The darkness that enveloped Ki Bungkuk Jagad's soul after the cataclysmic explosion at the peak of Mount Lawu was no ordinary void.
It was an absolute vacuum—a hollow expanse where time seemed to cease its ticking, and human existence was reduced to a mere, flickering spark of consciousness. In that nothingness, the soul of the Great Shaman drifted, tossed between the lingering embers of burning rage and the bitter, jagged memories of betrayal.
However, the silence did not last forever.
Slowly but surely, a spiritual gravitational pull of immense power began to tug at his soul.
It felt like being forcefully squeezed into an impossibly narrow, searing tunnel. Ki Bungkuk's soul, which should have been as vast as the horizon, was now being compressed and strained to its absolute limit—crushed into a dense point to be poured into a brand-new vessel.
The sensation was excruciating. It felt as though every inch of his awareness was being sliced by thousands of ethereal blades. He wanted to roar, to unleash his protective spells, but his voice was swallowed by the crushing pressure of the dimensions.
Damn it... What is this? Why does my soul feel like it's being imprisoned? Ki Bungkuk's mind raced in utter confusion.
Suddenly, the pressure vanished. It was replaced by a blinding explosion of white light that seared his vision. Chaotic noises assaulted his hearing. There were the screams of a woman, the clinking of metal instruments, and the splashing of water.
The first thing he truly felt was the temperature—a piercing, biting cold that stung his skin, which felt unnervingly thin and sensitive. Instinctively, his small, wet lungs gasped for air for the first time, triggering a physiological reaction he could not control.
"Waaaa... Waaaaa! Waaaaaa!"
Ki Bungkuk was startled. He heard the crying—a shrill, pathetic wail of an infant. He tried to shut his mouth, tried to suppress that humiliating sound, but his body possessed a will of its own. Every time he tried to breathe, a louder cry escaped.
His arms felt short, pudgy, and utterly powerless. His legs could only kick at the air weakly.
CURSES! I... I have truly been reborn? As a babe?! The realization hit him like a warhammer. The Legendary Shaman of the Nusantara, who could topple mountains with a single curse, was now in the most vulnerable state in the cycle of human life. He wanted to curse the heavens, but his eyes, still sticky and half-closed, could only capture the blurred shadows of giant figures moving around him.
"Congratulations, Lord Ragil! The baby is born healthy! It's a boy!" a middle-aged woman's voice exclaimed with a tone of profound relief.
Ki Bungkuk, now forced into a new identity, struggled to view the world through eyes that had yet to focus.
His first visual was not the lush forests of Lawu scented with incense, but a vast room with soaring stone ceilings. The architecture was Western Classical, with sturdy pillars decorated with intricate carvings.
What stood out most were the chandeliers. They didn't emit the smell of oil or candle smoke; instead, they radiated a clear, pale blue light—a luminescence emanating from crystals infused with mana energy.
A large, calloused hand, moving with surprising gentleness, lifted his body. Little Razzaq—as he would soon be called—looked up and saw a man with a face as hard as granite. The man had silver-gray hair that shimmered, matching the fine tufts of hair growing on Razzaq's own head.
His eyes were sharp, radiating an authority that brooked no argument, yet behind that cold gaze, there was a suppressed glimmer of pride.
This was Count Ragil Graymore. The ruler of the Graymore territories, known as the last bastion of the kingdom on the northern frontier.
Ragil gazed at his third son intently.
"The pure Graymore silver hair... even his eyes show a calmness foreign to an infant," Count Ragil murmured, his deep voice vibrating through Razzaq's small chest. "You will be the pride of this family. Your name shall be Razzaq Graymore."
Razzaq, within his mature mind, could only snort mentally.
Razzaq Graymore? Fine, a dignified enough name. But don't expect me to become some thick-headed knight who only knows how to swing blunt iron, old man.
After the exhausting ordeal of his birth, he was transferred into a much softer embrace. The fresh scent of Western roses and high-end baby powder greeted his nostrils.
The woman holding him had a face of serene beauty, with blue eyes that sparkled like gems. She was Countess Nayla Graymore, Razzaq's mother. Unlike her rigid husband, Nayla radiated a warmth that caused Razzaq's vengeance-filled soul to soften, if only for a moment.
Nayla was a high-tier mage, and Razzaq could feel a very stable and powerful flow of mana emanating from her body.
"My sweet child... my little Razzaq," Nayla whispered, kissing his forehead. "You are the most beautiful blessing. Mother promises to protect you from all the darkness of this world."
Razzaq stared at her in silence. A strange warmth spread through his heart, something he hadn't felt in his previous life, which had been consumed by ambition and treachery.
However, that sentimental moment was quickly shattered by biological reality. He felt a gnawing hunger, and infant instincts took over. An unbearable thirst forced him to perform the most humiliating act in his history as a Great Shaman: nursing.
Damn it, damn it, damn it! If the kings of the Nusantara knew I was doing this, they would laugh themselves into their graves! His mind was filled with intense self-loathing.
The first few weeks at Graymore Castle were a period of transition filled with mental agony for Razzaq. He had to accustom himself to the severe limitations of his physical form.
He spent his days lying in a luxurious crib, wrapped in soft silk. Yet, behind his "adorable" appearance, his brain worked tirelessly. He observed everyone who entered his room, studied the foreign language they spoke, and analyzed the energy system of this new world.
This was where he met the person who would eventually become his shadow.
"Young Master Razzaq! Good morning! Oh, look at who's awake and looking so handsome today!"
A young girl in a crisp black-and-white maid uniform entered the room with light steps. She had brown hair tied in a ponytail and a wide smile that seemed permanent.
This was Clara, the personal maid appointed by Countess Nayla to serve Razzaq's needs twenty-four hours a day. To Clara, Razzaq was the cutest baby on the entire continent of Asyama.
"Come now, Young Master, time for a warm bath! Don't keep scowling like that, or your chubby cheeks will freeze in place!"
Razzaq stared at Clara with a flat expression. To him, Clara was a noisy distraction. However, he couldn't deny her efficiency. The girl seemed to possess a sixth sense, knowing exactly when Razzaq was hungry, hot, or needed a diaper change.
When Razzaq felt uncomfortable due to his infant body sweating easily, he only had to give a small, specific whimper. In his head, he was saying: "Hey, servant, clean my body immediately, this is disgusting!" But what reached Clara's ears was merely: "Nguuuuu... hnnng!"
Strangely, Clara understood immediately. "Oh, is the Young Master feeling hot? Just a moment, Clara will wipe you down with a fresh, damp towel."
Razzaq could only surrender. His power to resist was currently zero. He allowed Clara to clean him, dress him in expensive miniature clothes, and occasionally pinch his cheeks with adoration. The pride of the Great Shaman was tested every second as Clara treated him like a precious little toy.
However, amidst the boring infant routines, Razzaq did not remain idle.
Every night, when the castle fell silent and Clara slept on the small sofa in the corner of his room, Razzaq would begin his ritual. With great effort, he tried to move his limp body into a cross-legged position—though he often ended up toppling over because his baby head was too heavy.
He closed his eyes and began to sense the energy around him.
This world was saturated with Mana. To Razzaq, this Mana was fundamentally similar to the Internal Breath or Prana he had mastered in the Nusantara. However, the quality of Mana here was far denser and more volatile.
He tried to draw even a tiny amount of that Mana into his body through his pores.
Srekk!
A sharp pain struck his energy circuits. This infant body was still too pure and fragile. Injecting raw, unfiltered Mana into his physical form now was like pouring boiling oil into a thin plastic bottle. The bottle would melt.
I cannot use this world's magic methods right now. I must use my own arts to temper this vessel first, he thought.
He began to practice a micro-version of Tapa Pendem. This was a Nusantara Shaman technique used to strengthen internal organs and bone density through spiritual energy resonance.
He didn't absorb Mana; instead, he manipulated the original life energy of his own infant body to circulate slowly through his chakra paths. He focused that energy on his spine and heart, ensuring his physical foundation would be far stronger than any ordinary human as he grew.
However, this training had side effects. Because he was so focused on meditation, he rarely emoted like a normal baby. He didn't laugh, he didn't crawl after toys, and he rarely cried unless absolutely necessary.
This began to spark dark rumors among the castle staff.
One afternoon, while Clara was doing laundry near the kitchen, she overheard the senior maids gossiping.
"Have you heard about the baby Clara is guarding? Young Master Razzaq?" whispered a plump maid. "I heard he's cursed. He never laughs. His eyes always stare blankly at the ceiling... as if he's communicating with ghosts."
"Yes, I heard that too. The midwife said his aura was cold at birth. Perhaps he was born without a soul, or a wicked spirit entered his body," another added.
Clara, hearing this, slammed her laundry basket onto the floor. Her cheerful face turned a bright, angry red.
"Hey! Watch your tongues! Young Master Razzaq is simply very calm and wise. He is a brilliant baby, far smarter than all of you who do nothing but gossip! If I hear you slandering him again, I'll report you to Countess Nayla!"
The maids immediately fell silent and scattered with terrified looks. They knew Clara was a favorite of the Countess.
Razzaq, who was monitoring the conversation from a distance using his residual spiritual hearing, could only offer a faint mental smile. Good girl, Clara. You are a noisy protector, but I appreciate your loyalty.
One night, as a silver moon shone brightly through his window, Razzaq attempted to access the one thing he had brought with him from death: the World Diamond Mustika.
He could feel it pulsing within the core of his soul. The artifact carried the residual energies of the Nusantara. However, the moment he tried to touch it with his consciousness, he was hit by a wave of intense vertigo. The treasure was still sealed by the physical weakness of his infant body.
Still too early... he hissed internally.
He turned his gaze toward the window, looking at the dense forest stretching beyond Graymore Castle. He knew that in this world, power was everything.
He saw his father, a great knight, and his mother, a powerful mage. In a world filled with monsters, swords, and sorcery, he would not survive simply as a pampered noble baby.
"You traitorous kings... you thought my death was your victory," Razzaq stared at the moon with silver-gray eyes that were cold and sharp, devoid of any infant innocence.
"Laugh while you can. I will grow strong here. I will forge this body into the deadliest weapon ever known. I will merge the Shamanic arts of the Nusantara with the Mana of this world. And when the time comes, this universe will tremble at the return of Ki Bungkuk Jagad in the form of Razzaq Graymore."
He then closed his eyes, returning to his deep meditation, ignoring Clara as she entered the room to tuck him in, kissing his cheek one last time.
His journey of vengeance had only just begun—from a luxurious crib in a silent room.