Six Months Later
July 15th, 2066
There was a television that always played the same broadcast on every news program on that channel.
"From the icy lands of Alaska to the edge of the mightiest land of China. The championship eagerly awaited by many. 32 Netdivers enter, 31 will fall, and only 1 will rise to glory. The International Netdivers Championship—life or death combat between nations. Today, Germany vs. Poland. 3 PM. Only on IBN TV."
Inside a train, that very commercial played on the onboard TV. But the person who had turned it on wasn't paying any attention to it. His eyes were fixed on the window, watching the scenery blur past with the train's motion.
The compartment he was in was empty except for him. That's why he had turned on the television in the first place. Partly out of curiosity for what might be on. But in the end, nothing caught his interest. He even considered turning it off.
His name was Asa—and he had been released from prison just five months ago.
Even though he was only entering puberty, Asa had already been through extreme experiences. Before he even started his second year of high school, he had already been involved in criminal activity, endured the brutality of the streets, and spent an entire year in that world before eventually being incarcerated for five months. Most adults hadn't lived through what he had. But it wasn't something to be proud of—only people with something wrong in their heads would go through with that.
He had been released surprisingly early. For comparison, the leader of their group had been sentenced to life in prison. The rest got at least five years. The crime was serious—it concerned national security.
They had misused psionic abilities and Netdiving powers to steal a Platform that could serve as the country's defense. The anomalies within a Platform held immense power and potential—some even useful to fight back against the Abstract.
But Asa was still underage. He was released on parole. The police still monitored him, and he had to report all of his activities every Wednesday.
"Still… here I am again."
Soon, the train entered a tunnel. A few moments of dimness passed, and when it emerged, he was greeted by the coastline and the silhouette of city buildings. He had arrived at his hometown—Torja—a coastal city on the southwest of Java Island.
Torja was a port city, bustling with activity. It served as a trade hub and docking point, and even had tourist destinations. Asa remembered there were at least ten tourist attractions. That was why so many people visited the city.
Despite frequent attacks from the sea by the Abstract, thanks to the police and Nethunters, people could still feel safe near the shore. The government had also installed multiple anomaly radars to detect trouble.
If an area was compromised, it would be immediately sealed off, and officers and Nethunters would neutralize the threat. Asa remembered, as a child, hearing that Torja had once won a national award for the highest number of successfully resolved attack cases.
"And yet, I still hate this place."
Torja, Asa's hometown, held no fond memories. In fact, most of his problems originated here—starting with his family, and how people at school thought he was weird. Eventually, he ran away from home. Trouble followed him. It was never a place of comfort. But like it or not, this was where he was being monitored.
Someone was sitting quietly in a car, parked beneath a billboard. He was typing a short message while munching on bread—he hadn't had lunch, and it was already 3 PM.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He should've still been in another city. But an urgent assignment had brought him back to town. The task? Pick up a kid and escort him home. He hadn't been told who the kid was.
But he'd heard the kid was a recently released juvenile ex-con. What shocked him even more was that the boy was traveling alone—coming by train from Bandung.
He was still a teenager, yet they felt confident enough to send him alone. Maybe they really knew him well. Maybe he was seen as mature enough to handle it.
Still, the man felt annoyed with "those people."
They always kept things hidden. Every action they took was laced with secrecy—like revealing anything would throw the public into chaos. That constant ambiguity irritated him.
Just as he was about to take another bite of his bread, there was a knock on the car window.
He glanced over—and saw a teenage boy staring in at him.
"Who the hell is that?"
The man didn't open the window right away. He waited to see what the kid would do. Maybe if he knocked three times, he'd ask what he wanted.
But the boy didn't knock again. Instead, he pulled out a notebook, wrote something in it, and held it up:
"It's me, Asa Arjuna."
The man looked at the note, then at the boy's face. He unlocked his phone and opened the gallery. They'd sent him a picture of the person he was supposed to pick up. He compared it.
A teenage boy with slightly sunken eyes, pale skin, messy short black hair—like he had just rolled out of bed. Nothing particularly striking about his features—just a kid who looked unhealthy. The man confirmed: it was him.
He rolled down the window. "Kid, what are you doing?"
He didn't tell him to get in yet. The man was suspicious. They had never made contact—so how did this boy know exactly where to find him? It was quite a distance from the station, too.
He studied the boy's face. No weird expression—just a gentle smile, like someone who had found an oasis in the middle of a desert.
"You're the one sent to pick me up, right?"
The question was asked as if the man's hesitation was completely unnecessary.
"You're Asa Arjuna?"
"Yeah. Asa Arjuna from Bandung. The one you're here for."
The man sighed. One big question kept echoing in his head: How did this kid know where to find him?
"Get in. Let's take you home," the man finally said.
Asa got in, and the car began driving along the coastal streets of Torja.
"How did you know I was here to pick you up?"
"We met once. In Bandung. Don't you remember?"
"Huh? In Bandung? When?"
"During that incident. The Chicken Workshop raid."
The man paused, trying to recall. The raid on the Chicken Workshop HQ wasn't minor. It had become a nationwide case because that group was deeply involved in cyber-terror operations in Indonesia.
Despite the ridiculous name, even some officers thought that Chicken Workshop was a company in the food business, they were high-level criminals supplying illegal Etherware and targeting state-owned Solid Platforms. They were top priority targets.
"I don't recall seeing you there. Were you a witness?"
"No. I was one of the people in the police car."
"Huh?"
"I was member of Chicken Workshop."
The man was stunned. This kid—who wasn't even legally an adult—had been a member of that organization?
"Y-You're serious?"
"Yeah. Don't tell me I have to show you my membership card? That'd be so dumb. What kind of criminal has a membership card? This isn't a school coucil."
Asa laughed. The man did not.
He knew the leader of Chicken Workshop was Joko. There had been five members. He had seen them all—except one. Maybe this boy beside him was the one he hadn't recognized.
"Still, I really don't remember seeing you."
"That's fair. I was inside the police car. I saw you from there."
"That doesn't count as meeting, kid."
The man had indeed been there during the raid. He had even chatted with some acquaintances involved. But he never saw the captured suspects—so it made sense he hadn't met Asa.
"But you still haven't answered my question. How did you know where your ride was? Were you guided? Told something? We don't even know each other."
"This is my hometown. After getting off the train, I wandered around a bit. Haven't been home in a while, you know?"
"So this is your city too?"
"Yup. And while I was out looking for my favorite snack shop, I just happened to see your car. So I figured—might as well say hi."
"You remembered my car? After six months?"
"Your car's called the Kairo BS. That's an expensive ride. And for a cop like you to own one—did you get it without dipping into corruption funds?"
"Watch your mouth. I inherited this car from my grandfather. I'm clean."
"In that case, my bad."