The wooden hut stood merely a few dozen paces from Ci Gunung, a rocky river that split Mount Baribis, its cliffs gaping wide. The hut seemed to be built modestly, just enough to shelter from the rain and the ever-biting wind. Yet, its supporting pillars were made of ironwood—solid and unyielding. Its walls were woven from black bamboo, and its roof was thatched with palm leaves, shaped like a pyramid.
It was evident that the hut had been deliberately built in seclusion. The nearest village was a third of a day's walk away. In addition to standing near a steep cliff, the dense forest, thick with towering trees, seemed to wrap around the building, concealing it from sight. Further shielding it was a tightly packed wooden fence, reaching as high as an outstretched hand, obstructing any view of what lay within.
Mount Baribis itself was a rugged, forested range, rarely trodden by human feet. Tigers, wild boars, and various species of monkeys remained its true rulers. Only those with the strongest resolve dared to traverse its dense woods, let alone follow the perilous course of the Ci Gunung River, lined with steep gorges and treacherous rapids.
MORNING still left the last traces of dew on the leaves. Sunlight pierced through the thick acacia canopy, casting elongated beams across the hut’s front yard. The yard spanned approximately ten tumbak.
Three young teenagers stood in a row, facing a man of about forty years, his face stern and unyielding.
Sweat glistened on their faces. Their clothes were soaked and soiled. Their chests rose and fell rapidly, their breath still ragged from exertion.
“Repeat the last technique,” the stern-faced man ordered, his gaze scrutinizing each of the three youngsters before him.
The three youths exhaled sharply, frustration evident in their sighs.
The boy on the right had a handsome face, with thin lips that always seemed to curve into a smirk. He was tall and slender, taller than the other two.
The boy on the left was about half a handspan shorter, stockier, almost barrel-chested, with darker skin.
Meanwhile, the youth in the middle had long hair tied with a purple ribbon and a soft, radiant face with sparkling eyes and red lips. She was a girl, just beginning to show the graceful contours of budding beauty.
They were of similar age, around fourteen or fifteen years old.
“Don’t be weak. The great name of our ancestors rests upon your shoulders.”
The man studied them one by one. His sun-darkened skin bore the marks of a hard life. A headband covered part of his hair, which was beginning to streak with white. His face carried the weight of untold hardships, and a dark scar ran across his left cheek—a wound that, despite the years, had never fully healed.
“Come on, Lingga, do not take this lesson lightly.”
The boy on the right clasped his hands in front of his chest, bowed slightly, and replied firmly, “Yes, Uncle Jayeng.” Yet a hint of reluctance lingered in his voice. His full name was Lingga Prawata.
The man called Jayeng, whose full name was Ki Jayeng Segara, took a deep breath, suppressing his irritation.
Once, he had everything. Now, he had almost nothing left.
But just a few years prior, he had been a Senapatiyuda—a war commander. Fully titled Senapatiyuda Jayeng Segara, he had been one of the warrior leaders of Kadipaten Jipang Panolan, responsible for its security. His rank had been only two levels beneath Arya Penangsang, the supreme commander of Jipang’s military forces.
As a war commander, Jayeng had mastered formidable martial skills. He had led hundreds of Jipang warriors, all battle-hardened. His weapon of choice, like most Jipang warriors, was a straight-bladed kris with a pitch-black sheen—similar to Arya Penangsang’s own legendary Kiai Setan Kober. Even now, the hilt of his sacred kris always jutted from his waist, a silent testament to his readiness to face any threat.
“You too, Wulan and Watu, train with all your heart. You will become nothing if you put in only half the effort.”
The two other youths—Dyah Wulankencana and Watu Ageng—bowed respectfully.
“Yes, Uncle Jayeng,” they answered in unison.
“Begin!”
Lingga Prawata, Dyah Wulankencana, and Watu Ageng stood with feet shoulder-width apart, bending their knees slightly as they raised both hands. First, they pulled them back to their waists, then extended them outward, spreading their arms like the wings of a bird. Their left foot stepped diagonally forward, followed by the right, fingers curled into talon-like grips, ready to seize and tear.
This was the fundamental movement of the Gagak Rimang technique, the signature martial art of Jipang Panolan’s warriors, created by Arya Penangsang himself. At its peak, in the hands of Arya Penangsang, this technique merged with his invulnerability arts, making him a feared adversary to anyone who faced him.
Ki Jayeng Segara’s eyes never wavered from the three youths. The Gagak Rimang technique was not to be taken lightly. A single mistake in movement or breath control, and its devastating power would fail to manifest.
Even though he was a senapatiyuda, Ki Jayeng Segara knew that his mastery of Gagak Rimang was still a level or two below that of Arya Penangsang, whose depth of skill was immeasurable.
Yet, Jayeng was a man of unyielding will and sharp intellect. He had never stopped refining his skills. If given the chance, he often wondered what it would be like to test his Gagak Rimang against Arya Penangsang himself. Such thoughts, however, he always dismissed as foolish.
When Arya Penangsang fell victim to Danang Sutawijaya’s cunning trick, devised under the guidance of Jaka Tingkir, the warriors of Jipang Panolan became fugitives, hunted by Pajang’s forces. Not just Arya Penangsang’s family, but even the families of Jipang’s elite soldiers were pursued relentlessly.
That reality was a bitter pill for Ki Jayeng Segara. His eyes often burned with unshed tears, while his heart simmered with an unquenchable thirst for vengeance.
The captured warriors of Jipang were almost certainly doomed—execution by beheading. Those who escaped scattered to all corners of the land. Jayeng had no idea how many of his comrades survived. He, along with a dozen others, had fled westward. They had trudged through mountains, braved dense forests, crossed valleys, and waded through rivers, leaving the territories of Pajang behind. After months of wandering, they finally reached a secluded valley at the foot of Mount Baribis, beyond the western borders of what was once Majapahit. There, they built simple homes by the Ci Gunung River.
Alone, Ki Jayeng Segara ventured deep into the Baribis wilderness, building his hidden wooden hut. He devoted himself to self-discipline and martial refinement, then took in three disciples—children of Jipang warriors who had perished in battle. He hoped they would preserve Arya Penangsang’s legacy, preventing it from vanishing with time.
While the Ci Gunung River flowed eastward, it would ultimately merge with Ci Pamali, the river that once marked the boundary between the Sunda Kingdom and Majapahit.
As the three youths executed the movements of Gagak Rimang, Ki Jayeng Segara’s expression suddenly hardened. His eyes snapped toward a kiara tree just beyond the fence. His sharp instincts detected something amiss within its dense foliage.
He picked up a small stone and, with a flick of his middle finger against his thumb, sent it flying with unseen speed. A sharp hiss cut through the air, followed by a loud crack as the stone struck something.
A fraction of a second later, the thud of a falling body echoed.
The three trainees froze mid-motion.
Without hesitation, Ki Jayeng Segara leapt onto the fence, then sprang over it in a fluid motion.
Lingga, Wulan, and Watu rushed to the gate, sprinting toward their teacher.
Before them, a young boy sat grimacing, clutching his sore backside.