Night had fallen completely, silencing every sound in the valley with its thick black blanket. The pale moon that occasionally peeked out from behind the clouds seemed reluctant to shed its light on the earth, as if unwilling to bear witness to what was about to happen. The air felt heavy and cold, carrying with it the smell of wet earth and a faint but palpable scent of fear.
Amidst the shadows of the deciduous trees on the border of the hamlet, nine figures moved almost silently. Their steps were as light as a breeze, their breathing regular and rhythmic. They were Arok and eight other chosen men from the slopes of Kawi. Black cloth covered half of their faces, leaving only a pair of eyes that shone sharply in the darkness. They were no longer ordinary humans; they had become ghosts of the night, invisible seekers of justice.
Arok was at the forefront. Every sense he had was working with incredible acuity. His eyes caught every movement of a leaf, his ears filtered every whistling of the wind, and his skin felt every change in temperature. He gestured with a barely perceptible hand gesture, and the eight shadows behind him immediately fanned out, taking up positions at strategic points surrounding Ki Demang Jatiwangi's house.
The house was the grandest in the entire hamlet, but tonight it felt like a fortress of sadness. In its spacious hall, a few torches burned dimly, revealing the figures of Tumapel soldiers standing guard. They appeared unguarded. Some leaned against wooden posts, dozing off, while others chatted softly, occasionally laughing arrogantly. They felt safe, protected by Tunggul Ametung's fame and their own reputation for cruelty. They never suspected that danger was lurking within the darkness they considered their friend.
Inside the house, the atmosphere felt warmer but no less oppressive. Ki Glondong Wisesa, the chief tribute collector, sat cross-legged on a large altar. His plump body was wrapped in expensive silk. His round, ruddy face glistened with sweat, either from the heat or from overindulging in the dishes served before him. Before him, Ki Demang Jatiwangi sat with his head bowed, his back trembling.
"So, this is all you can provide, Demang?" Ki Glondong's voice boomed lowly, breaking the silence. He pointed to a pile of sacks filled with unhusked rice and several small bags of coins lying in the corner of the room. "After so many full moons, this is all the harvest from the fertile land of Jatiwangi? Are your people eating back the rice they planted?"
Ki Demang lowered his head even further, cold sweat beading on his temples. "Forgive me, Ki Glondong. I swear I'm dead, but this is all I have left. Last year's drought was so long, and many rice paddies failed. The people have turned their sweat into blood…"
"Enough!" Ki Glondong interrupted roughly. He grabbed a piece of roasted chicken thigh and bit into it greedily. "I don't need your stories, Demang. You have only one duty: to ensure the Akuwu's barn in Tumapel is always full. If you can't do it, there are plenty of others willing to take your place. Perhaps after a few strokes of the rattan cane on your back, your memory of the hidden barns will return."
Ki Demang's face paled. The threat was no mere bluff. He knew full well how cruel the Tumapel soldiers could be when given orders.
Outside, Arok, peeking through a gap in the wooden wall, overheard the entire conversation. His fists tightened until his knuckles turned white. The anger he had suppressed earlier began to surge again, but he held it back with all his might. The time hadn't come yet. He waited for the perfect moment, the moment when the guards in the pavilion were truly asleep in the lull of night.
A split-second later, a signal escaped Arok's lips. A soft whistle, imitating the sound of a night bird. That was the signal.
The movement began simultaneously, as fast as lightning. Mahesa, the lightest of the two, shot out of the darkness like a panther. Without a sound, he landed behind the two soldiers who were chatting. Two swift blows with the sides of his palms struck the napes of their necks. Not a killing blow, but one that targeted the nerve endings. The two soldiers didn't even have time to scream. Their bodies immediately went limp and they collapsed to the floor without a sound.
On the other side, Tanca and two others moved to ambush the drowsy soldiers. With perfectly coordinated movements, they gagged the soldiers before immobilizing them with blows to several vital body parts. In less than ten breaths, all the guards in the pavilion were incapacitated, lying helpless like a pile of empty sacks.
Inside, Ki Glondong Wisesa, who had just taken a sip of his palm wine, felt a strange sensation. The laughter of his soldiers outside suddenly vanished. He frowned. "Demang, send one of those guard dogs in! I need a massage!" he ordered.
But before Ki Demang could move, the main door of the house was slowly pushed open. A black shadow stood in the doorway, imposing and menacing, against the darkness of the night.
Ki Glondong's eyes widened. His heart felt like it had stopped beating. "Who-who are you?!" he snapped, trying to hide the fear in his voice. He reached for the hilt of the large machete tucked into his waistband.
Arok stepped in quietly. Behind him, Mahesa and Tanca followed like two loyal shadows. The cloth covering their faces made their appearance even more terrifying.
"My name isn't important," Arok replied, his voice cold and echoing through the room. "Just think of me as a debt coming to collect."
Ki Glondong's anger instantly overcame his fear. Who on earth was this madman who dared challenge him in his territory? "Insolent! Soldiers, attack!" he shouted.
But there was no answer. Only a tense silence.
"Don't bother calling them," Tanca said hoarsely. "Your guard dogs are having a sweet dream."
Ki Glondong was now fully aware of the danger he faced. With an angry growl, he leaped from the altar, his stocky frame possessing surprising agility. He drew his machete, which glinted in the torchlight. "You devils! You're courting death!"
He lunged forward, swinging his machete in a powerful chopping motion. The wind howled, indicating the immense power he was exerting. But Arok was undeterred. He didn't even draw the sword tucked into his back. With a stance as firm as a banyan root, he tilted his body slightly. Ki Glondong's machete passed just a span from his chest.
At the same time, Arok unleashed a blow with an open palm. It was no ordinary blow, but the essence of his art, the Kawi Slope Wind Punch. The blow didn't touch, but its powerful energy struck Ki Glondong's wrist.
Pull!
There was the sound of bones shifting. Ki Glondong screamed in pain. The large machete in his hand slipped and clattered to the wooden floor. His hand felt instantly paralyzed.
He stared at Arok with wide eyes, in disbelief. His knowledge, which he had been so proud of, seemed meaningless before this mysterious young man.
Arok stepped forward. Every step he took seemed to put a heavy pressure on Ki Glondong's soul. "This treasure," said Arok, pointing to the pile of sacks and money bags, "does not belong to you. Nor does it belong to your master, Tunggul Ametung. This is the sweat and tears of the people of Jatiwangi."
Mahesa and several other people immediately moved quickly, lifting all the sacks and carrying them out.
Ki Glondong growled, trying to get up while clutching his paralyzed arm. "Don't even think about escaping! All the Tumapel soldiers will hunt you down to the wormhole!"
Arok smiled coldly behind his covering. He bent down, picked up Ki Glondong's machete, and with one swift, powerful movement, snapped it in two at his knee.
CRACK!
He threw the broken machete at Ki Glondong's feet. "Go back to your master. Bring this broken machete as evidence. Tell him, this is the first message from the ghosts of Gunung Kawi. Tell him, every time his dirty hand reaches out too far to seize the rights of the people, we will come to cut it off."
Arok then looked at Ki Demang, who was still trembling with fear in the corner of the room. "Redistribute all of this to those who deserve it. If you keep even a drop for yourself, we will come again. And then, we won't leave with just our possessions."
After saying those words, Arok turned and stepped out, disappearing into the darkness of the night as quickly as he had come. Tanca and Umang followed him silently.
Outside, in the silent village square, the piles of sacks of grain and bags of money lay abandoned. A few villagers, awakened by the commotion, peeked timidly from behind their doors. They watched the black shadows vanish into the mist, leaving behind their recovered possessions.
Silence enveloped the hamlet. Then, slowly, one door opened. A frail old man stepped out hesitantly. His wrinkled hand reached out, touching one of the sacks of grain as if in disbelief. Tears began to flow down his hollow cheeks. Soon, the other doors opened. Villagers emerged from their hiding places, gathering around their lost possessions. There were no cheers, only sobs of relief and immense gratitude.
The first blood on the deserted road had been spilled, though not from a gaping wound. It was the blood of a tyrant's wounded arrogance. That night, a seed had been planted in the hearts of the people of Jatiwangi. A small seed called hope. And in the Tumapel palace, Akuwu Tunggul Ametung would soon receive a message that would disturb his sleep for months to come.
***
Continued CHAPTER 03