Night fell quickly on the village, enveloping the area in darkness that revealed only vague, moving shapes. After the meeting at the edge of the forest, the villagers rested with lingering worry, while the village leaders took turns keeping watch, swinging oil lanterns and spears. Ardhan sat on the terrace of Ki Sabda's house, gazing at the trees that seemed to hold a deep darkness. Beside him, Wiratmaja sat, slipping small prayers between soothing conversations.
"Ki Tunggul is moving faster than I expected," Wiratmaja said softly, his voice as gentle as the rustling of leaves. "We must be vigilant. He is looking for an opening, looking for our weakness. If he realizes that someone has the lontar... he will do anything."
Ardhan gripped the small dagger at his waist. In the lantern light, a faint blue glow was visible at the tip of the sheath, not just an illusion; it was the residual energy he had gained from his Tapak Naga training. "I don't want to bring disaster to this village," he said. "But I can't stand idly by while the people here are threatened."
Nyi Ratna Sari emerged from the darkness, her steps graceful yet tense. She looked left and right, then stopped to stare at Ardhan. "They will arrive at midnight," she said firmly. "I saw their faces in my dream: a shadow army, hands emerging from the ground and the roof. They are not coming to steal cattle, they are coming to take souls, not objects."
Her words sent a chill down Ardhan's spine. The image of hands, it was etched in his mind. "Get ready," said Tumenggung Wirasaba, who arrived with a brisk step, accompanied by two soldiers. "We must not be caught in battle without a strategy. We will protect the key points, the village gate, the barn, and the mosque."
The villagers gathered. Ki Sabda led a simple but sincere prayer for protection: a series of short verses that were repeated, passing from one tongue to another, forming a small shield. Ardhan stood in front of the mosque, feeling the thickness of the prayer like a wall of light; he recited Al-Fatihah, and then several protective verses taught by Wiratmaja. In his heart, there was a mixture of destiny and calm, he realized that martial arts must be accompanied by prayer, not just as a mantra without God's involvement.
Night was deepening. The wind carried the scent of incense, a scent that should not have been in this village. From the cracks in the roof, from the branches of the trees, strange movements began to appear: thin shadows on the ground moving like insect tracks. Dark hands, not separated from their bodies but still seeming to extend their shadows, crawled out from the cracks in the ground, from the gaps between the barn bricks, even from under the mats on the porch. They moved with unusual speed, reaching limits unfit for humans.
"Make a barrier of prayer!" shouted Wiratmaja. "The strong ones in the temple, don't let them in!"
Ardhan felt the approaching force, it was the Thousand Hand Shadow that Nyi Ratna had told him about. He tried to assess it: it was not just a creature, but a manifestation of black magic summoned to steal souls and cause fear. But the shadows were not solid; they were like liquid; when someone tried to grab them, their hands passed through cold air, and there was a sensation like wet material sticking to them before disappearing.
The soldiers raised their weapons; the residents held torches, farming tools, and pieces of cloth that had been dipped in holy water. In an instant, the atmosphere of the battle became silent yet tense: there were no explosions, only the sound of whispered prayers and objects colliding, as well as soft sobs when one of the shadow's hands touched a human body and gave off a cold sensation.
Ardhan stepped forward. He realized that his body was not just a tool for attacking, but also a conduit for inner energy. His hands were wide open, while his stance followed the Tapak Naga stance. Inside his chest, his breath moved like a flow, in and out, gathering calmness. Then he began to move: his arms acted quickly, creating the illusion of many hands attacking simultaneously, the Shadow of a Thousand Hands no longer belonged to the enemy; Ardhan reflected it, deflecting its direction and turning the fight into a shadow play that confused his opponent. With this movement, Ardhan not only attacked, but also generated a wave of energy that bound prayers in each of his attacks.
In a crucial moment, two large figures rushed toward the granary, passing several residents who were standing guard. They moved so quickly that they looked like a black mist enveloping the light of the torches. Ardhan realized that if the granary was captured, the villagers would suffer from hunger and panic; worse still, Ki Tunggul intended to take something more than just rice, perhaps part of the manuscript or a sacred object stored there. He launched a series of moves: one punch, two pushes, three sweeps, an accelerated pattern from Tapak Naga. A wave of energy burst from his palms, forming a circle. The shadows were destroyed into pieces of smoke, sucked up by the wind of prayer held by Wiratmaja as he recited verses.
However, the Thousand Hand Shadow was agile. Each black pocong that was destroyed produced two new, smaller and more agile shadows, as if adapting to Ardhan's strategy. They slipped into the cracks of the house, clinging to the roof, then descending nimbly like a stream of black water. Nyi RatnaSari , who was agile, moved her scarf, cutting them one by one with ease like a dancer cutting black threads. However, one of the shadows clung to her scarf, startling Nyi Ratna Sari as if she were being pulled; she almost lost control, if not for Wiratmaja's help, who covered her with a short call to prayer while blowing his breath towards the knot, the air changed, the scent of incense disappeared, and Nyi Ratna Sari was free.
Concern grew when the shadows suddenly formed a giant hand that pierced the porch roof. The sound of shaking wood could be heard. The residents panicked. Tumenggung Wirasaba stepped forward, his keris glistening as he bowed briefly before attacking with all the strength of a warrior. The dagger swung, but the shadow hand was not flesh; it struck and felt like hitting fog. Wirasaba, not the type of man to give up easily, stuck his dagger into the ground and shouted an order. "Hold! Protect the door!" He used the momentum to drive away most of the shadows that were approaching the humans.
Seeing Wirasaba struggle, something stirred within Ardhan. He realized that physical strength alone was not enough to fight creatures born of black magic. He had to combine prayer and fighting ability: holy energy, directed by sincere intention. He took a deep breath, placed his hands on the ground, not to control it, but to feel the earth's vibrations. Then he united the letters in his heart: la, ilaha, illallah, the verses were not just sounds, but a rhythmic melody that changed the frequency around him.
To be continued....