The Dwiwana Academy was more than just a place of learning. It was a legacy of civilization, the lingering breath of a greatness nearly lost to the mist of history. Founded in the aftermath of the Interface War—a cataclysm that fractured the dimensions of Maheswara—Dwiwana emerged as the final bastion to safeguard knowledge, the balance of Éra, and the sanity that was nearly extinguished when swords and sorcery ruled the world.
Dwiwana was a place where bloodlines, titles, and names served as currency. Behind its towering walls, built from the legendary Cakratantra stone—said to absorb the intent of all who walk past—noble heirs and scions of elite guilds were forged into future rulers. A letter of recommendation was not mere formality; it was a symbol of legitimacy, the seal of inherited power. Without it, one was nothing more than a speck swept away by the raging river of history.
"This," they said, "is where the world decides who is worthy to shape fate... and who deserves to be forgotten."
And yet, even before Raka's feet touched that sacred courtyard, the world had already bared its teeth.
"Without a recommendation, you are but a nameless wanderer," read the ancient law etched in blood upon Dwiwana's founding stone.
While aspiring students flaunted seals of noble blood and letters from the High Guild Lords, Raka came bearing only hope and unshakable will. He was the son of a disgraced noble house, erased from the kingdom's chronicles. But he was no ordinary child.
Raditya Mahesra—the soul from the world of origin now fused with Raka Wirabumi's body—had once been a mechanical engineering student, a military history enthusiast, and a trauma survivor. His world knew no magic, but it knew strategy, logic, and perseverance. Raditya had grown amidst social injustice, fighting through a world that worshipped appearance and connections. He carried those wounds now as strength within Raka's flesh.
Just as hope began to flicker, an unexpected figure arrived.
Resi Gantarajaya, an old man cloaked in midnight robes with a weathered pine staff, walked steadily toward the Academy. He was no mere hermit—once the royal family's protector, a former high-level Éra archivist, and former right hand to the Grand Priest before vanishing from public life.
"This child... may not be great by blood, but he is mighty in resolve," he declared before the elders of the Academy.
"Give him a chance. The world will regret turning its back on him."
With glowing ink on deerskin parchment, Raka's fate was bound to this new world. Yet, even as the gates opened, not all hands were welcoming. Some eyes looked on with respect, others with unease and suspicion.
Following registration, Dwiwana commenced the phased Fundamental Ajian Examinations.
They were not merely tests of strength, but probes into the very soul. This was the Dwiwana Fundamental Ajian Trial.
The Trial of Pen and Sword
Written: To test how well one understands the world.
Practical: To test how well the world understands them.
The third and final stage would be judged directly by Dwiwana's elders.
The Written Trial
The first stage was not a test of might, but of mind.
Beneath the open sky, in a vast courtyard encircled by stone markers of Éra, hundreds of candidates sat cross-legged before rough stone desks. There were no roofs above them—only the heavens, witness to what would be weighed that day: intellect, not muscle.
Quills made from rare garuda feathers danced over sheets of Éra-script parchment—a sacred paper that could only be inscribed with Éra ink, distilled from the nectar of Amreta blossoms and the blood of sky leeches. Each letter was more than writing; it was a stream of meaning capable of resonating within the reader's consciousness.
The proctors in blue robes—known as Pandita Nalar—watched from elevated seats on the western edge of the court. Their gazes were sharp, measuring not just the answers, but the intent and depth of understanding behind them.
This written trial was known as Sang Prasna Wruh, a crucial phase assessing foundational mastery of the world's sciences.
This stage formed the cornerstone of all disciplines—martial, mystical, or spiritual—across Maheswara. Every form of knowledge, be it Kanuragan, Kwisenan, or Kadeyan, was rooted in the principles of Éra, laws of balance, and the structure of complex ajian.
A misstep in a mantra syllable, a flaw in understanding Éra flow, or recklessly casting without fundamentals could prove fatal—causing the body to rupture from within, the soul to drift into Rasana Ilang, or the ajian to explode and annihilate everything nearby.
Thus, the Written Trial was not mere ritual. It was the first gate, a wall dividing true seekers from reckless wielders of power.
In the midst of the murmuring pens, Raka sat still, the scratching of his quill the only sound separating him from the crowd. The question before him asked about Éra's circulation within the Five Fundamental Elements—fire, water, earth, air, and aether.
He read, then closed his eyes.
"Éra flow… isn't just spiritual energy," he thought. "It's like field resonance... like how electromagnetic waves form frequencies in a vacuum, or how particles attract and repel each other."
His hand moved. For most, Éra was a mystical force flowing through body and nature. But to Raka—shaped by a modern education—it looked different.
"If Éra is an energy entity, then it must obey basic principles: it flows from high to low potential, like electrons in a conductor... thus, its flow can be modeled like a current."
He drew a diagram—a spiral of Éra from ancient texts aligned with the structure of a toroidal magnetic field. "Éra vortexes aren't chaotic spirals... they're toruses. At the core of every mantra, there is a torque moment that can be calculated," he whispered.
The next question asked why the Arka-Brahman Shield Mantra failed in Éra voids. Raka wrote swiftly:
"In a void, there is no material resonance to anchor the mantra. It's similar to quantum tunneling—particles may appear and vanish due to vacuum fluctuation, but without energy boundaries to stabilize existence, the ajian collapses."
He even noted the ideal ratio for mantra stabilization, referencing the Fibonacci sequence and golden ratio. He proved that a stable Éra mantra structure always centered on a harmonic ratio of 1.618—a number that appears in galaxy spirals, leaf arrangements, and heartbeats.
Raka wasn't just answering questions—he was proposing an entirely new paradigm, something never before seen at the academy.
Reswara, a Nalar instructor observing from afar, raised an eyebrow.
"Look at that boy…"
"He's not just answering… he's reinterpreting the fundamental understanding of Éra," he muttered to a colleague. "His method… it's strange. But undeniably logical. As if Éra were a precise science."
Raka's hand moved swiftly—not chaotically, but with purpose. He sketched flowcharts of Éra's energy, included notes like 'logical anomaly pattern' and 'glyph structure strategy.' He didn't merely respond—he analyzed the structure of each question, reorganizing them according to this world's logic: deductive reasoning and systematic principles.
"It's like he's read all this a thousand times," Reswara murmured.
What the examiners didn't know was that Raditya—now living as Raka—had trained his mind from childhood. He had read over 3,000 scientific articles and classic war strategy texts. He understood systems like algorithms and logical architecture. In his old world, it made him ordinary. But in Maheswara, it made him something that defied definition.
On the other side of the courtyard, Laras sat in quiet poise. Her knowledge of interspecies history, Éra philosophy, and diplomatic technique impressed the evaluators. If Raka was logic in human form, then Laras was living memory.
Few knew of the shadows she carried. Born of mixed blood often reviled by society, she had grown up beneath the weight of systemic discrimination and silent violence. Since childhood,
she had witnessed how injustice tore lives apart, including her own family's. She had lost her rights, her home, and her voice—but from those wounds had grown a burning desire to uncover the roots of it all.
History became her path to seek answers. The philosophy of Éra, a guiding light through the world's darkness. And diplomacy—her weapon, forged to ensure that the next generation would not have to bear the same scars.
Three hours passed. When the Éra bell rang with resounding clarity, silence swept the field.
Then came the names, glowing like stars across the night sky—some brighter than others.
Raka Wirabumi: Precise analysis, systemic Éra logic, and innovative problem-solving — achieved the highest score in the history of the reasoning examination.
Laras Candrakirana: Near-perfect mastery of historical knowledge and Éra philosophy. Her answers would be used as future teaching material.
Yet before they could fully grasp the weight of their success, the next announcement echoed:
"Phase Two: Practical Demonstration — Kanuragan, Kwisenan, and Kadeyan."
"Phase Three, the final trial: Survival — Mount Ardhakesuma. Three days. One map. No external aid."
The Night Before Departure
Raka sat on the veranda of the novice dormitory, gazing up at the sky. But his thoughts weren't on the terrain of the coming trial. They lingered on the written test—on a single, strange question.
Question 27.
It had nothing to do with any known Éra curriculum. It asked the participants to explain:
"The concept of circular time and the soul's path across realities."
At the bottom corner of the page, almost hidden in faded ink, was a single line:
"If you understand this, then you are not of this world."
Raka clutched the torn piece of paper he had secretly tucked into his robe.
Beyond the thin walls of his room, another examinee stirred—driven by a different purpose.
His eyes gleamed sharply beneath a mask of innocent curiosity.
In his left hand: a secret map of Mount Ardhakesuma.
In his right: an invisible Éra artifact pulsing faintly with power.
And the real test…
Had not yet begun.
Not yet.