The afternoon rain cascaded down upon the sprawling metropolis in a seemingly endless torrent, resembling a delicate yet unbroken curtain that enveloped the cityscape, shimmering as the light from street lamps danced upon its surface. Faint echoes of sirens from a distant patrol car pierced the ambiance, contributing to the eerie and mysterious atmosphere that began to envelop the city as dusk deepened into night. Towering concrete buildings loomed silently overhead, their stoic facades indifferent to the myriad secrets swirling in the narrow alleys below, concealed behind the darkened windows of passing cars and on the floors of offices still aglow, their lights stubbornly persisting as the hour grew late and shadows thickened. In a seemingly ordinary corner of this bustling city, standing firm against the cascading rain, was a multi-story government building. It presented itself as unremarkable from the outside, characterized by its sturdy iron fence, a watchful security post diligently manned, and a parking area brimming with official vehicles. Yet, deep within its structure lay a hidden room in the basement, not accounted for in the official floor plan, where Rizal and the members of the "Bravo" team were once again gathered. This time, however, they were not simply survivors of a harrowing training accident that had nearly claimed their lives; they had evolved into pivotal witnesses in a troubling case involving an alleged organized crime syndicate, one cleverly masked as a "cult" in a remote area shrouded in deception.
This particular room was no longer the cold, oppressive bunker that had once trapped them in a suffocating gloom, filling them with a sense of hopelessness. While the concrete walls remained unchanged, their surface had been transformed into a kaleidoscope of information, adorned with large glass whiteboards filled with intricate lines, striking photographs, and a detailed map of the city peppered with suspicious markers. At the heart of the room, a large conference table sprawled across the space, cluttered with several folders prominently labeled "SKULL OPERATION - URBAN NODE," which contained crucial information that could unravel the tangled web surrounding the case. At the head of the table, Colonel Hendra sat, clad in his immaculate military uniform—his beret absent, giving him a more bureaucratic air rather than that of a fierce field commander. Regardless, his penetrating gaze remained unchanged: sharp, judgmental, distrustful, and perpetually alert. Surrounding him were two unfamiliar faces that added to the mix; one was a woman dressed in a gray suit, her hair carefully pulled back, representing the military prosecutor's office and bringing a cloud of authority with her legal agenda, while the other was a middle-aged man in a plain white shirt, untethered by a tie, introduced only as a "consultant" who bore a watchful and inscrutable expression.
Rizal sat up straight, despite the discomfort still lingering in his back, relics of the violent collision and the exhaustion that had enveloped him since the incident that irrevocably altered the trajectory of their lives. The scar on his temple, once prominent, had faded over time, but a subtle line remained—an indelible marking that drew attention at certain angles, highlighting a painful reminder of that fateful day. Next to him, Fauzan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his face hardened with the weight of experience and the emotions that had ripened since their harrowing ordeal. Sari occupied a seat beside Fahri, who appeared significantly calmer now; the medication and therapy he had undertaken in recent weeks had kept at bay the nightmares that once consumed his sleep, although every so often, his gaze would drift into a void, a fleeting glimpse back into a troubled past, before returning to the unsettling reality at hand. Meanwhile, Bima had made his entrance with the aid of a cane, steadfastly rejecting the offer of a wheelchair, while Maya, Tono, Amira, Dito, Hasan, and Rangga settled into their chairs, exchanging looks of resolve that heightened as Colonel Hendra tapped the table three times, signaling the importance of this pivotal meeting.
"All right," Colonel Hendra began, his voice steady and authoritative, infusing the room with a palpable tension. "Let us commence. We are no longer dealing with a routine evacuation report that can be addressed with a simple file. What lies before us is a complex legal issue, potentially far more consequential than we initially imagined." He gestured toward the glass board behind him with a determined sweep of his hand. "This is our city—the very heart of it. The lights, the offices, the bars, the shopping centers, the apartment complexes—everything that appears entirely normal on the surface. But based on the evidence you have gathered from the village—" he lifted a thin folder containing photocopies of maps adorned with red circles encircling specific suspicious locations, "—we have identified a branch of the violent group that you refer to as the 'Skull Cult,' operating right under our noses, disguised as a legitimate organization with a facade of almost flawless deception."
The woman in the gray suit interjected, her tone dry yet assertive. "Legally, we have not explicitly classified it as a cult. For the time being, the official designation is an organized violent syndicate exhibiting unsettling ritualistic patterns. Several individuals you referenced have long been under surveillance by the prosecutor's office, which has been monitoring their movements closely: social foundations, private security firms, and one or two local political figures who frequently espouse the merits of 'moral cleansing at the border,' a notion that sounds commendable on the surface."
Rizal leaned forward, intrigue sparking within him. "So, what we are confronting in the forest extends beyond mere localized fanatics?" he inquired, his hunger for explanation palpable. "Are there individuals in the city who are financially backing them for ulterior motives?"
The man in the white shirt, who had previously remained silent, finally lent his voice to the conversation. His delivery was flat, though his carefully chosen words suggested copious experience and wisdom. "Fanaticism seldom thrives in isolation without assistance," he stated. "You refer to the modern equipment, standardized weaponry, and logistics that cannot emerge from a financially impoverished village on the forest's fringe. A well-structured network is a necessity for such operations. Networks require financial backing. Money necessitates a 'respectable' façade to conceal its ulterior intentions."
Fauzan lightly tapped the table with his fingertip, signaling a serious tone. "That respectable façade... does it reside in this city, concealing its presence?"
Colonel Hendra slid several photographs toward the center of the table so that all attendees could scrutinize them. One image depicted a luxurious office building emblazoned with the logo of a security company, exuding opulence; another displayed the banner of a social foundation advocating for community service in a village, imbued with an air of nobility; and yet another portrayed a man smiling warmly from a podium—a member of the regional council—proudly delivering a message with the slogan "Guard the Borders, Guard the Morals of the Nation," so meticulously crafted it masked deeper intentions.
In the corner of one photograph, if one looked closely, a small silhouette of a stylized skull could be discerned at the bottom of the banner—barely conspicuous, almost reduced to an innocuous ornament.
"We have encountered that same emblem in various settings," the female prosecutor elaborated. "It rarely presented itself plainly, yet its prevalence was sufficient to identify a troubling pattern. It surfaced at the bottom of donation forms, adorned car stickers, and small pins worn by members of a 'night discussion club' under our scrutiny. Until now, we assumed it represented nothing more than a symbol of a common exclusive group devoid of significant consequence; however, your team's return from the forest with haunting photos of altars, coordinate maps, and corresponding names has transformed our understanding completely. Suddenly, that emblem ceased to be a mere style or decoration."
Dito, clutching the folder containing radio frequency recordings from their operation with utmost care, spoke softly. "The signals I intercepted in the marsh and along the mountain ridge," he began, "cannot be dismissed as mere ritualistic sounds. Amidst that chaotic noise, I discerned brief codes, letters, and numbers—like meticulously arranged logistical communications. Some of these matched the frequencies utilized by security firms in our city that have been under investigation. I have cross-referenced them with the military's radio logbook. Certain hours warrant further examination."
Hasan nodded thoughtfully, demonstrating profound comprehension. "In warfare," he stated, his vocal tone weighted with gravitas, "logistics often present a more honest picture than press statements that can be revised at will."
Colonel Hendra twirled a pen deftly between his fingers, immersed in contemplation. "The challenge lies in the reality that the evidence you have provided is sufficiently compelling to indicate a binding connection, yet insufficient to bring any of these individuals to trial with concrete legal charges. They hold sway over lawyers, networks, and possess the means to artfully spin the narrative. One slight misstep, and we could find ourselves accused of concocting a false tale. Or, worst-case scenario, you could be labeled as severely traumatized individuals, suffering from mass hallucinations without any substantial evidence to substantiate your claims."
Sari tensed visibly, unable to mask her anxiety. "So... everything we faced there, all those lives lost... will be left unpunished, with no tangible action taken?" Her voice quivered with raw emotion. "Lina plunged into that ravine. The others perished in the valley. If this syndicate continues unchecked, they will inevitably construct a new altar elsewhere, employing the same vicious tactics. Perhaps even in this very city when the opportune moment arises."
In response, the female prosecutor regarded her with softened eyes, an ember of compassion flickering within her. "That precisely underscores why we must exercise caution and remain level-headed," she replied, her voice dripping with concern. "You have penetrated the most sinister aspects of their operations, yet within the city, they operate under different, far more cunning regulations. Here, they forego traditional weaponry—machetes and firearms—they employ contracts, donations, and orchestrated media events designed to sway public perception."
The intense atmosphere in the room thickened, escalating the tension that had settled over them all. Outside, the rain cast a gentle cadence against the concrete rooftop, resembling an impatient clock counting down the seconds.
Finally, Rangga broke his silence with a hushed voice. "Their faces differ, their methods diverge," he murmured softly, weaving in his concern, "but their objective remains the same: control. In the forest, they wield fear and bloodshed; in the city, they wield a false sense of security to veil the threat at hand. Villagers are led to believe they are 'safeguarding' the border with intentions that sound noble. Meanwhile, urban denizens believe they are 'maintaining order' out of a sense of duty worthy of admiration."
The man in the white shirt regarded Rangga with an intrigued expression, betraying a faint flicker of interest. "Have you visited the city before?" he asked, curiosity evident in his tone.
"Yes," Rangga replied, nostalgia tinting his voice. "Once. My grandfather brought me to the office of an individual who purported to wish to 'assist the village' under the guise of protection. He donned an extravagant watch and exuded an expensive fragrance, signifying the trappings of a decadent lifestyle. Yet the manner in which he held his spoon while drinking coffee... it was as though he wielded a weapon poised for use. My grandfather rejected his offer, and that night, our home was ruthlessly burned to the ground. Ever since, we have retreated deeper into the forest in search of safety."
Rizal turned sharply, surprised by this fresh revelation. "You never shared that detail with me."
"No one ever inquired," Rangga offered curtly, without a hint of blame.
Colonel Hendra sighed softly, keenly observing everyone at the table. "Now, the matter at hand," he stated, regaining his focus. "You have officially completed your arduous mission. You have the option to return to your respective units, resign with honor, or undergo a comprehensive rehabilitation process for both mental and physical recovery. However, unofficially... we need you to confront a new challenge."
Amira's brows furrowed in confusion. "Need... in what sense?"
"You are uniquely positioned as the only individuals who have witnessed both sides with your own eyes," the Colonel clarified. "The raw brutality present in the forest, and the subtle traces of their influence that have infiltrated the city unnoticed. We possess the data, the tools, and the complete authority required to instigate an investigation. You bring firsthand experience, instinct, and—" he locked eyes with Rizal and the others in turn, imparting meaning with every gaze, "—personal reasons that cannot be overlooked."
Fauzan let out a brief, bitter chuckle, revealing a blend of understanding and skepticism. "Personal reasons? Is that your roundabout way of implying revenge to provoke our emotions?"
"If you interpret it that way, it's your prerogative," Colonel Hendra responded with conviction. "However, differentiate between revenge and a necessary sense of responsibility. Revenge clouds your judgment and drives recklessness in your actions. A sense of responsibility compels you to calculate your movements before making a decision."
Bima grasped his cane tightly, determined not to reveal any signs of weakness. "I can no longer race through the forest," he confessed, laying bare his vulnerability. "My chest is not as resilient as it once was. Nonetheless, I can meticulously read reports and analyze established patterns. Their use of networks in the city presents a new terrain that requires comprehension. I wish to contribute..."
Fahri inhaled deeply, gauging whether the persisting whispers in his head would interfere with the present moment. "In my mind, the voices have quieted," he disclosed. "Yet the shadows remain, haunting my mental state. Closing my eyes does not put an end to their movement. If you seek my assistance, I will support you. However, I refuse to pretend that the events I witnessed did not transpire."
Dito clutched the broken radio he habitually carried with him. "The signals in the forest have been deciphered," he remarked. "Now, I yearn to explore the signals within the city. Cell phones, CCTV footage, internal company communications can yield valuable information. If they are indeed organized, a pattern will surface. And patterns invariably leave traces that can be pieced together."
Maya sat taller in her seat, determination emanating from her. "I may not excel at formal presentations," she confessed, "but I possess the ability to shadow individuals without attracting attention and to blend into my surroundings. In the forest as well as the city, those who believe themselves secure often make the same error: they underestimate what lies beneath the visible surface and the potential threats that may arise."
Hasan let out a deep sigh, fixing his gaze upon the Colonel resolutely. "I have fought on countless battlefields armed with significant experience," he stated firmly. "But if the war has encroached upon my city this time, I refuse to feign ignorance or overlook it."
As the moment shifted, all eyes gravitated towards Rizal, an unspoken trust enveloping him. Rubbing his face briefly, he straightened his posture and met their gaze with newfound determination.
"If we arrive at a consensus regarding the division of tasks," he initiated softly, "what will you require from us to ensure effective collaboration?"
The man in the white shirt began organizing several thin folders, sliding them across the table, thereby unveiling something tangible. Within lay candid photographs—a director of a security company elegantly entering an exclusive nightclub; a religious figure, frequently seen on television, engaged in conversation with an unknown individual in a shadowy underground parking area; and a nondescript van lacking any company logos, having made several stops at locations where suburban residents had vanished without a trace.
"We do not require you to make any arrests amidst extraordinary risks," he explained. "What we need are your trained eyes, ears, and intuition. You will be divided into small teams, akin to civil rehabilitation—participating in classes, light duties, and counseling for recovery. Throughout this, your task is to observe, report, and meticulously test your assumptions. No field actions without proper authorization. No high-risk, heroic solo ventures."
Rangga raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched onto his features. "What happens if we refuse under these conditions?"
The female prosecutor responded, her tone matter-of-factly. "Should you decline, you remain free... within defined boundaries. Rehabilitation will proceed according to established procedures, with your data safeguarded for security purposes. You will be prohibited from discussing any incidents that occurred in the forest with anyone to maintain caution. There will be no penalties, provided you adhere to silence and obey the regulations. However, if you pursue your inquiries independently without our coordination, you may be construed as interfering in the official investigation—resulting in serious repercussions."
A heavy silence enveloped the room, the soft patter of rain outside merging with the backdrop of their contemplation. The choice before them was stark, yet fraught with weighty implications.
Fauzan turned his gaze towards the table, then locked eyes with Rizal with intensity. "You typically lead with your knowledge and expertise," he observed quietly. "You hold sway in the forest with acute awareness. In the city... I will willingly heed your decision."
Sari lowered her eyes, intertwining her hand with Fahri's in a silent show of solidarity. "I... am weary," she murmured. "Yet when I ponder others ensnared in a valley or swamp as we were, simply because this syndicate demands 'sacrifices' to maintain its agenda... I grow tired of selfishness and isolation."
Rizal inhaled deeply, summoning the courage to stand resolutely. "I cannot voice the sentiments of all present," he articulated firmly, "but one truth resonates distinctly. If we dismiss everything that transpired in the forest as a mere nightmare that can be forgotten, then all those who perished there will truly fade into nothingness—mere phantoms of a meaningless dream." His gaze fixed upon the Colonel's, determination coiling within him. "I am in agreement. Within defined and measurable parameters, we are not mere pawns; we are partners in this endeavor."
Colonel Hendra slowly nodded, acknowledgment evident in his demeanor. "Partners," he echoed earnestly. "That is a bold term to employ. Keep that in mind as we proceed. You will soon come to realize how few trustworthy partners exist in this city, which is rife with complexity."
The police sirens outside resonated softly in the background, mingled with the noise of honking horns, laughter spilling from a nearby café, and the gentle ringing of spoons against the china in a bustling coffee shop. The city appeared blissfully normal—as per usual, entirely devoid of any indication of upheaval. Yet in that basement room, an uncharted chapter had officially begun: a new venture where shadows from the forest no longer nestled among the roots and mist, but rather lurked behind glimmering glass, pristine suits, and disingenuous smiles under the calculated gaze of the cameras—all enshrouded in intrigue and conspiracy.
Their silent agreement rippled through the room, easily recognizing that the warfare was far from over: a myriad of challenges lay ahead. Yet this time, the terrain and the language quickly evolved from damp soil and gruesome, fresh blood to reports, clandestine meetings, and digital traces deliberately obscured to elude scrutiny. Amidst it all, the names once merely whispered at altars began to resonate softly behind the scenes of the city, igniting hopes for transformative change.
***
The inauguration ceremony, which unfolded on the expansive parade ground that is a hallmark of the training battalion's illustrious history, was conducted just moments after a torrential morning rain had finally ebbed, leaving behind a landscape glistening with thousands of tiny droplets of moisture that adorned the wet, polished black asphalt, enhancing the beauty of the setting. Hundreds of military cadets stood resolutely and impeccably arranged in an unwavering box formation, their camouflage green uniforms presented flawlessly, polished to a sheen. Each of their berets was tilted at the exact same angle, as if an unspoken code governed their appearance, expertly framing their young and determined faces, their eyes fixed straight ahead with unwavering resolve and purpose. A notable distinction emerged in front of this sprawling formation—one particular row that seemed to hold an undeniable aura of experience and resilience. Comprising only nine individuals, they were visually differentiated; their bodies bore scars that had only partially healed, and their gazes radiated a depth of maturity that was strikingly disproportionate to their age, manifesting an understanding that could only come from having survived real and urgent challenges that put their training to the ultimate test.
Above their heads, on the podium, the bright red and white flag danced gracefully in the gentle morning breeze, a welcoming contrast to the crisp air. The microphone was meticulously positioned to ensure crystal clarity of sound, and the chairs for the officiating dignitaries were arranged with precision, enhancing the formal ambiance of the occasion. Colonel Hendra stood pensively beside a two-star general, who spearheaded the ceremony, while further back, various staff officers and esteemed guests of honor—including representatives from the prosecutor's office and a select group of "consultants" they had previously engaged—watched intently, their expressions a mixture of expectation and admiration. Among the officers was Hasan, standing tall in his distinguished full uniform, adorned with insignia that spoke volumes about his past operations. In stark contrast stood Rangga, who opted to remain outside the formal ranks; he chose to shelter himself under the dappled shade of a tree at the edge of the field, dressed in a simple shirt and a worn jacket that starkly contrasted with the formal atmosphere surrounding the event. He seemed like a mere spectator, an uninvolved observer, yet his keen and observant gaze tracked the intricate movements happening within the formation.
"Troops, ready—GR!" The commanding voice of the ceremony commander boomed across the grounds, reverberating and filling the air with energy, coinciding perfectly with the unified, enthusiastic response of hundreds of cadets, their voices rising in a synchronization that showcased their collective spirit and commitment.
At the forefront of the small line of survivors, standing proudly, was Rizal, now clad in his official uniform—no longer confined to the mundane training apparel that had characterized his early days. His shoulders prominently displayed the rank he had firmly earned after completing the rigorous training program, much like his classmates who had not ventured into the dense and mysterious forest that had become a crucible for their trials. However, he bore a marker of distinction: tucked away in his left pocket was a small but significant token, an emergency operation ribbon symbolizing the grueling struggle and tribulations they had navigated. This same piece of honor adorned the uniforms of his companions: Fauzan, Sari, Fahri, Bima, Dito, Tono, Maya, and Amira, a shared emblem confirming their status as fighters—warriors who had navigated through unexpectedly treacherous obstacles and emerged stronger.
Stepping forward on to the podium with an air of authority, a Major General projected his confident voice, honed through years of training to ensure that it penetrated every corner of the vast open field. "Today," he declared solemnly and with heartfelt respect, "we formally certify your status as soldiers who have been tested and trained. You have not merely completed an education laid out in the official curriculum; some of you have been propelled to graduate ahead of schedule through a pathway fraught with unforeseen circumstances." His gaze caught Rizal and his companions, a proud smile lighting up his face as he continued, "There are experiences and feats that will never be documented in our official records. There are tales that will remain untouched in textbooks. Yet, this country is acutely aware of those who have returned and those who have not, and we honor that reality."
Fauzan felt a lump rise in his throat, dryness creeping in despite the humid atmosphere surrounding him. Right behind him, Bima stood reliant on a cane, permitted to rest but determined to maintain his place in line, refusing the chair made available on the sidelines. Next to them, Sari stood tall beside Fahri, her attention fixed intently on the words flowing from the major general's mouth, hungering to absorb their weight.
"There were hundreds who did not step into the forest that fateful day," the general continued, his voice unwavering. "They carried on their training on alternate paths, not due to a lack of courage in facing challenges, but because fate dictated differently. Today, your ranks are equal. Each one of you is a soldier. The distinction does not lie in the insignia affixed to your shoulders but in the invaluable experiences that reside within your minds."
A hushed murmur swept through the gathering of other students—a blend of intrigue, overflowing admiration, and a gust of inevitable envy floated in the air. The name "Bravo" circulated amongst them, transformed into tales both grand and mystifying, even though the official narrative merely captured "rescue missions in perilous areas." Lurid accounts circulated—whispers of enigmatic valleys, deadly swamps, and treacherous mountain ridges that had silently witnessed the trials—never confirmed by any authority, yet their vivid imagery served to ignite the imaginations of those who had only heard fragments of the truth.
The ceremony commander called out the names symbolically, proclaiming each in an authoritative tone. "Sergeant Second Class Rizal." Rizal advanced with a purposeful gait, executing a precise salute. In response, the general raised his hand in acknowledgment before ceremoniously pinning a rank insignia onto his shoulder—a gesture laden with profound significance. "From this moment onward, you are no longer merely a candidate; you are a soldier. Always bear in mind that a minor rank does not equate to minor responsibilities."
Rizal replied assertively, his voice resounding clear and proud, "Yes, General!" while memories of the cracking rocks echoing from the surrounding valleys and the faint humming from the mountain ridges lingered in his mind.
"Sergeant Second Class Fauzan." Upon hearing his name, Fauzan stepped forward, his expression taut as he accepted the same honorable insignia. "You have posed many inquiries throughout the field," the general added in a hushed tone meant solely for Fauzan's ears, "never cease in your quest for knowledge. However, ensure that you are equally prepared to listen."
"Yes, sir," Fauzan affirmed appreciatively.
The general then called out next, "Sergeant Second Class Sari." As Sari stepped forward with confidence, the general's gaze fell upon a faint scar on her temple, a testament to her arduous journey. "Few have stood resolutely as pillars of support amidst the ensuing chaos. You are among that select few. Let not guilt overpower the responsibility that now rests upon your shoulders."
Sari nodded, her voice resonating with quiet determination. "Ready."
Name after name was called, the inductees stepping forward one by one: Fahri, Bima, Dito, Tono, Maya, and Amira. Each deservedly received a pinning ceremony enriched with sincere words of personal encouragement, tailored to reflect what the general perceived in their eyes. Hasan, attentively watching from the sidelines, smiled subtly when it was Bima's turn, who approached gingerly, cane clenched firmly in his hand.
"You traverse with a limp now," the general remarked to Bima with genuine concern, "yet many cannot walk at all for they do not possess the bravery that you have demonstrated."
"Yes, General," Bima responded, his voice hoarse yet imbued with an indomitable spirit.
With the culmination of the official ceremony marked by a ceremonious flag salute and raucous cheers of encouragement, the structured formation slowly disbanded, prompting the throngs of students to begin shifting gradually. Some approached the small line of survivors, their faces a tapestry of admiration, caution, and curiosity. While some merely dared to observe from a distance, others attempted to engage in conversation with a level of awkwardness.
One student—his hair impeccably styled, his face seemingly untouched by the hardships faced by the survivors—stepped cautiously toward Rizal and Fauzan. "Sir," he uttered softly, laced with curiosity, "I heard... it was really... that terrible over there?"
Fauzan opened his mouth to retort with a light-hearted quip to lift the mood; however, Rizal interjected calmly, "It's worse," he replied succinctly but forcefully. "And more complicated than any explanation offered in the field." He offered a comforting pat on the student's shoulder. "The key takeaway is to study diligently and patiently. Should you ever find yourself in a location similar to that, you must be prepared—not only with physical strength but with mental fortitude as well."
The student nodded earnestly, eager and filled with determination. "Yes, sir. Congratulations on earning your promotion. Wishing you all the best."
Beside an aging tree at the outskirts of the field, which was gradually beginning to empty, Rangga leaned wearily against the sturdy trunk. His gaze followed the unfolding events from a distance, devoid of a uniform and an official rank to define him. Hasan approached with two steaming cups of coffee in hand, ready to share a moment of solace. "You appear as though you've viewed an entirely different world," Hasan remarked, handing Rangga a cup emitting a warm and inviting aroma.
"Not bad," Rangga replied tersely, accepting the coffee. "In the forest, ceremonies like this are absent. Only the witness of trees and rocks remains."
"Likewise here," Hasan muttered, observing the nearby field gradually emptying. "Sometimes the most honest witnesses aren't the people in attendance."
Skepticism evident in his eyes, Rangga turned toward Hasan. "Are you truly confident that inviting me into this 'city game' is wise? I am not a soldier; I possess no rank. I lack the protections that might serve as a shield."
"That's precisely the point," Hasan insisted with conviction. "You are not constricted by the same rules we are bound to uphold. Certain actions are simpler for those who do not officially belong to the structure. And you... you are accustomed to being the 'invisible' participant operating from the shadows."
A brief, humorless chuckle escaped Rangga's lips. "That sounds like a dangerously risky compliment."
"Perhaps," Hasan replied with a confident nod. "However, the world we are embarking upon is equally treacherous. This syndicate is not confined to the rituals hidden within the foreboding forests. They possess bank accounts, orchestrated offices, and potentially even bonds with those currently stationed on the podium, observing us."
At the opposite end of the empty field, Sari and Amira engaged in quiet conversation. "It feels so strange," Sari remarked, entranced by the newly acquired rank on her shoulder. "We used to envision this moment with our families cheering from the stands, perhaps capturing photographs, and sharing a few laughs along the way. Not immediately following... all that we have endured."
Amira sighed deeply, a touch of melancholy creeping into her voice. "But if you consider it, we were always destined to arrive here. Our journey was always steering us in this direction. The only divergence lay in the path and the landscape." She cast her gaze toward the staff building, where Colonel Hendra had just vanished behind closed doors. "And, for us, that path had to snake through the heavy detours into realms others wouldn't dare accept without witnesses."
Fahri interjected, slipping seamlessly into their conversation. "I just grasped an understanding," he said, his tone thoughtful. "Back there, in the enigmatic valley and swamp, we continuously posed the question: 'Who governs all of this, and when will it conclude?' Now, here, the inquiry persists. It merely transitioned forms, from stone altars to conference rooms and monitors monitoring our every move."
"And the voices?" Amira pressed, a trace of doubt threading through her query.
Fahri gazed upward toward the sky, which had begun to clear following the rain. "They are quieter," he acknowledged. "Occasionally they surface, but less to terrify us. It's more akin to... a reminder of our past. If we start to believe that all of this is solely about promotions and salaries, they will remind us: someone sacrificed their life to allow us to be here, leaving behind unseen scars."
Bima approached slowly, his cane tapping rhythmically against the asphalt. "If today serves merely as an official ceremony welcoming us, tomorrow embodies a fresh beginning. They have already communicated it, have they not? We will be dispersed to various locations, almost akin to entering a rehabilitation program while actually keeping tabs on points of suspicion."
Tono affirmed firmly, "I heard it from the Colonel. We shall be assigned to a plethora of 'civilian roles': some in community security agencies, a few in charitable organizations, and others in governmental departments handling assorted projects. It's almost as if we're being trained to adapt soldiers to a new, expansive environment. But..."
"But we are mandated to be vigilant eyes and ears," Dito added assertively. "Seeking patterns amidst the bustle of a city that proves far more intricate to maneuver than a battlefield. The key difference? Out here, the enemy doesn't don terrifying skull masks. They wear suits."
Maya surveyed each member of their circle with unwavering conviction. "We are agreed on this, correct?" she stated, her tone resolute. "No reckless or impulsive actions. Whatever we encounter, we report it first, in meticulous detail. We have danced with death enough times without the necessary backup."
"Agreed," said Rizal, who rejoined the group after being momentarily summoned by the Colonel for a strategic discussion. "In the forest, we learn survival through resilience. In the city, our survival requires us to adapt wisely to the obstacles ahead. These are indeed two distinct challenges, mentally and physically."
Hasan and Rangga arrived, completing their circle in contemplative silence. They stood at the center of a fading field, where the distant sounds of cars and motorcycles from the nearby village faded in gently, under a sky steadily liberating itself from the gray clouds. From afar, the city sirens wailed intermittently, serving as a reminder that beyond the battalion gates, life continued in its typical rhythm—people labored, socialized in cafe corners, and absorbed the evening news, disconnected from the tales of the mysterious valley, the fierce swamp, or the mountain ridge that had quietly observed it all.
"From this point forward," Rizal said softly yet with authority, "we officially receive training as soldiers. Yet our mission does not conclude here. While we may be cloaked in different uniforms, perhaps even civilian attire, everything we witnessed in the forest... it cannot merely dissolve into a beautiful dream."
Rangga stared at the imposing battalion gates. "And what lies waiting for us out there," he added cautiously, "may be infinitely more complex than any threat we faced within the forest. For in the forest, danger had a visceral clarity and bite. In the city, danger beckons, smiling and greeting us."
Laughter was absent. No one responded with playful banter. Only an unspoken, profound agreement bound them—stronger than rank or insignia: they would enter the "city" not as mere survivors of tragedies, but as individuals who recognized that beneath the sirens and the glimmering city lights, shadows remained poised, choosing to conceal themselves behind a complex screen, provided they let down their guard.
With this ceremony, a door had been closed—formal education, the ranks they had painstakingly climbed, the proud roll calls—and simultaneously another was flung open: a new assignment awaited them amidst a city that appeared mundane and serene, where the syndicate that once concealed itself within rituals now maneuvered behind business contracts, charitable organizations, and the alluring political arena. They now possessed status, they wore elevated ranks, but they also carried a weight far heavier and far more meaningful: the profound realization that the true struggle had only just begun within a different dimension.