JAKA WULUNG opened his eyes. Through the cracks in the walls of the hut, he could still see the dimness outside. Perhaps dawn was just breaking in the eastern sky.
And, as always, at such times, the old man was already gone. Where could he be at this hour?
Jaka Wulung stretched his body. Every day, he felt his body growing stronger. His legs no longer ached. His arms too. In short, he had recovered completely, as if nothing had ever happened—nothing like the unpleasant treatment he had received from the children of Jipang Panolan a few days ago.
Oh, he even felt more vigorous. His breath was fresher, longer. The muscles in his fingers were tighter.
What had the old man done?
When he fell from the cliff, Jaka Wulung had no hope of survival. His body felt shattered when it collided with the branches of trees. He had even lost consciousness right after the impact.
When he opened his eyes again, only silence greeted him. The wind seemed still. Only the steady breath of someone not far from him could be heard. An old man. Clad in gray robes, he sat cross-legged, hands folded, with his eyes closed.
Who was he?
"Thank goodness you're awake," the old man whispered.
Jaka Wulung was startled. The old man remained with his eyes closed, breathing evenly as if he were still asleep.
"Where am I?" Jaka Wulung tried to sit up.
"Don't move. Lie down," the old man said without opening his eyes.
Jaka Wulung lay back down. Not because of the old man's words, but because he couldn’t move his body. Every bone felt crushed. His muscles were weak. The pain stabbed like a thousand needles piercing his pores.
He could only move his eyes.
The dim light from a lantern cast the shadow of a hut, more of a shelter than a proper dwelling. There was a single bedding, which Jaka Wulung was occupying. In one corner, a short bench stood, piled with long-twigged leaves.
The wooden posts of the hut seemed to be rotting from termites. Its bamboo walls had holes. A slow draft caused Jaka Wulung to shiver.
With his still foggy mind, Jaka Wulung tried to piece together what had happened after his fall. Ah, he must have been saved by this old man. He was then brought to this humble hut, wherever it was.
The old man seemed reluctant to speak of who he was or where they were. But each day, the old man gave Jaka Wulung a potion to drink. By the second day, Jaka Wulung was able to get up and walk, albeit unsteadily. When he looked outside, he realized that the hut was situated on a gentle slope, in the middle of a quiet forest.
Meaning, silent from humans and other buildings.
This forest, like any other, was alive with the sounds of animals and rustling leaves.
Yet, on the third day, the old man remained silent, especially about himself. Nevertheless, Jaka Wulung was certain that the old man was no ordinary person. After all, he had recovered so quickly thanks to the potions.
During the day, the old man would appear again with various plants to prepare potions and fruits.
"Grandfather, who are you really?" Jaka Wulung asked.
The old man looked at him without answering. He tidied up all his belongings. Once everything was in place, he began working with the long-twigged leaves, spreading some black liquid with a brush-like tool.
Later, Jaka Wulung learned that the leaves were from a nipa palm, and the old man was writing something on them.
"Can I become your disciple?" Jaka Wulung asked, his gaze full of hope.
This time, the old man turned and looked at him for a long time, as if weighing Jaka Wulung's request. "I have no skills," the old man said. He stood up, took some fruits, and offered them to the boy. "Eat."
Jaka Wulung looked at the old man, seeking clarity. "Grandfather saved me when I fell from a steep cliff. If you had no skills, you wouldn't have been able to save me."
The old man remained silent.
Jaka Wulung lowered his gaze. "Then, before I leave, may I know your name?"
The old man looked at the boy, still with his head lowered. "Don’t leave yet. Wait a few more days," he sighed deeply. "You can call me Karta. Ki Karta."
AND now, Jaka Wulung rose, opened the door, and looked at the dim morning. The sky was still bright with stars.
The leaves of the forest gave a refreshing acidic scent. Jaka Wulung filled his lungs with air, exhaling slowly.
Suddenly, faintly, he heard something.
Jaka Wulung walked toward the sound, sensing something unusual. The forest was alive with the rustle of leaves, the creak of branches, the song of insects, and the cries of various monkeys. Usually, this was the sound he heard. But this time, his ears could clearly pick up other sounds.
He froze when he reached a somewhat open area, several dozen steps to the right of their hut.
Before him, someone was performing swift foot, body, and hand movements. His steps were light, his hands danced yet struck and clawed at the air, his body bent and twisted with every motion of his feet and hands. Some movements were so fast that Jaka Wulung couldn’t follow them with his eyes. Clearly, these movements could only be done by someone of great skill!
Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Jaka Wulung would never have believed it.
There could be no doubt—it was Ki Karta!
Unlike his usual frail appearance, Ki Karta now looked twenty or even thirty years younger. Wearing only pants up to his calves and no shirt, Ki Karta’s well-maintained body glistened with sweat in the chilly morning air.
Suddenly, Ki Karta halted his movements. "Come out!" he called.
Jaka Wulung was startled. Once again, it was proven that Ki Karta was no ordinary person. He knew that Jaka Wulung had been watching him from behind a tree.
Jaka Wulung hesitated for a moment. "Come here, boy."
Jaka Wulung stepped out from behind the tree.
The sky was beginning to lighten, and Ki Karta’s face looked fresh, with no sign of anger.
The boy bowed deeply in respect.
"Grandfather, I want to learn martial arts," Jaka Wulung’s voice was soft but carried with it a heavy hope.
Ki Karta sighed. "What you saw earlier wasn’t martial arts," he said. "It was just movements to keep me healthy. You see, I’m old. If I don’t do these exercises every morning, illness will come easily."
"Ki Karta is a person of great knowledge, and I want to be your disciple."
"No, boy. I’m just an ordinary old man."
"But, may I still be your disciple?" Ki Karta shook his head firmly.
Jaka Wulung lowered his head, deeply disappointed.
BUT Jaka Wulung was a boy with an extraordinary memory, though he didn’t realize it himself. He also had an incredibly strong desire to learn, especially martial arts. However, until that moment, he had never been a disciple of anyone or any school.
It seemed that common folk like him struggled to find a place anywhere. His desire to learn martial arts had even caused him harm. But on the other hand, that bitter experience had only strengthened his desire to gain some skill, at least to defend himself.
Jaka Wulung had already seen that Ki Karta possessed great abilities, knowledge of medicine, and the ability to write on nipa palm leaves. Surely, Ki Karta was no ordinary villager.
It was a pity that his wish to learn from Ki Karta would not come true.
Ki Karta’s refusal made Jaka Wulung want to leave the hut immediately. But his curiosity still lingered. At the very least, he wanted to see Ki Karta practice his martial arts two or three more times.
To pass the time, that afternoon, when Ki Karta left as usual, Jaka Wulung tried to recall all the movements Ki Karta had made and began practicing them himself. Starting with the footwork, then the body movements, and finally the shape of his fingers curled like tiger claws. At first, it felt stiff, but eventually, he was able to do it perfectly.
Jaka Wulung also practiced all the movements used by the children of Jipang Panolan. He didn’t realize that these movements were based on a powerful technique called gagak rimang, Arya Penangsang’s signature style.
Thanks to his memory, after three days of watching the three children train under Ki Jayeng Segara, Jaka Wulung managed to replicate all the gagak rimang techniques almost flawlessly. As he performed these movements, the faces of those children—Lingga Prawata, Watu Ageng, and Dyah Wulankencana—were vividly etched in his mind.
When he remembered the face of the little girl, his heart fluttered with warmth. Could I meet her again? Jaka Wulung quickly pushed such thoughts away. He was just a poor child. The girl was clearly of celestial descent, though now she seemed like a lost angel wandering through the wilderness.
Nevertheless, as he imagined the girl’s face, and especially the arrogant child named Lingga Prawata, Jaka Wulung continued to repeat the basic movements of the gagak rimang martial art over and over.
He mimicked every motion he remembered Ki Karta demonstrating that morning.
Sweat poured down his body.
Jaka Wulung didn’t realize that the sun had begun to set in the western sky.
He also did not notice a pair of sharp eyes watching him from behind the bushes.
Incredible, this boy, Ki Karta thought.
When Ki Karta first found the boy unconscious amidst the thicket near Ci Gunung—thankfully the boy hadn’t fallen onto the rocks—Ki Karta recognized that Jaka Wulung had a truly exceptional body. If an ordinary young person had fallen from such a height, after crashing against branches, especially after a fight, Ki Karta was certain no one would have survived. But this boy had merely fainted.
After he brought the boy to his hut, situated far away on a small hill called Bukit Segara by locals, and nursed him back to health, Ki Karta was truly amazed. In just a few days, the boy was nearly restored to his former state, despite the simple remedies and fruit from the surrounding trees that Ki Karta had used.
Ki Karta waited until Jaka Wulung completed his movements.
Darkness began to descend like a giant curtain. The songs of insects accompanied the sun's descent, swallowed by the dense forest.
Ki Karta was writing something on a nipah leaf when Jaka Wulung appeared, freshly washed from a small stream in the valley.
“Sampurasun, Aki.”
“Rampes,” Ki Karta replied without turning, continuing to sketch with his brush on the leaf while sitting on a bench. “Caught many fish, did you?” Ki Karta’s head remained bowed.
Jaka Wulung smiled to himself. Sometimes the elderly always forget. No matter how much it’s hidden, it’s becoming clearer that Ki Karta possesses many skills beyond the ordinary. He can even smell the fish and guess their quantity.
“Yes, Ki, I caught some in the river before I washed up at the spring. I’ll grill them later. Tonight we’ll eat well.”
Jaka Wulung quickly gathered some wood and started the fire. Soon, the smell of grilled fish filled the air. He couldn’t wait to dig in. His stomach rumbled like the sound of a dogdog drum!
“Ki,” Jaka Wulung said as they ate rice and grilled fish together. “If you refuse to teach me martial arts, can I become your student in writing on nipah leaves? Is that allowed?”
Ki Karta paused in his chewing and took a deep breath. This boy has many talents. Who is he really? thought Ki Karta.
“Alright,” said Ki Karta.
That very night, Jaka Wulung began his lessons in writing. Starting from the basics—writing letter by letter—he first practiced by scratching wood in the dirt. Once he mastered that, he moved on to nipah leaves. Later, Jaka Wulung also learned to write on lontar leaves using a small knife.
It wasn’t just writing letters. Jaka Wulung also learned to compose literary works. This stage was far more complicated than just writing letters. And later, both Jaka Wulung and Ki Karta would silently praise each other in their hearts.
Jaka Wulung praised Ki Karta, whom he now called his teacher, for being an accomplished scribe. His writings, mostly poems, were incredibly beautiful. On the other hand, Ki Karta praised Jaka Wulung as an exceptionally intelligent student. His memory was extraordinary, and his talent for composing was immense.
Exactly like Bambang Ekalaya in the realm of shadow plays, thought Ki Karta.
Suddenly, Ki Karta remembered the figure he had always considered his teacher in both literature and martial arts—Resi Jaya Pakuan. If only my Master were still alive, thought Ki Karta, Jaka Wulung would have received proper guidance from the right person. Ki Karta regretted not focusing more on literature. He had spent most of his time delving into mystical arts, which only led him to face more problems than solving them.
Ki Karta sighed deeply, shaking off his regret.
Every dawn, Ki Karta would always wake up first.
Jaka Wulung pretended to still be asleep when Ki Karta began his daily routines. Not long after, Jaka Wulung would rise from his bed, quietly slip out of the hut, and carefully make his way to a tree on the edge of the open field. From there, he would start his day as well.
The sky was still dim, but Jaka Wulung soon grew accustomed to seeing Ki Karta warming up his body with breathing exercises, followed by a series of coordinated movements that formed specific stances. These movements appeared simple, but they often resulted in powerful effects.
Every movement generated a rush of wind around his body, causing leaves to fall from their branches.
Jaka Wulung stored all of Ki Karta’s actions in his mind. Before the sun reached its peak, just as Ki Karta was finishing his training ritual, Jaka Wulung would sneak back into the hut and lie down, pretending to snore when Ki Karta returned.
When Ki Karta left near midday, Jaka Wulung would immediately go to a slightly open piece of land, not far from the spring, where he had chosen to practice. He would then apply everything he had stored in his mind, from breathing exercises to the various movements that formed specific stances.
Several times, Jaka Wulung made mistakes while practicing new moves. But he would always repeat them until all his movements became almost flawless.
By midday, Jaka Wulung would finish his training. He would leap nimbly, stepping across jutting rocks, and then dive into the cool spring water to refresh himself, soaking in the river’s tranquility to restore his energy.
Unbeknownst to him, from behind a thicket, a pair of eyes were watching his every move.
Ki Karta!
Once again, Ki Karta marveled at the talent Jaka Wulung possessed. Without direct guidance, only by recalling what he had seen, Jaka Wulung was able to perform it almost perfectly.
Of course, Ki Karta knew that Jaka Wulung always peeked every morning. Ki Karta also knew that Jaka Wulung was only pretending to sleep, both when he left and when he returned.
“If only this boy received direct guidance,” Ki Karta thought. But he couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to break his own vow—never to take on a direct student.
Ki Karta’s heart was filled with doubt as he watched Jaka Wulung’s extraordinary talent.
Therefore, Ki Karta decided to make Jaka Wulung his student indirectly. He would allow Jaka Wulung to absorb his knowledge every morning, step by step, from the most basic movements to the advanced techniques infused with inner energy. He would pretend not to notice that Jaka Wulung was always spying on him, and pretend not to know that Jaka Wulung was mimicking all his movements and stances every day.
In this way, Ki Karta felt that he was not breaking his vow of never taking a student.
Thus, an unusual transfer of knowledge occurred from a mysterious old man named Ki Karta to the strange boy named Jaka Wulung.
In a short time, due to Jaka Wulung’s remarkable ability to absorb, Ki Karta’s entire martial knowledge had been passed down to him. Only one technique remained. Ki Karta hesitated whether to teach this final art.
His ultimate technique.
There were several reasons for his hesitation.
First, Jaka Wulung appeared too young to receive this knowledge. Ki Karta wasn’t sure if the boy could handle it, as it required immense mental and physical discipline to reach the level needed.
Second, and most crucial, this technique was only to be passed down to those who carried the blood of Prabu Siliwangi. It was a technique created and perfected by Prabu Siliwangi himself and, by tradition, could only be taught to those who bore his bloodline.
This was the technique that made Prabu Siliwangi nearly unbeatable at the height of his reign.
The Gulung Maung technique.
In his heart, Ki Karta was inclined to pass down the Gulung Maung to the boy. He didn’t know how many people still possessed this powerful technique in the Sundanese lands. He feared it would disappear if it wasn’t passed down now.
However, on the other hand, he had to follow the guidelines set by his ancestors, not to teach this technique to just anyone whose origins were unclear.
Ki Karta spent the entire night weighing the possibility of teaching the Gulung Maung. He meditated, seeking guidance from his ancestors, wondering if he would be violating tradition by passing on his ultimate technique to this boy.
In the distance, a long roar of a tiger echoed. Ki Karta's ears perked up.
After a moment, as the roar faded away, Ki Karta opened his eyes. A sense of relief washed over his chest.
Ki Karta was certain that the tiger's roar had been a form of blessing. He could now make his decision with firm resolve.
The sky was still sprinkled with thousands of twinkling stars. Birds awoke from their deep slumber, chirping loudly, snatching up insects that were growing tired from the night.
Ki Karta had completed his breathing exercises as a warm-up before moving into the physical movements of his martial art. One after another, the stances sliced through the morning air, until finally, with the first rays of sunlight breaking through the horizon, Ki Karta began his ultimate move: Gulung Maung (Tiger Roll).
Little by little, his hands and fingers hardened, forming claws ready to tear at their target. His senses grew sharper. His sight, hearing, sense of smell, touch, and taste all gradually heightened, becoming more attuned to the smallest movements around him. Anything suspicious would not escape his awareness.
A sound began to rise from his throat, uncontrollably. It flowed through his mouth, vibrating his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and came out in the form of a growl, like the roar of a tiger...
Grrrhhh!
Ki Karta leaped lightly, his hands aiming at a kiara tree, about the size of a man’s body. An invisible force shot from his claws and struck the tree's trunk, sending a thundering crash that felt like a blow to the chest of anyone who witnessed it.
For a few moments, Ki Karta remained standing with his legs in a low stance, his arms still extended in front of him. The tree remained upright. But only for a moment.
Suddenly, there was a cracking sound as the trunk splintered and broke, and the tree crashed down onto the ground.
It was hard to imagine what such an invisible strike would do to a human body.
From behind the tree, Jaka Wulung could only watch in awe, his mouth agape. He forgot that he needed to leave before Ki Karta discovered him.
In a clearing above the spring, Jaka Wulung applied his extraordinary memory to the real movements of the martial arts techniques. For some time, he hadn’t realized that the more Ki Karta demonstrated, the higher the level of the techniques became.
Only later did he realize when his own abilities started to increase rapidly. His steps became lighter, his jumps higher, his kicks and punches stronger, and his senses much more acute.
His eyes could see more clearly, even though Ki Karta had started the training in the early morning darkness. His ears could catch the distant cries of monkeys, the rustling of bamboo in the valley near the hut, and even the sound of water droplets falling from leaves. His nose could distinguish between grass and weeds from a few steps away. He could even feel the surface of a tree before his palm fully touched it.
He suspected Ki Karta was guiding him in this indirect way. His suspicion became a conclusion when the mysterious old man demonstrated his powerful technique.
Jaka Wulung focused all his strength on memorizing the entire sequence of Ki Karta's devastating techniques.
Gradually, Jaka Wulung felt his hands and fingers hardening, forming claws ready to strike. His senses grew sharper. A growl formed in his throat, passed through his mouth, vibrating his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and came out like the roar of a tiger...
Grrrhhh!
Jaka Wulung leapt lightly, both hands aimed at a young rasamala tree with a trunk the size of an adult's thigh. He felt an invisible force shoot from his fingers and strike the tree’s trunk, creating a crashing sound that reverberated like it had struck his own chest.
For a moment, Jaka Wulung swayed slightly in his low stance, with his hands still outstretched in front of him.
The tree remained standing, but swayed gently. Jaka Wulung waited. His strike seemed to have no effect. He sighed in disappointment.
He stood up straight, walked toward the tree, and touched the spot where his blow had landed.
Jaka Wulung sighed in relief when his hand touched the area, feeling it was soft like hollowed-out wood. But it was only a dent. The tree had not yet broken.
"I need to train more," he thought.
Thus, for the next few days, Jaka Wulung focused his attention on sharpening his skills.
And then, one day, when he tried the same strike on a slightly larger rasamala tree, a cracking sound erupted as the trunk splintered and a branch came crashing down to the ground.
Jaka Wulung stared in disbelief.
From his hiding spot, Ki Karta was just as astonished.
To release such an invisible force, Ki Karta had to train for months. But this boy—this young boy—had done it in only a few days.
Incredible, he thought. Only King Siliwangi himself could have done this at such a young age.
Ki Karta’s heart raced. He silently prayed to the ancestors, hoping that he hadn’t made the wrong choice in picking this student. If this power fell into the wrong hands, the consequences would be dire.
"If I can continue guiding him, I am certain that this boy will one day, at the very least, be equal to my own teacher," Ki Karta thought to himself.
The next opportunity came when Ki Karta directed his strike at a stone as large as a buffalo's head.
The stone shattered into thousands of small pebbles, scattering in all directions.
When Jaka Wulung tried to replicate this, the surface of the stone he struck cracked and splintered, leaving a dent the width of his palm.
Through this indirect transmission of knowledge, Jaka Wulung's abilities grew exponentially.
As his martial skills improved rapidly, Jaka Wulung also quickly grasped the literary lessons passed down by Ki Karta. This was something Ki Karta himself did not realize, and it was what revealed his true identity.
One day, when Ki Karta left the hut, Jaka Wulung began browsing through the manuscripts written by his teacher. In most of them, Ki Karta never wrote his name.
But then, Jaka Wulung accidentally discovered a name on one of the manuscripts. A name that was very different.
Darmakusumah.
For a long time, Jaka Wulung stared at the piece of palm leaf. He didn’t realize Ki Karta had returned.
"Ah, you’re quite diligent in reading that manuscript," Ki Karta said.
Jaka Wulung was startled, not realizing his teacher had arrived.
"Oh, I’m sorry, Ki, I’ve been reading your manuscript," Jaka Wulung said, quickly gathering the scattered papers. Then he looked up at his teacher with great respect. "Who is Darmakusumah, Ki?"
Ki Karta looked at Jaka Wulung, sat cross-legged before him, took a deep breath, and released it slowly.
"It’s a long story, boy," Ki Karta said, not answering Jaka Wulung’s question.
"Is that your real name, Ki?" Jaka Wulung asked, his curiosity burning.
"You would do well to know the real story," Ki Karta replied.