living in the shadows—always behind, always unwanted.
And even though Ikrar had long known who he was, what he lacked, every time that word was hurled at him...
It still felt foreign.
It still hurt.
Like a wound that never closed, being cut open once more.
"I asked you something," Toni spoke again, each word thrown like stone skipping across a still pond. "What use is there for someone like you to know of such a grand battle?"
He lifted the book higher, its pages fluttering in the air—less a story now, more a flag of ridicule waving before a crowd that never asked for a show.
Silence clung to the cafeteria like mist on a forgotten morning. No one stepped forward. No voice rose in protest. It wasn't fear that held them back, but indifference—a theater they'd seen before, a script they no longer cared to rewrite.
"You want proof?" Toni's voice dropped to a hush, cruel in its calm. "Fine. Take it back. Try. Ask for help if you want."
Ikrar's eyes rose slowly, brushing against the faces around him—some familiar, all distant. He saw no sympathy, only the dull stare of apathy, the passive delight of an audience watching a slow collapse. They would not help.
And Ikrar knew it.
"Do I even belong here…?" he whispered, the words barely escaping, as if they too questioned their right to exist.
He remembered that first day—feet crossing the threshold with hope tucked beneath his arm like a precious tome. He believed then that curiosity, that hunger for meaning, could grant him passage into this world of roaring voices and raised fists. But time, unkind as ever, had chipped away at that belief.
Because willpower was not enough.
And even if he stood among them, even if he reached their height… they would never look him in the eye.
Toni chuckled quietly, waving the book like a plaything, as if the stories within were nothing but ancient fairy tales—unworthy of being defended by someone like Ikrar. Someone without a ranah.
And in his silence, Ikrar began to realize… perhaps what had kept him going all this time wasn't worthiness, but the simple fact that he hadn't fully given up yet. That somewhere deep within, a part of him still believed knowledge could be strength.
But now, that belief began to crack. Slowly. Quietly. Like an old mirror that could no longer reflect hope.
"He's right. What's the point of all this, if I'll never be able to change anything? In the end… I'm just someone without a ranah."
The thought echoed within him. Earlier, a spark of excitement had burned in his chest—but now, it was pain and disappointment that crept in, like water seeping in unseen cracks, drowning every flicker of hope that once dared to rise.
A bitter truth struck him: no matter how hard he tried, he would still be a Nusalain.
Toni remained there, a smug smile tugging at his lips, pleased by the sight of Ikrar's spirit slowly crumbling.
But just as the cruelty seemed to reach its peak, a voice rang out, sharp and sudden, cutting through the heavy air like lightning.
"Hey, Ton! Give Ikrar his book back—now!"
All eyes, including Toni's, were now locked on the figure approaching.
A boy with a sturdy frame and slightly wavy black hair walked forward—unhurried, yet with an air of unshakable command. His body was broad and tall, standing a head above most. His tan skin, darkened by the sun, was the mark of someone more familiar with the open world than the safety of walls.
Guruh.
There was a weight in his presence, as if the very air shifted with each of his steps. It wasn't just confidence—it was certainty. The kind that made silence feel earned.
The wind stirred stronger around him, and in his right hand, a flicker of blue lit up, followed by the sharp crackle of electricity.
Toni turned, his face tightening, though his voice still tried to sound firm.
"What? You think this has anything to do with you?"
"Doesn't it?" Guruh stopped, now standing beside him. "You should give the book back to Ikrar. Otherwise…"
He left the sentence hanging, but the sparks said the rest—dancing and pulsing in the air like restrained thunder.
"I don't want to use this," Guruh added, each word deliberate, heavy. "But keep this up, and you'll learn just how small the world you think you own really is."
Toni froze. His grip on the book loosened, uncertain. The smug look that had clung to his face for so long began to fade—washed away not by force, but by presence.
It wasn't the threat in Guruh's voice, nor the crackling energy in his hand that made Toni hesitate.
It was the name.
Windah.
The name slipped into Toni's mind, unspoken yet thunderous. It didn't need to be shouted. That name belonged to a hero—a living legend. One of the Seven Celestial Guardians.
And Guruh wasn't just Windah's younger brother. He was a living warning: a quiet reminder that some lines, once crossed, unleash a storm no arrogance could survive.
With a sharp breath through his nose, Toni shoved the book back into Ikrar's chest, rough enough to push him a step backward.
"Tch. Lucky break, Bookworm," he muttered with disdain, stepping away at last.
Ikrar remained still, his body trembling—not out of fear, but from a storm of anger, frustration, and sorrow. Toni's words echoed in his mind, bouncing off every fragile wall he had built to survive.
Seeing his friend frozen in place, Guruh exhaled softly. The electric energy dimmed, dispersing as he stepped forward. His face softened, and with an ease that cut through the tension, he held out a hand toward Ikrar.
"Forget it, Krar. Let's grab some cilok. My treat," he offered, his smile gentle—like none of it had just happened.
Ikrar looked at his hand, and after a pause, gave a small, tired smile in return.
"Yeah… alright," he replied, reaching out with hesitation—but feeling just a little more whole.