The village was nestled between two rivers—Kali Keruh and Kali Erang. The name Kali Keruh, or the Murky River, was fitting, as its waters were always clouded, not only during the rainy season but even in the dry months. In contrast, Kali Erang, just a few hundred paces away, remained crystal clear year-round, defying the seasons.
Officially, this village had once marked the western border of the Majapahit Kingdom. But as kingdoms rose and fell, the land seemed to belong to no one. Perhaps the towering Mount Slamet, which separated it from the kingdom’s heartland in Java, contributed to this isolation. Yet, despite its remoteness, this region held great economic value, as it lay on the trade route connecting the northern and southern coasts of Jawa Dwipa.
Moreover, its fertile lands yielded abundant harvests, and its forests brimmed with resources that brought prosperity to its people.
With twin rivers fed by springs from the western slopes of Mount Slamet, the village offered a landscape of breathtaking beauty.
This was Bumi Ayu. A land of elegance.
Truly, if there were ever a place that embodied the saying gemah ripah loh jinawi, tata tentrem kerta raharja—a land of wealth, peace, and harmony—this was it.
Yet few knew that beneath this serene paradise, shadows had begun to gather. Strangers had arrived, their presence as unsettling as their appearance.
The sky stretched wide, an endless blue canvas behind the mighty Mount Slamet. A swift sriti bird sliced through a drifting cloud. In the foreground, people bartered over fresh produce and forest goods displayed on wooden benches or laid atop woven mats along the rugged dirt road.
At a small roadside eatery, the morning meal was coming to an end. Only six or seven patrons remained, seated on simple benches—mostly farmers or traders from distant villages who had finished selling their goods.
Yet, among them, two figures stood apart from the rest.
One was a man of indeterminate age—perhaps thirty-five, though he could easily be forty-five. He sat in the corner, his face shadowed beneath a worn, circular straw hat. His build was neither large nor small, but there was an undeniable strength in his posture. He had devoured two plates of rice and side dishes and was now on his third, eating as if he had not seen food in a month.
The other was a woman clad entirely in white. Her thick black hair was partially coiled in a bun, the rest flowing freely down her back. Her skin was a warm golden hue. She was nearing forty, yet time had only refined her beauty. Or rather, she had reached the peak of her allure in her late thirties.
What truly set them apart, however, were the weapons they carried. The man bore a slightly curved long sword strapped to his back—its shape reminiscent of the blades wielded by the samurai of Jepun. The woman, in contrast, carried twin short swords, one on each hip.
She had already finished her meal. Rising gracefully, she paid for her food and then turned to the eatery’s owner. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, nearly swallowed by the marketplace's clamor.
“Ki Sanak, do you know where I can find Bukit Sagara?” she asked.
For a moment, the eatery owner was taken aback. A flicker of curiosity crossed his face, but it vanished as he smiled politely.
“Follow this road west, Nona,” he said. “You’ll see a long blue-tinged ridge in the distance. It won’t take half a day to reach it. Bukit Sagara lies beyond that ridge.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a sweet smile.
Perhaps she was pleased to be addressed as Nona—a young maiden. Indeed, despite approaching forty, she remained unmarried. No doubt, her past held a tale of love worth telling…
At the very least, she was on the right path.
From his seat in the corner, the long-sworded man stiffened at her question. Though she had spoken softly, he had heard her words with perfect clarity, despite being nearly ten paces away. It was a testament to his finely honed senses—a skill attainable only by a warrior of great mastery.
Sapta Pangrungu.
As the woman stepped away, he kept his ears trained on her footsteps.
And before those footsteps could fade completely, he hastily finished his meal and paid his bill.
At that moment, both the eatery owner and the swordsman found themselves perplexed.
The swordsman was intrigued because the woman had asked about Bukit Sagara—the very place he sought.
The eatery owner, however, was bewildered for a different reason.
In the past two or three days, several travelers had inquired about Bukit Sagara. And like this woman, they all carried weapons. Without a doubt, they were people from the world of persilatan.
“Ki Sanak, are you heading to Bukit Sagara as well?” the eatery owner asked, his curiosity unguarded.
The swordsman quickly masked his growing unease. He flashed a broad smile—despite his straw hat, he did not radiate menace.
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I’m heading south.”
The eatery owner nodded slowly, though his eyes held doubt. Still, he did not press further. Yet, in his heart, a question lingered:
Why are warriors seeking Bukit Sagara?
The swordsman stepped out swiftly, ensuring he did not lose sight of the woman. Another thought gnawed at his mind:
How many others are heading toward Bukit Sagara?
The rumors had already spread, he mused.
By the time he reached the crossroads, the woman was gone.
Yet, without hesitation, he chose the left path.
And there, he lost her completely.
Before him, the dirt road stretched into the vast rice fields. Even his Sapta Pangrungu—his ability to hear the faintest sound—failed to catch even the softest trace of her presence. The air was silent. Only the gentle whisper of the wind and the distant clinking of a farmer’s hoe disturbed the quiet.
“She’s an extraordinary woman,” he murmured.
He had hoped to meet her, to learn her name, to understand why fate had drawn them to the same place.
And yet, by their second encounter, she had already vanished without a trace.
The swordsman—his name, Mahesa Geni, a warrior from the eastern heights of Gunung Mahameru—sighed deeply.
Then, without further hesitation, he unleashed his lightness technique and dashed forward in pursuit.
Unseen, behind the trunk of a great tree, a pair of keen eyes watched his every move.
Their owner caressed the long silk scarf draped across their shoulders.
In every era, in every corner of the world, women have always been targets of crime—especially those who traveled alone, through desolate paths and dense forests. And even more so if they possessed striking beauty and dressed in a way that drew attention.
So it was with the beautiful woman in white, gracefully making her way toward Bukit Sagara.
The twin swords hanging from her waist were nothing more than a source of amusement for the two towering men who intended to block her path.
These two giants, who looked almost identical, knew well that their prey was no ordinary woman. That was precisely why they had watched her carefully, waiting until she was only a few steps away from the boat that would carry her across the river.
That river was called Ci Pamali, a waterway that had for centuries marked the border of the Sunda Kingdom. A legendary river, steeped in ancient tales passed down through generations—not just among the Sundanese, who lived west of Ci Pamali, but also among the people of Banyu Mas, who dwelled on its eastern banks.
One of these tales spoke of the battle between Ciung Wanara and Hariang Banga—a conflict that, as the legend went, had forever divided Sunda and Java.
The crossing point here was roughly a hundred paces wide.
The water flowed calmly in this part of the river.
But a river’s stillness does not always mean safety and peace.
Ci Pamali was both tranquil and treacherous.
Not only could crocodiles emerge at any moment, but river bandits lurked as well—far more dangerous than any beast, for they could strike whenever they pleased. And on this particular day, the two giants watching from the riverbank were among those very pirates. They hailed from far to the south, from the murky waters of Segara Anakan.
Even in the bright light of midday, they were bold enough to strike.
The woman—ah yes, her name was Sekar Ayuwardhani—was fully aware that at least two men had been tailing her. Yet she walked on with unwavering confidence. Bandits, raiders, and outlaws of any kind were nothing new to her—not for a woman who had been feared for years under the title The Poisoned Rose of Bhumi Sambhara Budhara!
When she left the eatery earlier, she had noticed the long-sworded man following her. Just beyond the village, she had amused herself by slipping behind a thicket, moving with such silence and stillness that even the keenest tracker would have lost her trail. Only after the man had passed did she emerge again, striding along the road as if nothing had happened.
Sekar Ayu was a warrior who found joy in toying with her opponents, as if battle itself were nothing more than a game.
But this time, she might have met her match.
Or rather, a pair of immovable stone-like figures.
She cast her gaze westward, across the waters of Ci Pamali. For the first time, she was about to cross the boundary of a kingdom.
She leapt from a large rock and landed squarely on the wooden deck of the boat—without causing so much as a ripple in the river! It was a testament to her extraordinary lightness technique.
“Let’s go, sir,” she said to the boatman.
But just moments after the boatman pushed off, two enormous figures leapt onto the boat. And astonishingly, despite their bodies being as massive as well-fed rhinoceroses, they landed simultaneously with only the faintest tremor rocking the vessel!
A bad omen, thought the boatman, who decided to remain motionless on the shore as his boat drifted away. With no one at the oars, the boat was carried slowly downstream by the current.
For a brief moment, Sekar Ayu was puzzled as she watched the boatman abandon his vessel to the river’s will. That moment of hesitation cost her precious time. The distance back to shore was now too great to leap. As for swimming, she was still uncertain. For now, all she could do was wait.
One of the two giants grabbed the long bamboo pole used to steer the boat. With just two firm pushes, the vessel surged forward, reaching the middle of the river in an instant.
But then, right at the river’s heart, the giant planted the bamboo pole deep into the riverbed, using it to anchor the boat in place.
The vessel stopped.
Like children who had found a new toy, the two giants burst into simultaneous laughter.
“Look, Balaupata, she’s starting to feel fear,” one of them chuckled.
“Indeed, Cingkarabala, and it only makes her more beautiful—like the goddess Dewi Dresanala herself.”
Ah, so those were their names—the names of the twin giants who guarded the gates of Kahyangan.
Sekar Ayu was startled upon hearing them. Though she had never met them before, she was well aware of their reputation.
They were known as The Twin Giants of Segara Anakan.
The very pirates who struck terror into all who crossed their path. Especially when they fought in their natural element: water!
Sekar Ayu’s heart pounded—not with fear, but with a tinge of regret.
However, she steeled her resolve, her eyes flashing like a cat’s.
"Ah, don’t look at us like that, Beautiful Goddess," said Balaupata.
His right foot pressed against the edge of the sampan. The small boat swayed violently.
Sekar Ayu was startled but quickly adjusted to the rocking motion to maintain her balance.
"Balaupata," said Cingkarabala. "Judging by her appearance, I’m certain she is the rose… what was it called? Ah, yes! The Rose from that ruined temple. Hahaha!"
Balaupata frowned briefly, studying Sekar Ayuwardhani. If his twin brother was right, then this was indeed a surprise. The woman known as the Thorned Rose was no ordinary woman. But with Cingkarabala at his side, Balaupata was confident they would not be defeated. And so, a moment later, he burst into laughter.
Their laughter shook the air. And for some reason, that afternoon, the area was eerily silent. Perhaps the villagers were busy in their fields, orchards, and farmlands.
"What do you want?" Sekar Ayu growled.
Balaupata and Cingkarabala laughed even louder—a laugh that bore the signature of those from the dark path.
Yet more than that, their laughter carried a hidden power, making the very air tremble, sending chills through anyone who heard it.
Darkness loomed.
But Sekar Ayu was no ordinary woman. And she could sense that the power within their laughter, though menacing, was still too raw—enough to frighten mere children, perhaps, but not her.
Realizing that their laughter had no effect, Cingkarabala, like his brother, stomped his foot on the edge of the sampan, sending it into a violent lurch.
This time, Sekar Ayu’s blood surged through her veins. Jumping from the sampan into the river was not an option. The depth of the water was unknown. The river’s surface was calm, its murky brown depths concealing the bottom. It could be waist-deep—or deep enough to swallow her whole. If she leaped in and tried to swim, she would become easy prey for the twin giants.
And so, before she could be thrown off by the swaying boat, Sekar Ayu drew her twin short swords and lunged forward. In a situation like this, attack was the best defense.
Both Balaupata and Cingkarabala stepped back—not out of fear, but because, in the blink of an eye, they noticed the violet gleam at the tips of her blades.
Poisoned swords!
So their suspicions were true—this woman was the Poisonous Rose of Bhumi Sambhara Budhara. That colossal temple held not only a rich history of literature and culture but also a legacy of remarkable women—renowned for both their beauty and their deadly skills, just like their ancestor, Pramodhawardhani, one of the most beautiful women in Nusantara’s history.
For that reason, Balaupata and Cingkarabala did not dare to underestimate her. They focused on dodging, only occasionally attempting to deflect her sword hilts with their maces. Besides, with the sampan barely a fathom wide, they found it difficult to position themselves for a coordinated attack.
Sekar Ayu knew she had to keep both opponents directly in front of her, leaving them no space to flank her from opposite sides.
The battle raged on, exchanging moves at lightning speed. Relying on her near-perfect mastery of light-foot techniques, Sekar Ayu wielded her swords like the fangs of a venomous serpent, poised to strike. Yet despite their overwhelming physical strength, the two giants—like most of their kind—had minds as thick as mud. Or perhaps frozen solid. They relied more on brute instinct, honed from a lifetime on the water.
As the fight dragged on, it became clear that Balaupata and Cingkarabala were struggling to match Sekar Ayu’s movements. Even though the river was not her domain, she proved that the Thorned Rose was not a mere title. Still, despite gradually pushing them back, landing a decisive strike was nearly impossible. Every time she launched a lethal attack, Balaupata and Cingkarabala would violently rock the sampan, throwing off her aim.
Even the great Duke Karna, no matter how skilled, would have missed his mark if his chariot had been deliberately shaken by Salya.
And so, the battle remained fierce and evenly matched. Sekar Ayu was well aware of the dark reputation of her foes—men who would stop at nothing to satisfy their vile desires. At the same time, Balaupata and Cingkarabala knew that even the slightest cut from Sekar Ayu’s blade would mean death.
Thus, all three combatants focused entirely on their fight, oblivious to the eyes watching them from the shadows.
Behind a cluster of shrubs on the eastern riverbank, Mahesa Geni did not take his eyes off the battle for even a moment. Once again, he silently admired the woman’s skill. He had arrived just in time to hear one of the twin giants mockingly mention her title.
"No wonder," Mahesa Geni murmured, impressed. "The Poisonous Rose of Bhumi Sambhara Budhara."
A smile played on his lips. I would like to test my skills against hers someday.
And with that thought, Mahesa Geni reached inside his robe and pulled out a small bamboo tube, no longer than a handspan. He picked up a tiny pebble, placed it inside the hollow tube, and blew.
The pebble shot forward like an arrow, slicing through the air with a sharp hiss.
Balaupata realized the attack too late.
Something struck his ankle with a sharp sting, sending pain coursing through his body. His footing wavered, and his massive frame toppled backward, crashing into the river with a loud splash. His mace flew from his grasp, landing squarely on his forehead.
A perfect proverb in action: Already fallen, and now struck by his own weapon!
Cingkarabala was utterly shocked. His focus wavered for a split second—just long enough for the tip of Sekar Ayu’s sword to graze dangerously close to his arm. Had he been a heartbeat slower, it wouldn’t have been just his sleeve that was torn.
However, the tip of Sekar Ayu's sword continued to hunt like a hissing cobra.Cingkarabala could only attempt to parry, either with his left hand or with the mace in his right. But gradually, he was forced back, until at one moment, his foot slipped, and his body tumbled backward into the river, landing on his back. His mace flew from his grip and struck his forehead.
Perhaps that was the fate of twins. Even their misfortunes were the same.
Sekar Ayu seized the opportunity. She pulled the bamboo pole that had been planted into the riverbed, and with a powerful push against its base, the sampan shot toward the western riverbank.
Before the sampan reached the shore, Sekar Ayu leaped onto a protruding rock by the river's edge, using it as a true "stepping stone" to reach solid ground.
That was close! she thought.
Behind a tree, someone with the eyes of a hawk observed Sekar Ayu’s movements, as well as those of the twin giants from Segara Anakan and Mahesa Geni.
Before Sekar Ayu set foot on the other side, someone pressed their body against a dense thicket.
Damn, at least four highly skilled warriors are present here, he thought. Do they share the same goal?
He let Sekar Ayu walk past, only a few dozen steps away from him. Sekar Ayu glanced briefly toward the twin giants.
Whoever helped me, I offer my thanks, she thought before dashing into the forest ahead.
The twin giants struggled to swim to the shore. Though they were masters of the water, they had just been injured, and now their movements were no better than those of a lumbering buffalo.
"Wait for my revenge!" shouted Balaupata."Our revenge!" corrected Cingkarabala.
However, both of them limped as they walked, making it impossible to chase after Sekar Ayu.
The man hiding behind the thicket took a detour slightly to the south. For now, he did not wish to encounter anyone.
There will be a great spectacle, he thought. Even if it's just a rumor, the existence of the Siliwangi Manuscript is enough to draw the attention of every martial artist in the land.
It was indeed hard to grasp with common sense. In those days, villages were sometimes separated by an entire mountain. Traveling from one city to another took at least a day on horseback. News spread only by word of mouth. The only tool to convey messages was the kentongan, a wooden slit drum struck with specific rhythms to signal different messages. It could take days for someone to hear of a relative's passing in another village.
And yet, somehow, the trees seemed to have ears, and the wind carried whispers swiftly across the land, spreading news that in a place called Bukit Sagara lay one of the most sought-after manuscripts in the martial world.
The Siliwangi Manuscript.
This was the only book written during the reign of Sri Baduga Maharaja, better known as Prabu Siliwangi, at the height of his power. It was unclear who had written it—whether Prabu Siliwangi himself or a trusted royal official. But the general belief was that the manuscript not only contained the ancestral teachings but also the essence of Prabu Siliwangi’s martial arts, which made him nearly invincible during his golden age.
The manuscript was then passed down to his successors.
Unfortunately, Sri Baduga’s successor, Prabu Surawisésa, showed little interest in the teachings and martial knowledge within the manuscript. The subsequent kings—Prabu Déwatabuanawisésa, Prabu Sakti, Prabu Nilakéndra, and finally Prabu Ragamulya—gradually lost their regard for it.
And now, somehow, the manuscript was believed to be hidden in a remote area of Bukit Sagara, a small hill on the southern slopes of Gunung Kumbang, not far from the former eastern border of Pajajaran.
Thus, Bukit Sagara quickly became a gathering place for the greatest martial artists from all corners of Jawa Dwipa, each with the same goal: to seize the Siliwangi Manuscript. They came not only from the former territories of Pajajaran but from all over—from the northern coast, the southern shores, Demak, Pajang, Madiun, even Probolinggo at the easternmost tip of the island.
It was not just righteous warriors who sought the manuscript—most of them were, in fact, from the dark paths of the martial world.
Everyone knew that in those times, the dream of being acknowledged as the strongest martial artist was an obsession for many.
Their arrivals were not ostentatious. Most came alone. But they bore a common trait: they carried weapons on their waists or backs.
In the end, not all of these warriors would reach the destination at the right time. Some would arrive too late. Others would hesitate to challenge the most formidable fighters for the prize.