THE BOY was about the same age as Lingga Prawata, Watu Ageng, and Dyah Wulankencana. His skin was a deep brown with a hint of purple, reminiscent of the hue of wulung bamboo. His shoulder-length hair was tied back with a faded black bandana. He wore loose-fitting pangsi pants and a sleeveless, tattered gray shirt, frayed in several places.
"Who are you?" Lingga Prawata asked, his face grim.
The boy did not answer. He remained seated on the ground, grinning as he rubbed his sore backside.
He felt relieved that only his rear end hurt—having landed on the ground. He hadn’t even realized a stone had been hurled at him, nearly striking his forehead. If he hadn’t instinctively ducked at just the right moment, his life would have ended then and there.
The stone had struck the trunk of a tree, embedding itself deep into the bark. The sheer force behind the throw was unimaginable.
The boy himself was astonished by how he had managed to dodge the attack in time. But in his shock, he lost balance while sitting on the tree branch and plummeted down.
He could only smile at his own foolishness.
Strangely, despite his ragged appearance, the boy had bright eyes and a set of teeth that gleamed like pearls. Upon closer inspection, he also had thick eyebrows, well-shaped lips, and a strong jawline. In short, he was a handsome boy—at least, for someone who looked like a beggar.
Lingga Prawata took a step forward, his face burning with anger.
However, Ki Jayeng Segara held him back.
"Boy, who are you? Why were you spying on us?" Ki Jayeng Segara asked.
The boy looked at Ki Jayeng Segara, then at Lingga Prawata, Watu Ageng, and Wulankencana in turn. He continued grinning, even as he struggled to put on a polite smile.
"Oh, forgive me, sir. Truly, I have no idea how I ended up here. I simply wandered wherever my feet took me. Then I heard something and saw you all practicing incredible martial arts. I love watching people train in silat, so I climbed up the tree to watch. I sincerely apologize if my presence disturbed you."
The ragged boy’s words took Ki Jayeng Segara and the three young warriors by surprise. First, his speech was smooth and articulate, his tone cheerful. Second, he had the audacity to refer to them as "friends." And third, he seemed completely unashamed of having "watched from the tree."
Ki Jayeng Segara furrowed his brows.
Lingga Prawata’s face turned red. He felt as though the boy’s words carried a subtle mockery. How dare some ragged stranger call him a friend?
But before he could act, Ki Jayeng Segara stopped him again.
Taking a deep breath, Ki Jayeng Segara asked, "What is your name, boy?"
"Oh, people call me Wulung. Sometimes Jaka Wulung. Maybe because of my skin color, yes? As I said, I have no idea how I got here. And if you believe me, I also don’t know where I come from."
"And your reason for spying on us?" Ki Jayeng Segara interrupted.
"Oh, I wasn’t spying! I was openly watching. That’s why I was so startled when you threw that pebble at me."
"You insolent—!" Lingga Prawata shouted.
Once again, Ki Jayeng Segara raised a hand to restrain him.
"How long have you been watching?" Ki Jayeng Segara asked. Though he was annoyed, he was also intrigued. How had he failed to detect the presence of an intruder outside the secluded training grounds? And how did this boy so casually admit to watching them?
What also puzzled Ki Jayeng Segara was that there were no signs the stone had struck the boy. No wounds, no blood. The boy merely winced in pain and rubbed his backside.
Judging by his appearance, Jaka Wulung was just another street urchin like those commonly seen in villages. Beneath his tattered clothing, his arms and chest were scrawny. Moreover, their training area was not easily accessible—it was hidden behind dense forest, with towering cliffs behind them and steep ravines at the edge of Ci Gunung.
"Mmm... I watched about ten forms," Jaka Wulung answered.
Once again, Ki Jayeng Segara and his three students were stunned. Ten forms was not a short amount of time to remain unnoticed in a tree.
Even so, Ki Jayeng Segara kept his composure. "And why were you watching?"
Jaka Wulung hesitated before replying, "Hmm... if possible... I’d like to learn silat too."
Ki Jayeng Segara and his students all widened their eyes in disbelief.
"Sorry, boy," Ki Jayeng Segara said. "This is not a martial arts school that accepts students freely. I am only training my three nephews."
"Oh. But I really want to learn."
"You heard what our teacher said!" Lingga Prawata’s face darkened. "Our master doesn’t just teach his skills to people like you!"
Ki Jayeng Segara once again restrained Lingga Prawata. "Boy," he said, "this knowledge is only passed down to certain people." He paused, taking a breath. "Specifically, those of Jipang warrior lineage."
"Oh." Jaka Wulung’s face showed disappointment.
"Now, leave this place immediately!" Lingga Prawata’s eyes glinted dangerously.
"But I truly wish to learn..."
"Go, I said!"
"Oh." Jaka Wulung gazed at the four of them, his expression filled with confusion.
"Leave! Or else...!" Lingga Prawata clenched his fists, raising them threateningly. It was clear he was willing to use force to drive the ragged boy away.
Lowering his head, Jaka Wulung turned and began to walk away, his steps sluggish.
"Wait!"
Jaka Wulung stopped in his tracks.
"How many times have you watched our training?"
Jaka Wulung turned to Ki Jayeng Segara, hesitating for a moment before answering, "Three times."
Had a sudden flash flood struck Ci Gunung, Ki Jayeng Segara would not have been more shocked than he was now. Lingga Prawata, Watu Ageng, and Dyah Wulankencana were equally stunned, their bodies trembling with a mix of emotions—primarily anger and disbelief.
Ki Jayeng Segara’s heart pounded. How had he failed to notice a boy spying on them three times? If Jaka Wulung was telling the truth, it meant he was no ordinary street urchin.
"And how long did you watch each time?" Ki Jayeng Segara pressed.
"Hmm... from the beginning to the end."
Ki Jayeng Segara’s eyes widened. He scrutinized the boy from head to toe. A flicker of admiration crossed his mind, but it was quickly overshadowed by deep concern.
For five long seconds, silence reigned. The sun climbed higher. Birds passed overhead, their shadows flickering briefly across the ground.
Jaka Wulung turned away again, preparing to leave.
Lingga Prawata's face turned even redder as he strode toward Jaka Wulung.
"You must be a spy! A spy from Pajang!"
He reached out his well-trained hand to grab Jaka Wulung's right shoulder, confident that one firm grasp would be enough to subdue the strange boy and extract information.
But something strange happened in the blink of an eye.
Lingga Prawata's hand did touch Jaka Wulung’s shoulder. Yet, inexplicably, he felt as though he was grasping at thin air. His fingers found nothing solid. Because he had intended to yank the boy with all his might, he lost his balance and tumbled forward, hitting the ground with his right shoulder first.
Fortunately, the ground was covered in thick grass, sparing him from injury.
However, the humiliation was far worse than any physical pain. Falling like this—completely inexplicably—before his two martial brothers and his master, and worst of all, at the feet of a ragged-looking boy, was unbearable.
Jaka Wulung, for his part, stared at Lingga Prawata with his mouth slightly open. His expression clearly showed that he, too, had no idea what had just happened. He had no clue why or how this valiant young man had fallen at his feet. Instinctively, Jaka Wulung reached out a hand to help him up.
But Lingga Prawata swiftly leapt to his feet, his eyes burning with rage.
"You little demon!" he bellowed.
Blinded by fury, he attacked Jaka Wulung without thinking. He unleashed a deadly move, one he had practiced relentlessly—the Gagak Rimang technique, a skill that had made Arya Penangsang feared throughout Pajang and beyond.
Even though he had only mastered the rudimentary stages, Gagak Rimang was still incredibly powerful. Any ordinary boy would have been sent flying by a single strike, especially since Lingga Prawata’s fingers were aimed at a critical point—the neck.
Had the blow landed, the consequences would have been dire. The victim’s airway would be blocked, at the very least causing days of excruciating breathlessness.
Jaka Wulung was still standing, his face a picture of confusion. He was completely unprepared for the deadly strike.
Ki Jayeng Segara was too late to intervene.
Plak!
What happened next was astonishing. Jaka Wulung merely crossed his left arm in front of his face and lowered his head, and suddenly, Lingga Prawata’s fingers collided with Jaka Wulung’s elbow.
Jaka Wulung was knocked backward, landing on his back.
At the same time, Lingga Prawata staggered a step in retreat but managed to stay on his feet. A smug grin crossed his lips, pleased that he had finally overpowered his opponent.
But his satisfaction lasted only a moment. A second later, his face twisted in pain. His fingers felt stiff, a searing heat spreading from his hand to his shoulder. His knees wobbled, and he fell onto them with a dull thud.
"Lingga!"
Ki Jayeng Segara and Watu Ageng rushed to his side.
Dyah Wulankencana hesitated before stepping forward. Then, slowly, she knelt beside Jaka Wulung.
"Are you alright?" she asked gently.
Jaka Wulung flinched in shock. This startled him more than Lingga Prawata’s sudden attack.
He squinted at the young woman. Unbelievable! A beautiful girl—so breathtakingly beautiful—was speaking to him so softly. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Was this real?
"You're talking to me?" he asked, utterly bewildered. Amidst all the angry faces and piercing glares, there was one face filled with kindness.
"Your hand is injured."
Without hesitation, her delicate fingers reached for Jaka Wulung’s elbow. But whether it was because he was not truly injured or because of her gentle touch, Jaka Wulung felt no pain at all. There was a bruise, turning a deep shade of blue-purple, yet he felt nothing.
Her touch is magical! he marveled.
"Thank you, I’m fine," Jaka Wulung said, attempting to smile as sweetly as possible, though he suspected his smile probably resembled a horse’s grin.
His smile vanished, however, at the sound of a harsh bark, like a snapping branch.
"Wulan! Step back!"
Lingga Prawata stood with his hands on his hips, his face dark and terrifying. His once-handsome features twisted into a demonic visage. His eyes glowed red, his skin turned a deep, fiery hue, and even his hair seemed to bristle, wisps of steam rising from his scalp. At least, that was how he appeared in his furious state.
His anger surged upon seeing Dyah Wulankencana tending to Jaka Wulung instead of him. His chest roiled with rage, frustration, and... jealousy.
Dyah Wulankencana immediately withdrew.
She disliked being yelled at like that but held her tongue. Jaka Wulung gazed up at Lingga Prawata.
Watu Ageng and Ki Jayeng Segara loomed behind their companion.
Jaka Wulung slowly stood. Oddly enough, as he looked at Lingga Prawata, his elbow began to throb again. The pain returned, sharp and deep. He now realized just how powerful Lingga Prawata had been in that strike, and how miraculous Dyah Wulankencana’s touch had been in easing his pain.
"Let’s settle this like men," Lingga Prawata growled.
Jaka Wulung looked at him strangely. "Settle what? I thought it was already over."
"No more words. Fight me!"
Having learned from his earlier mistake, Lingga Prawata no longer underestimated the ragged boy. Now, he was certain Jaka Wulung possessed some level of martial skill. Though the boy looked scrawny, he must have trained in combat. Even so, Lingga Prawata was convinced he could still defeat him. His earlier stumble was merely due to carelessness.
This time, he would not be so reckless. He summoned all the knowledge he had gained from his master, Ki Jayeng Segara, channeling the deadly power of Gagak Rimang. With two deceptive preliminary movements, his hands spread wide and shot toward Jaka Wulung’s head.
The speed of his attack was like a raven’s swift flight, making it seem inevitable that Jaka Wulung would be struck down. Even if Jaka Wulung dodged, Lingga Prawata was prepared to adjust and strike again.
Ki Jayeng Segara remained silent, watching his student’s movements. First, he wanted to assess how much the boy had learned. Second, he was curious—was Jaka Wulung truly skilled in martial arts?
Who was this ragged boy?
Since Lingga Prawata had issued a warning this time, Jaka Wulung braced himself for a fight. As he saw both of Lingga Prawata’s hands striking toward him, he bent his knees to lower his body.
However, Lingga Prawata had anticipated such a move. Swiftly, his hands changed direction, aiming downward. A mocking smile played on his lips as he watched Jaka Wulung’s simple evasion.
But in the next instant, Lingga Prawata’s smile vanished, replaced by a stifled groan. Through a strange and nearly imperceptible motion, Jaka Wulung flung his body backward while his right leg spun halfway, intercepting Lingga Prawata’s attacking hand.
A reckless move!
Lingga Prawata had already channeled his full strength into his right hand and had no time to evade Jaka Wulung’s counterstrike.
A loud crack echoed as bone met bone!
Jaka Wulung was flung backward for the second time. This time, his face contorted in agony from the searing pain in his shin. His whole body burned as if scorched by embers. He had no idea why his leg had clashed against Lingga Prawata’s hand—his true intention had been to evade the attack.
Is my leg broken? The pain was unbearable!
Ten steps away, Lingga Prawata collapsed onto his knees, his back hunched, his head bowed as he endured the excruciating pain in his wrist. At first, it felt numb. Then, the agony surged through his entire body. His right hand was completely immobile. He grimaced as tears slipped down his face, unchecked.
Damn you, demon child! You broke my hand!
Lingga Prawata let out a furious growl. His teeth clenched so tightly they ground together like crackling wood in a fire. His chest burned with rage and humiliation. Since childhood, his world had been one of fights and battles. Raised among warriors, he had learned the basics of martial arts before the age of five. From then on, every day was spent honing his skills under various masters, with the final and most revered being Ki Jayeng Segara.
Never had he been defeated by an opponent his own age, even those a year or two older.
Yet now, against a boy who looked younger and frailer, someone who seemed to possess no significant skill, Lingga Prawata was forced to face a painful truth. The pain was not just in his broken hand—it reached far deeper into his heart.
His pride was utterly shattered.
Without hesitation, his left hand grasped the kris tucked into his sash. Without waiting for another heartbeat, Lingga Prawata lunged at Jaka Wulung, who was still sprawled on the ground.
At the same exact moment, Watu Ageng leapt forward with full force.
One strike fueled by burning fury, another by unspent energy—both aiming for the same target from two different directions.
Ki Jayeng Segara was too late to stop his disciples. Dyah Wulankencana could only shut her eyes tightly.
Jaka Wulung saw the two warriors leaping toward him in an instant. His heart clenched. He did not understand what he had done wrong. He only sought to learn great martial arts, yet now he was met with a deadly assault.
But Jaka Wulung refused to be an easy target. Relying purely on instinct, he planted his right foot against a tree trunk, using it as leverage to propel himself away.
The move bought him a fraction of a second.
Yet a fraction of a second was all it was.
Both Lingga Prawata and Watu Ageng had anticipated this possibility.
The tip of Lingga Prawata’s kris sliced through the air.
From the opposite side, Watu Ageng lunged with outstretched fingers.
Jaka Wulung had only one option—he rolled backward with all the strength he could muster.
He barely evaded the deadly strikes of Lingga Prawata and Watu Ageng.
But he could not escape the greater danger awaiting him. He managed to roll twice.
On the third roll, the solid ground beneath him was gone.
Jaka Wulung plunged into the ravine.
Aside from a brief scream and the rustling of leaves being torn apart, no other sound came from below.
Tension etched itself onto the faces of the four warriors from Jipang Panolan. None of them had expected the battle to end like this.
A single tear slid down Dyah Wulankencana’s cheek.
But she quickly wiped it away before Lingga Prawata, Watu Ageng, or Ki Jayeng Segara could notice.