Night fell quickly, enveloping the village like a thick curtain. The sound of crickets mingled with the rustling of the wind, creating a soothing melody, or at least that was Ardhan's hope as he and several young men from the village patrolled the edge of the forest. Ardhan's heart still felt heavy from the bad news from Alas Mentaok; their success in foiling the previous robbery had increased their vigilance rather than reduced it.
Raden Bagus Wiratmaja walked beside him, his expression flat but attentive like a santri. At Ardhan's waist, a heirloom keris protruded from under his leather belt, not as his primary weapon, but as an inheritance from his grandfather that he always considered important. Ardhan's hands remained empty; the martial arts he had learned were usually more effective without sharp weapons, as his inner energy flowed freely from his center to all parts of his body.
"There is something strange about tonight," whispered Raden Bagus Wiratmaja. "It's as if something is sniffing, not with its nose, but with its intentions."
Ardhan nodded slowly as he adjusted his pace. He felt the same thing: a kind of small, disturbing vibration in his stomach. They began to examine the path leading to the village with their lanterns. Everything seemed calm until a drop of cold dew touched Ardhan's neck; a strange smell, like a burnt sweetness, began to approach.
Suddenly, figures emerged from behind the trees. Not just one, but several, their faces covered in black cloth, their arms wrapped in black cloth, and their eyes reflecting the light of the lanterns. They moved quickly, like a swarm of scorpions, without hesitation. The village youths reacted immediately, some raising their spears, while others shouted orders. Ardhan stepped forward, his body darting to parry one attack, then two. He felt a surge of dark energy flash through the air—not like a normal blow, but one that made his heart pound.
Amidst the chaos, there was a small figure that stood out: agile, and seemingly inhuman. It brandished a small dagger smeared with black ink, its faint red eyes betraying its stupidity. Without making a sound, the figure sneaked up behind Ardhan. Ardhan was too focused on parrying the attacks in front of him; he did not notice the danger approaching from behind. A cold sensation shot through his back as the dagger pierced not only his flesh, but also his bone, just below his right rib—the spot where he held his breath.
The pain that struck him was not something that could be easily endured with a deep breath; it felt like a stinging flame. Ardhan staggered, one hand raised to cover the wound, but the blood flowed freely, warm and staining his clothes. At that moment, the air felt thick: the sound of gamelan music from afar was distorted into meaningless whispers. He tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Raden Bagus Wiratmaja turned his head, his eyes widening when he saw the dagger flying through the air. The young man who had stabbed him laughed coldly, then disappeared into the bushes like a puff of mist. The village youth tried to chase after him, but the change in Ardhan's expression was clear: it was not anger, but quiet panic. He fell to his knees, then collapsed to the ground.
"Ardhan!" shouted Raden Bagus Wiratmaja as he grabbed his shoulder. Raden Bagus Wiratmaja's helping hand felt stiff; something was blocking it, like a thin blanket of fog that hindered his movements.
Ardhan closed his eyes and tried to recite Al-Fatihah, a reflex that had saved him all this time. The verses he often recited felt heavy, dragged down by something slippery and thick. The wound in his stomach made him feel nauseous; the blood mixed with dirt seemed to want to drown him that night. They immediately carried Ardhan to the nearest hut, lifting him as if lifting a piece of wounded life.
Inside Ki Sabda's house, torches were lit and food was prepared as best as possible. Worried faces gathered, their gazes revealing deep anxiety. Ki Sabda looked pale when he saw Ardhan's wound, his hands trembling. "This is no ordinary wound," he whispered. "There is magic at work here."
Wiratmaja bowed his head, his face showing pain. "Perhaps the dagger has been enchanted. We need to wash it with boiled betel leaf water and prayers. We must separate the poison from his body."
Nyi Ratna Sari arrived carrying several ingredients she had gathered from the edge of the forest. Her eyes looked sad but calm. "Take him to the mosque," she said. "There is the scent of incense and people who can lead prayers. We need to combine prayer and incantations."
The treatment became part of that night's ritual: Raden Bagus Wiratmaja recited verses from the Qur'an, Ki Sabda poured the boiled water, and Nyi Ratna Sari applied the mixture to the wound, while Ardhan lay and moaned in his restless sleep. Every time Raden Bagus Wiratmaja recited a verse, a pale white flash seemed to try to penetrate Ardhan's body. But the poison did not disappear immediately. Blood continued to flow, and the skin around his wound turned blue.
Night passed without meaning for Ardhan. He felt himself being pulled in two directions: one pull toward breathing, the other toward something deeper, older. Between consciousness and unconsciousness, he was dragged into a different dream, a dream that was more than just an image, but a message. There, he stood among mountains shrouded in fog, similar to the story his grandfather had told him about his ancestors. A figure emerged from the fog, an old man with white hair and warm eyes. Ardhan realized that even though they had never met again in the real world, it was the shadow of Ki Wicaksana, his grandfather.
"Ardhan," the voice was soft but firm; as if able to smell lies while offering comfort. "You are trapped by wounds that are not only physical. There is a poison that wants to ensnare the soul in arrogance. Remember the way of the dragon: not only rolling clouds with power, but also humbling oneself to a greater light."
Ardhan tried to ask a question, but the voice from behind the fog answered before he could speak. "Do not be afraid to let go of your power if it means losing your faith. Power without prayer is like a keris without prestige, sharp but lifeless."
In his dream, his grandfather raised his hand, and a beam of golden light descended onto Ardhan's chest, entering him. Ardhan felt a vibration, an ancient rhythm that taught him to fight darkness with the light of his heart. "Learn to unite," the message said. "Verses are eyes that pierce illusions. The path of the dragon and the light of the Qur'an walk in harmony."
Ardhan woke up gasping for breath. His body was so weak that he had difficulty opening his eyes completely. Beside the bed, Raden Bagus Wiratmaja looked down, his face tired but full of hope. Nyi Ratna Sari sat holding Ardhan's hand with teary eyes. "Can you hear anything?" asked Raden Bagus Wiratmaja softly as Ardhan shifted his gaze.
"There's my grandfather... he said... about the path of the dragon and the light." Ardhan's voice was hoarse but full of enthusiasm. "He said to combine the two."
The days that followed were filled with treatment and prayers. Ardhan lay in a coma for several days; his body seemed to be gathering strength for a small revival.
Raden Bagus Wiratmaja faithfully recited verses, stroked Ardhan's forehead, and guarded the door to the room. Nyi Ratna Sari carefully tended to the herbs and healed the wounds. Ki Ageng Pemanahan visited, sat on the doorstep, looked at Ardhan for a moment, then placed his hand on his head, as if giving a blessing. "His spirit is strong," said Ki Ageng Pemanahan softly. "But be careful, don't let arrogance take over."
Gradually, like seeds being watered, the results of the treatment began to show. The wounds, which had been red and inflamed, began to dry up, and the inflammation subsided. One dim morning, Ardhan opened his eyes and saw the sunlight entering the room through the cracks in the bamboo walls. His eyes were not yet completely clear, but there was a new awareness: not only had the pain disappeared, but he also understood that he had a responsibility.
"Alhamdulillah," whispered Raden Bagus Wiratmaja, holding back tears. Ardhan tried to sit up, but his body refused; he could only laugh softly in frustration. His recovery had to be done gradually. His plan to resume training had to be rearranged; the first step was simply breathing exercises and recitation. Ardhan had to learn to accept that recovery did not mean forgetting; it was a process of becoming wiser.
Over the next few weeks, Ardhan underwent physical therapy and mental strengthening. Wiratmaja taught him a deeper interpretation, not just the meaning of the words, but how to internalize the verses, so that the energy released was not only physical vibrations, but also light from the heart. Ki Sabda and Nyi Ratna Sari taught him soothing herbs, traditional massage techniques that improved energy flow, and breathing exercises combined with wirid. The nights were spent praying in congregation, reading the Qur'an, and discussing, often until late at night.
Gradually, the doubts in Ardhan's heart began to disappear. The wounds he felt were not just scars, but also traces of the ego that had almost brought him down. He remembered his grandfather's message in his dream: the path of the dragon and the light of the Qur'an. Now he realized that these lessons must be his guide. Not to weaken him, but to give him direction in the midst of the storm that was battering him.
One afternoon, as he walked slowly along the edge of a rice field, Nyi Ratna Sari followed behind him. Without saying much, Ratna patted him on the shoulder. "You look calm," she said. "But I've noticed something: there is determination in your eyes."
Ardhan gazed into the distance, where the fog was growing thicker. "I'm worried that I'll go back to the way I was before—putting too much faith in strength alone. I don't want to lose the path that my grandfather showed me."
Nyi Ratna Sari gave him a gentle smile. "You don't need to be afraid, Ardhan. The path you have chosen is difficult, but it is a path that will make your name remembered in history, not just a temporary legend."
That night, Ardhan knelt on the terrace of the mosque, taking the time to read Al-Fatihah with feeling. A new determination grew in his heart: not only to become a strong warrior, but also to preserve the light that could guide others. Physical wounds slowly became memories. Emotional wounds became valuable lessons that strengthened him.
In the distance, behind the trees of Mentaok forest, dark whispers could still be heard. Ki Tunggul Wulung and his followers were still carrying out their intentions. However, Ardhan had returned, weaker physically, but stronger in heart. The healing he underwent was not merely to treat physical wounds; it was a cleansing process that taught him the true value of his ancestors' legacy: knowledge based on faith would not be lost to the attacks of darkness.
When dawn broke, Ardhan stood before Raden Bagus Wiratmaja, Ki Sabda, Nyi Ratna Sari, and several village elders. His face looked pale, his body not yet fully healed, but his eyes sparkled with newfound spirit.
"I will continue," Ardhan said firmly. "Not for power, not for fame. I will search for the missing pieces of Sastra Jendra, dispelling the darkness that tries to obstruct it. And I will do so with the light that I always hold: the Qur'an and prayer."
Raden Bagus Wiratmaja smiled deeply. "That is the right answer. We will pursue the truth in a proper manner. May Allah guide our steps."
Among the whispering trees, it was as if there was another voice listening: a threat that replaced its dangerous song with the sound of footsteps preparing for a storm. But now, in Ardhan's heart, there was a lantern, a wound that had healed was not just a scar from battle, but a symbol of the mandate he carried. He realized that the journey was still long; yet he also knew that this time, as he raised the Tapak Naga Menggulung Awan technique, at the pinnacle of the power created lay a prayer binding him: a light that could not be extinguished by darkness.
To be continued…