Jakarta — 11:23 PM.
Some place never sleeps. Even at this hour, some city part hums—a living thing made of concrete, exhaust fumes, and the perpetual buzz of people who refuse to stop moving.
I sat alone in a corner café, nursing a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. Around me, life continued.
Students cramming for exams with that special kind of desperation that only came at midnight. Couples on first dates, awkwardly navigating the gap between "so... what do you do?" and actually giving a shit. The occasional businessman pretending to work while doomscrolling Twitter.
I watched them all. Participant observation, anthropologists called it. Except I skipped the participation part.
My name is Arthas Wirawan. Twenty years old. University student in the loosest possible definition. I studied computer science, though "studied" implied I actually attended lectures instead of just showing up for exams and somehow passing.
I had classmates. People who knew my name. A few who'd tried to befriend me before realizing I was about as fun as talking to a brick wall. Their words, not mine. Well. One of them said "mysterious." The rest said "aneh." (Weird.)
Potato, po-tah-to.
I didn't mind, honestly. People were exhausting. Every conversation felt like I was reading from a script I'd never fully memorized. Smile here. Nod there. Laugh at the joke even though it's not funny. Pretend you care about their weekend plans. Pretend you're not counting the seconds until you can leave. After a while, I just... stopped trying. It was easier this way.
My hobbies? Bare minimum. I picked up random knowledge from the internet—anime OSTs that sounded cool even without context, game menus in Japanese I half-understood, YouTube clips of shows I never actually watched. Surface-level familiarity with a bunch of things I never committed to. Just enough to recognize references, never enough to actually care.
Kind of like my entire life, honestly.
.
.
And okay, FINE. Since we're being honest about my pathetic existence...
I had a phase. Age 16-17. The dark times.
Related to that anime-adjacent knowledge I mentioned?
Yeah.
I... collected anime girl wallpapers. Characters from shows I NEVER WATCHED. Pure aesthetics. Zero context. White-haired girls, specifically. And kemonomimi—the ones with animal ears. Don't ask me why. Probably some unresolved psychological thing.
I was what the internet calls a karbit—a fake fan. The kind who worships characters without knowing a single thing about them.
Peak cringe.
"Oh, you like her? What's her backstory?"
Me: "…She has a cute face?"
At least I stopped before buying a dakimakura. I thought about it. But I stopped.
That counts for something, right?
RIGHT?
...
Anyway. My karbit phase died with my dignity sometime around age 18.
We don't talk about it. Ever.
.
.
Back to the present.
The café owner—Pak Budi, fifties, kind eyes, perpetual coffee stain on his apron—approached my table.
"Arthas, mau pesen lagi? Atau cuma mau duduk sampai subuh?" (Arthas, want to order again? Or just going to sit here until dawn?)
I glanced at my empty cup. "Maaf, Pak. Satu kopi lagi." (Sorry, Pak. One more coffee.)
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Anak muda sekarang. Seneng begadang sendirian." (Young people these days. Always staying up alone.)
Alone.
Yeah. Story of my life.
He walked away, and I turned back to the window. Rain had started. Soft at first, then heavier. The kind that washed Jakarta's grime away but never quite reached deep enough to actually clean anything.
I felt like that sometimes.
Surface level, fine. Underneath? Something's off. Like I was waiting for something I couldn't name.
Or maybe I was just depressed and pretending it was existential.
That's probably it.
I could've done more with my life. I was smart—not genius-level, maybe. Tests came easy, concepts clicked faster for me than for most people.
But I never pushed. Never tried.
Because what was the point?
Study hard, get good grades, land a job, work until you die. The script was predictable. Boring.
So I did the minimum. Coasted. Existed.
And told myself I was fine with it.
Narrator: He's not fine with it.
But admitting that meant I'd have to do something about it. And doing something meant caring. And caring meant potential disappointment.
Easier to just... not.
Jakarta — 11:47 PM, That Night.
The rain was apocalyptic now.
I should've stayed in the café. Should've called a Gojek. But I didn't.
Because apparently, I had the survival instincts of a lemming.
I walked through the downpour, soaked to the bone. My umbrella had given up three blocks ago—snapped by wind, abandoned in a trash can. At this point, being wet was just my reality.
The street was empty. Smart people were inside, dry, probably asleep.
And then there was me. *Peak intelligence* right here.
Then I heard it. Meow.
I stopped.
Oh no.
There, in the middle of the street, was a kitten. Tiny. Drenched. Shivering like it was auditioning for a sad commercial. It looked at me with huge, terrified eyes.
Don't do it. Don't be an idiot. It's a cat. Cats have nine lives. You have one
My feet moved anyway.
I'm doing it. I'm being an idiot.
I stepped into the street, crouching down. "Hey. Come here, little guy."
The kitten mewed pitifully.
And then I felt it.
Cold.
Not rain-cold. Wrong-cold.
The air turned heavy. Oppressive. Like the atmosphere itself had become hostile.
I looked up.
For just a second—less than a heartbeat—I saw something in the rain.
A shadow. Darker than it should be. Shaped wrong. Moving in a way that made my brain scream RUN.
Son of a bi—
Then—light. Blinding. Burning.
Headlights.
The bus came out of nowhere.
Time slowed to a crawl—that weird bullet-time effect you see in movies and assume is dramatic license, but turns out it is very real when you're about to die.
I saw the driver's face. Eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.
I saw the kitten dart away to safety. 'At least the cat's okay.'
And I thought, with perfect clarity:
"I'm about to die after saving a cat. Not even a truck. Truck-kun was too good for me, apparently. I get Bus-kun. The budget isekai option."
The impact hit like the universe's worst punchline. Pain—sharp, absolute, everywhere—and then—
nothing.
.
.
.
.
Somewhere... Nowhere... Everywhen?
Darkness.
Not the fun kind, like a movie theater. The existential crisis kind.
I floated, or maybe I didn't. Hard to tell when you don't have a body.
No up. No down. No sense of anything except thought.
'Okay, so...I'm dead.'
The realization came slowly, like buffering on bad wifi. Got hit by a bus. Saved a cat. Died alone in the rain.
...Pathetic.
Twenty years of existing, and that's my exit? No epic last words. No dramatic finale. No "tell my story" moment.
Just—splat. Gone.
And for what?
A life only half‑lived. Potential squandered. Bonds I never forged because I couldn't be bothered.
I drifted, doing the least, convincing myself it was fine.
And now I'm dead, with nothing to show for it.
Well done, Arthas. A legacy of nothing.
And yet—I was still here. Thinking. Being.
'Is this death? Just... floating in the void thinking about how I wasted my life? Because if so, this sucks.'
Then, in the distance—if distance even existed here—I saw it.
Light.
No.
Not light.
A blade.
Hanging in the void like someone had paused reality itself. Its edge gleamed with a color I couldn't name—somewhere between silver and white and something else.
The blade itself was beautiful in a way that felt wrong. Like staring at something humans weren't meant to comprehend. Its shape was elegant—curved, single-edged, definitely Asian in style—but the details kept shifting when I tried to focus on them.
What the...
It wasn't just metal. It was presence—alive, aware, and apparently watching me.
I had no mouth to speak. No hands to reach. But I felt it anyway.
A pull. Strong. Undeniable. Like gravity but personal.
The blade pulsed once. Twice.
And then—a voice that wasn't a voice. A feeling that was more than feeling.
"Not yet."
Ancient. Patient. Absolute.
'Wait, what do you mean "not yet"—'
I didn't understand. I didn't need to. The void shattered like glass.
.
.
.
.
Jakarta — ??? Time ??? Place
Warmth. Pressure. Sound. Muffled. Distorted. Like listening underwater.
"—it's a boy!"
"Congratulations, ma'am."
Light flooded everything—too bright, too much, what the hell is happening
I tried to squint. My body didn't respond. Everything felt wrong. Too heavy. Too small. Too—
Why can't I move? Why is everything huge? Why am I—
My limbs flailed weakly, no control, no strength.
Panic surged.
Where am I? What's happening? Why—
"Arthas. His name will be Arthas Wirawan."
That voice. I knew that voice. Soft, warm, and safe......Mom? Wait. No. That didn't—
My thoughts scattered, drowned by overwhelming sensation. Touch, warmth, heartbeat that wasn't mine.
And through the chaos, one thought crystallized:
'Oh. Oh no. I've been reincarnated...As myself.....WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FU-.
.
.
Jakarta — Age 6
So here's the thing.
I was Arthas Wirawan, again.
Same name, same city, same parents.
But this time? I remembered something.
It took years for the memories to fully settle—like trying to recall a dream while you're still half-asleep, fragments, pieces. A life that felt like it happened to someone else, but it was me.
I died at twenty, and then I came back.
Not to another world, not into a hero's journey.
Into the exact same life, same timeline, same everything.
Except this time, I had the cheat code of knowing I'd done this before.
Worst Isekai Experience Ever. One star.
No goddess giving me OP powers. No "Surprise! You're now a demon lord!" mome-....this was just a joke, pls let me live normally.
(A/N: uhhhh.....about that)
But for real tho, it just went like—"Surprise! You get to do it all again!" "Hope you liked your first playthrough, because here's round two!"
I spent my early childhood (again) trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Am I in a loop? A simulation? Is this Hell's idea of irony?
But no. Everything was real. My parents were real. The world kept turning.
And I.... remember dying, remember that blade. The one that said "Not yet."
What did that mean? Not yet... what?
I didn't have answers. Just questions. And a growing sense that something was different this time.
For one thing: I had motivation now.
I died once already. Wasted twenty years doing nothing.
This time? I'm not making the same mistake.
But I was still six. Still a kid. Still limited by a child's body and a child's social position.
So I did what I could.
I paid attention in school. Actually tried on tests instead of coasting. Not enough to be suspicious—I didn't need to be the genius prodigy kid. Just... better than before.
"Arthas, kamu pinter banget!" (Arthas, you're so smart!) My teacher beamed at my test scores.
Not smart. Just cheating with future knowledge. But thanks.
I learned Japanese from Mom. She taught me casually—phrases here and there, songs, children's stories. In my first life, I'd picked up bits from those anime OSTs and game menus, barely enough to understand basic phrases. In this life, I actually studied it properly. Mom seemed... pleased? Surprised? That I was interested.
Might need it someday. Don't know why I think that. Just a feeling.
I made friends too. That was new. Raka, loud and loyal. Dina, quiet and perceptive. A few others who somehow tolerated my presence despite my emotional range of a brick wall. In my first life, I'd died alone. This time, I had people who actually cared if I showed up or not.
That alone made this life worth living.
But I still watched, observed the world around me. Looking for signs that something was off. That this wasn't just a normal reincarnation into a normal world.
hopefully not .
But then...I found it.
Jakarta — Age 7, Evening
"Arthas, kamu kenapa diem terus?" (Arthas, why are you always so quiet?) I looked up from my plate.
Mom—Kanzaki Ayame, though she'd taken Dad's surname and went by Ayumi Wirawan here in Jakarta—was watching me with that careful expression she always had. Gentle, but searching. Like she was trying to read a book with half the pages missing.
She was petite, graceful, with long black hair usually tied back in a simple ponytail. Dark eyes that saw everything. In Jakarta, she was warm, soft-spoken. The kind of mom who made sure I ate enough and never raised her voice.
But sometimes—just sometimes—I caught glimpses of something else.
The way she held a kitchen knife. The way she moved without making a sound. Like she was a retired assassin playing house.
Dad—Reynard Wirawan—sat beside her, raising an eyebrow. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair that never stayed neat and gray-green eyes that matched mine. He had that effortlessly casual look—flannel shirt, comfortable jeans. The kind of guy who looked like he'd wandered out of an indie coffee shop.
British-Indonesian mix. Supposedly from some old family back in England, but he never talked about them.
"Anak ini pasti lagi merencanakan sesuatu yang besar," Dad said. (This kid is probably planning something big.)
"Anak pendiam itu biasanya yang paling berbahaya." (Quiet kids are usually the most dangerous ones.)
If only you knew.
"Aku gak ngerencanain apa-apa pak." I muttered, pushing rice around my plate. (I'm not planning anything dad.)
"Dan itu persis seperti yang akan dikatakan seorang penjahat kecil." (And that's exactly what a tiny villain would say.)
…Okay, that's fair.
But my eyes drifted toward the wall. Above the small wooden shelf in the corner, where a sword lay wrapped in dark cloth—old, untouched.
I'd always felt something odd about that sword. Since I was young. Like it was aware. Watching. But I'd dismissed it as childish imagination.
Until recently. Until I started remembering my death. The void. The blade that said "Not yet."
Now? I couldn't dismiss it anymore.
And yet I felt it. Even from across the room.
A presence. A weight. The unmistakable sense of being observed.
"Arthas?" I blinked. Mom was still looking at me.
"Kamu sering banget liatin pedang itu." (You've been staring at that sword a lot lately.)
Have I?
"Gak papa, cuma... penasaran aja." (It's nothing, just... curious.)
Dad and Mom exchanged a glance. One of those silent couple conversations that happen in half a second.
"Itu cuma pedang," Dad said, too casually. (It's just a sword.)
"Hanya hiasan. Nggak ada yang istimewa." (Decoration. Nothing special.)
Liar.
But I didn't call him on it.
"Arthas," Mom said softly, switching to that gentle-but-serious tone. "Kalau kamu pernah ngerasa aneh, atau... lihat sesuatu yang gak biasa—" (If you ever feel strange, or... see something unusual—)
Oh great. Cryptic parent moment. Why now? Does she know I've been feeling the sword watching me?
"—bilang ke kami, ya?" (—tell us, okay?)
See something unusual? Like the shadows that sometimes move wrong? Like the dreams where a blade watches me from the void? Like the fact that I DIED and came back?
"...Iya, Bu." (Yes, Mom.) She didn't look convinced. Smart woman.
Jakarta — Age 10, Walking Home from School
It happened on a Tuesday.
Because of course it did. Supernatural shit never happens on weekends when you have time to process it.
I was walking home from school—alone, as usual—taking the shortcut through the alley behind the old market. The sun was setting, painting Jakarta's smog-choked sky in shades of orange and purple that would've been beautiful if they weren't a direct result of air pollution.
That's when I felt it.
Cold.
The same wrong-cold from that night. The night I died.
I froze mid-step.
No. Not again.
The temperature dropped so fast I could see my breath. In Jakarta. In tropical, humid, never-below-25-degrees Jakarta.
The shadows around me darkened. Stretched. Moved in ways shadows shouldn't move.
And then it appeared.
A figure. Humanoid but wrong. Made of darkness that seemed to absorb light rather than just block it. No face. No features. Just a silhouette of pure malice that radiated hunger.
It looked at me.
I don't know how I knew it was looking—it had no eyes—but I felt its attention like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
Run.
My body wouldn't move. Fear locked my muscles in place, that primal terror that turns rational thought into white noise.
The shadow-thing moved. Glided. No footsteps. Just smooth, wrong movement that defied physics.
It reached for me with hands that were too long, fingers like claws—
"ARTHAS!"
Mom.
She appeared out of nowhere—literally, one second empty space, next second she was there—standing between me and the shadow-thing.
In her hand was a sword.
Not the wrapped one from our wall. This one glowed. Soft blue-white light that pushed back the darkness like sunrise breaking through night.
"Close your eyes," she said. Her voice was different. Cold. Commanding. Nothing like the warm mom who made me breakfast.
I closed my eyes.
Even through my eyelids, I saw the flash. Heard a sound like tearing fabric mixed with a scream that wasn't quite human.
Then—silence.
I opened my eyes.
The shadow-thing was gone. Mom stood there, sword already fading from her hand like it had never existed. She turned to me, and her expression was pure concern.
"Arthas. Kamu okay? Dia gak nyakitin kamu?" (Arthas. Are you okay? It didn't hurt you?)
I stared at her. At the space where the sword had been. At the spot where the shadow-thing had dissolved.
"What..." My voice came out small. Scared. "What was that?"
Mom's face fell. She looked tired. Sad. Like she'd been dreading this conversation for years.
"Come on. Let's go home. I'll explain everything."
Home — That Evening
We sat in the living room. Dad had come home early—Mom must've called him. He sat beside her on the couch, hand on her shoulder. United front.
I sat across from them, still processing.
My mom killed a shadow monster with a glowing sword.
My mom. Killed. A shadow monster.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
"Arthas," Mom started, then paused. Searching for words. "That thing you saw... it was a malicious spirit. Something that should've been exorcised centuries ago, but it fell through the cracks."
"Malicious spirit," I repeated flatly. "Like a ghost."
"Not exactly. More like... a curse given form. Negative emotions that accumulated until they became sentient."
Right. Sure. That's a normal thing that definitely exists.
Except I'd seen it. Felt its wrongness. Watched my mom kill it with a magic sword.
So apparently, it does exist.
"And you can kill them," I said. "With swords you summon from nowhere."
Mom and Dad exchanged another glance.
"It's complicated," Dad said carefully.
"I'm ten. Not stupid. Explain."
Mom took a deep breath. "My family... the Kanzakis... we're not normal, Arthas. We never have been. We're guardians. Protectors. We come from a line of people who can manipulate spiritual energy. Manifest weapons. Fight things normal humans can't see."
"Like demon slayers?" I asked, because my brain was still trying to categorize this into familiar frameworks.
"Sort of. But we're not part of any organization. Just... a family tradition."
"And the sword?"
"Murasame. Our ancestral blade. It's been in the family for generations."
The sword. The one on the wall. The one that watches me.
"It's... alive, isn't it?"
Mom's eyes widened slightly. "How did you—"
"I can feel it. When I look at it. Like it's looking back."
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, they were pained. "Yes. Murasame is alive. Aware. Sentient in its own way. And it's been watching you since you were born."
A chill ran down my spine despite the warm evening air.
"Why?"
"Because it's choosing its next wielder. And I think..." Her voice cracked slightly. "I think it's choosing you."
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TO BE CONTINUED...