The night breeze still blew across the roofs of the houses in the village as Ardhan sat contemplating on the porch of the small mosque. The sound of crickets was like a nighttime orchestra, while the subtle aroma of incense from the mosque altar filled the atmosphere. Although his body felt tired after the surprising test, his mind was still restless. His victory against Tumenggung Wirasaba had sparked a new wave within him: curiosity, admiration—and, of course, suspicion. Amidst the whispers circulating, Ardhan realized that his former life would never return; a new path had opened, and now he had to decide how to walk it.
Reading the Qur'an
He opened the small bag tied around his waist. The pocket Qur'an that he kept carefully glowed softly under the lantern light. His fingers traced page after page, then he recited short verses to calm his soul. Prayer had always been his anchor in times of doubt, ever since his father taught him to read short surahs before bed; now he recited them not just out of habit, but as a support in a world that felt increasingly foreign.
The Meeting with Wiratmaja
As he was still lost in thought, he heard footsteps approaching. Ardhan turned his head and woke up. From the darkness emerged a young man dressed simply, neatly woven cloth, a small turban wrapped around his waist, and a neatly folded yellow book in his hand. His face was calm like a morning that never rages, his eyes gently gazing at Ardhan without fear or intent to take advantage.
"Assalamu'alaikum," he greeted, his voice flowing like a prayer.
"Wa'alaikumussalam," replied Ardhan, closing his mushaf. There was something about the young man that radiated calm; not just formal teaching, but a soothing spiritual depth.
Introduction
"I am Raden Bagus Wiratmaja," he continued, bowing respectfully. "A student of Ki Ageng Pemanahan. I heard the news about a foreign young man who dared to challenge Tumenggung Wirasaba. That name intrigued me; it seems like fate that we met."
Ardhan responded with a mixture of relief and suspicion on his face. "Ardhan Wicaksana," he replied briefly. "A traveler who is entangled in something I find difficult to understand."
Wiratma nodded. "Often, a person's journey through life is strange. Sometimes we are carried by the current to places we never imagined. But the most important thing is not where we come from, but how we act when we get here."
Their first conversation felt simple, but for Ardhan, it was like finding an oasis in the middle of the desert. In Wiratmaja's gaze, there was a testimony: no excessive praise, no deep suspicion. There was only an invitation to trust each other.
The Next Day
The next morning, the village was still filled with whispers about the duel. Some residents considered Ardhan a sign; while others viewed him with suspicion. Ardhan and Wiratmaja walked side by side to the market, but their steps felt heavy—every glance felt like a test, every whisper felt like surveillance. Even so, Wiratmaja remained steadfast; he walked beside Ardhan like a brother guarding his honor.
Ardhan's question
"Why did you choose to be my friend?" Ardhan finally asked as they sat by the gutter, watching the children play. "Many say I am dangerous."
Wiratmaja turned with a calm face. "First, you speak honestly; that is rare. Second, I see in your eyes something more valuable than physical strength: a longing to improve, not to destroy. And third, I believe God places people in our lives for a reason."
Those words were not only soothing; they reinforced a principle Ardhan had long held: that true strength must be accompanied by faith. A friendship began to develop based on shared values.
In the days that followed, Ardhan and Wiratmaja spent time together. They shared their knowledge with each other: Ardhan demonstrated the basic movements inherited from his ancestors—gentle steps, flowing hand movements, and a technique for channeling inner energy known as Dragon's Palm. On the other hand, Wiratmaja helped Ardhan with inner teachings: wirid, prayers, and brief explanations of verses that strengthen morale. In these simple activities, Ardhan processed physical and spiritual knowledge—how to maintain a balance between visible energy and invisible tranquility.
One afternoon, they went to a grassy field at the edge of the forest. The afternoon sun reflected off the rice leaves, creating a sparkle in their hair. Ardhan demonstrated more advanced movements; his movements were now more systematic: the third step, shoulder rotation, circular kicks, and ending with the release of internal energy that vibrated like ripples on water. Wiratmaja watched closely.
"Your movements are beautiful and efficient," said Wiratmaja. "There is a flow of energy connecting the earth and the sky when you move. But remember, Ardhan, muscles alone are not enough. Inner protection is very important when facing black magic."
Ardhan nodded. "In my village, my grandfather always said: knowledge without fear of God is dangerous folly. He taught prayer as a support, not just a ritual."
Then they practiced in pairs. Ardhan played the role of attacker, while Wiratmaja blocked while reciting prayers. There was harmony in this combination: the end of the movement met with the power of prayer, and the result made both of them feel like they had discovered a new language. For Ardhan, this was not just a matter of technique; it was about realizing that apparent strength could vanish when the soul was empty. For Wiratmaja, practicing with him created a bridge between religious teachings and local culture, which he had previously only learned in theory.
However, life in the village was not always peaceful. In the middle of practice, bad news arrives: traces of a dark ritual have been found at the edge of the forest, a circle of stones, burnt incense, and a crudely carved snake symbol. The elders gather, their faces pale. Ki Jayeng Raga, the traditional leader, leads a prayer and burns incense to calm the spirits. There is a lingering fear: signs of black magic lurk.
One night, as they sat on the porch, a whisper came from the direction of the forest: a sound like the rustling of leaves, followed by a sigh like the breath of a large creature. Ardhan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; Wiratmaja closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked towards the trees.
"Someone is watching," he said softly. "Alas Mentaok holds many secrets. Sometimes, when something changes, like your arrival, those creatures will react."
Ardhan pressed his dagger against his waist, feeling the weight of responsibility. "I don't want to bring danger to this village. I have no right to interfere with other people's lives."
Wiratmaja patted his shoulder. "We are not enemies of the village. We are protectors if God gives us the ability. But we must be wise, Ardhan. A calm heart is stronger in facing trials than just a strong body."
The next day, after news of the ritual spread, several frightened villagers urged Ardhan to leave. They were worried that his presence was connected to the rise of mystical events. Ardhan felt a heavy burden; he was trapped in guilt even though his intentions were good. However, Wiratmaja was by his side, intervening to mediate.
"Let the people suspect us," Wiratmaja said to those gathered in the hall. "Prejudice will get us nowhere. What we must do is clean up, increase our prayers, and protect the village together." Then he whispered to Ardhan, "Don't pay attention to what comes from fear. Follow what you believe to be right."
Ardhan nodded. He chose to help the villagers clean the ritual sites, sweeping and lighting sacred incense to ward off the darkness. The villagers, who had previously been suspicious, slowly began to help. This small agreement was the first step in building the trust that he needed to maintain.
One day, while they were cleaning a marked garden, Ardhan felt a strange urge, a soft sound that sounded like a distant song. He turned and saw a young woman stepping closer from behind the bushes. Her face was beautiful but sad, her black hair flowing, her clothes simple but elegant. Her eyes held a story of sadness. She introduced herself as Nyi Ratna Sari.
"That name often appears in whispers," said Wiratmaja humbly. "Some say that her family was involved in an old incident between Pajang and Mataram. But now she helps the village."
Ratna Sari stared at Ardhan intently. "I've seen you fight. Your movements are different, but there's something about you that makes you seem... not entirely of this era. You have courage. That's rare."
Ardhan nodded shyly. "I just want to protect, not be part of a legend."
The conversation opened a new chapter: Ratna Sari was not just a mysterious figure; she also had wounds and abilities that were sometimes useful, sometimes painful—characteristics that made her difficult to fully trust. Ardhan and Ratna's relationship began to grow more complicated: subtle attraction, suspicion, and the potential for betrayal.
On the following nights, Ardhan and Wiratmaja trained even harder. They devised a simple strategy to protect the village: conducting night patrols, gathering for prayer, and guarding the locations that had been used for rituals. Behind it all, their friendship grew stronger; they were not just training partners, but brothers—complementing and strengthening each other.
Ultimately, their friendship was tested not only by their fighting abilities, but also by their choices: to remain humble despite their fame, to continue praying despite being surrounded by suspicion, and to protect the people who doubted them. Ardhan, who had felt like an outsider from the beginning, now began to feel that this was his home, not in a physical sense, but as a place where his heart felt it had room to believe and be strengthened.
In the distance, behind the dark night, dark shadows floated. There was an inhuman hiss of laughter. Behind that laughter were whispers from those who were waiting for an opportunity: Ki Surya Kala, a figure with silver hair and red eyes, was watching the young stranger's every move. His plan was moving slowly but surely.
Ardhan raised his hand, gazed at the night sky, then closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold touch him. In his heart, he prayed: not for glory, not for power, but to protect the weak and fulfill the mandate that now accompanied him. A new friendship had begun, subtle but firm; it was like a small ray of light that was expected to illuminate the darkness in Mataram.
To be continued...