Silence.
It's more than just the absence of sound; it's a powerful state. Many believe that silence is the very start of wisdom. It's a quiet space that helps people sort through all their thoughts and feelings. When you're in silence, you can really understand yourself better. It lets you get in touch with your deepest self and truly use your full potential.
Raikha was now feeling this silence. But for him, it wasn't a calm or peaceful quiet. His silence was heavy. It was a silence filled with loud feelings like anger, confusion, and a deep, aching sadness. Instead of finding peace, this quiet moment only brought out the raw pain of what he had lost and what he had been through.
In that silence, His mother's face suddenly appeared, calling his name. "Raikha..." "Raikha." His mother's voice grew softer, then turned into a scream of pain: "Raikhaaa..."
Raikha opened his eyes. He woke from that terrible vision. His body ached everywhere. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed from his spine down to his ankles. His body felt bruised and stiff, as if he'd slept inside a stone. Every breath tasted like damp earth. He lay on woven nipah mats, their scent thick with herbs. Around him, the forest breathed: soft cicadas, distant water, and the faint crackle of firewood. Raikha blinked.
He was in a shelter, a simple bamboo hut tucked beneath broad palm fronds. The roof sloped steeply, layered in dried nibong leaves. Talisman charms—small folded papers inked with blood-red runes—hung from the rafters. Outside, the trees stood close, tall as watchtowers. This was Halimun Forest, the Shrouded Forest, the outer boundary of Langkasuri lands.
He tried to sit up. A sharp gasp escaped him as pain flared in his ribs. "Easy there, boy." The voice was cracked with age but strong—like dry bark resisting an axe. Raikha turned. A figure crouched by a fire pit, stirring boiling water with a reed ladle. His robes were a faded charcoal gray, marked with the tiger-and-moon motif. His face was sharp, with a long beard, and eyes like cracked river stones.
"Sir Gantari..." Raikha whispered, his voice barely a sound.
The old man slowly turned, his sharp gaze sweeping over Raikha from head to toe. "You're breathing," he said, his raspy voice like the rustle of dry leaves in the wind. "That's good."
Raikha tried to speak, but his throat seized up. He swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. "My mother. Saka. Are they—" His sentence broke off; he couldn't bring himself to finish it.
Gantari didn't answer right away. Calmly, he poured a thick, dark liquid from a clay pot into a cup. Its aroma pricked Raikha's nose, strange yet somehow comforting. He held it out to Raikha. "Drink. For the fire still burning in your lungs."
Raikha hesitated for a moment, then snatched the cup and gulped it down. It was incredibly bitter—a mix of turmeric, ground clove, and something else that tasted metallic. But he didn't care. "Please," he pleaded again, his voice very soft, "tell me."
The elder shifted to sit beside him, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the fire pit.
"The Empire knew exactly where to strike," Gantari began, his voice now heavier. "They came with steel, magic, and names. Not to conquer, Raikha. But to erase. To wipe everything out."
Raikha's hands clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white. "My family?" he pressed, his breath held captive.
A long silence hung in the air. Only the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves could be heard. Finally, Gantari slowly shook his head. "I was too late."
Those words struck Raikha deeper than any blade. He looked away, unable to bear looking into the elder's eyes anymore. He couldn't breathe, couldn't cry. His body felt as if it were folding inward, wanting to vanish, to meld into the nipah mat beneath him.
"I have to avenge my mother and my brother," Raikha whispered, his voice heavy with grief and fierce determination.
Sir Gantari offered only a small smile, his gaze reassuring. "That's why I'm here, Raikha." Without another word, he poured the liquid from the pot back into the cup, then offered it to Raikha.
"In forty days," Gantari continued, his voice now firmer, "I will guide you to master the ancient Langkasuri silat, passed down by our clan for hundreds of years. And you will become the greatest warrior this land, even the Empire, has ever seen."
Pak Gantari then took out a small talisman, woven from thread and feathers, and placed it in Raikha's palm.
"Receive this," he said. "This is the talisman of an ancient Langkasuri warrior. Remember, a body can die. But the breath still moves. The shadow still lingers. Langkasuri lives if you live. Understand?"
Raikha said nothing, only clutching the talisman tightly. Gantari rose and walked towards the open doorway. Outside, the sun was beginning to peek over the forest canopy—a golden light piercing through the thick layers of green mist.
"This forest was once part of our sacred perimeter," he spoke, looking out at the trees. "It remembers our every step. Our songs. Our silat. We all trained here—your grandfather, your aunts, even I. That memory isn't gone. But it must be awakened, it must be brought back to life."
Raikha turned his face to the wall, his breathing a little heavy. "I will get my revenge," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone.
Gantari paused. His voice softened, full of understanding. "There are only two kinds of Langkasuri left, my child. Those who fell. And those who rise."
****
A few days later, Raikha had recovered significantly. His wounds were healing, and now, he was ready to begin his journey anew, training with Pak Gantari at the forest's edge.
Raikha stood there, trembling slightly, on the boundary between the human world and the green wilderness. He wore a new sarong wrapped tightly around his waist, secured with a red sash embroidered with silver thread—one of the few family heirlooms saved from the raging fire. His shirt was simple linen. No armor. No blade in his hand. Before him, the forest stretched wide—humid, full of life, and feeling far older than any empire.
Their training ground was a small clearing marked by seven ancient stone pillars. Each pillar was beautifully carved with a different silat animal form: the mighty tiger, the graceful crane, the mystical naga, the agile deer, the majestic hornbill, the deadly scorpion, and the nimble spirit ape.
Sir Gantari was already waiting in the center, his staff firmly planted in the earth. "We begin again," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "With the breath."
Raikha looked at him, then his gaze drifted far off, piercing through the dense trees. A flash of memory struck him: those soldiers, the magic flaring from their hands, the cold weight of his brother's body in his arms, and the burning scream that he could never release from his throat. He swallowed the sudden surge of grief and forced himself into position.
Kuda-kuda Langit (Sky Horse Stance).
He took a deep breath. His posture wasn't perfect. His balance wavered slightly, and his left knee still ached. Yet, he held on. And, most importantly, his breath began to move—to flow.
For the first time since that terrible fire, Raikha didn't feel like he was falling or losing his footing. Instead, he felt... rooted.