Thus, the story must turn back to the year 1579. At that time, the halls of Pakuan Palace, the royal seat of the Pajajaran Kingdom, were nearly abandoned. Prabu Ragamulya Suryakancana, the last king of Pajajaran, had departed into self-imposed exile toward the setting sun—Mount Pulasari, at the westernmost tip of Java Dwipa. He refused to be accompanied by a great entourage.
His four trusted commanders—Jaya Perkosa, Wiradijaya, Kondang Hapa, and Pancar Buana—had also left in the opposite direction, carrying the kingdom’s sacred heirlooms, including the Mahkota Bino Kasih Sanghyang Pake, a 200-year-old crown that had been the symbol of Sunda kings since the era of Niskala Wastukancana.
Yet, one chamber of relics within the palace had been forgotten.
This chamber was not far from the meditation hall where the kings of Pajajaran secluded themselves in solemn devotion to the Almighty. It was the chamber that housed the sacred texts of their ancestors.
Only one man managed to rescue the ancestral tomes before the palace was reduced to smoldering ashes. Most of the ancient texts perished in the flames, but he succeeded in saving three of the most important manuscripts: the Patrikrama Galunggung, a text later known as the Bujangga Manik manuscript, and one more, untitled. The royal court simply referred to the third text as the Kitab Siliwangi.
The rescuer, Resi Darmakusumah, was of noble Siliwangi lineage. If one traced his bloodline, it would lead directly to Surasowan, one of the sons of Prabu Siliwangi. Yet, he chose the path of an ascetic, dwelling in solitude, dedicating himself to the Divine. After becoming a resi, Darmakusumah had rarely set foot in Pakuan Palace.
Darmakusumah was the sole disciple of Resi Jaya Pakuan, a hermit who had lived in seclusion on Mount Sepuh for an unknown span of years.
And Jaya Pakuan was none other than the legendary Bujangga Manik—the greatest wanderer of Pajajaran, a revered figure across Java Dwipa, renowned for his mastery of both literary and martial arts, despite never boasting of his prowess.
Resi Darmakusumah was deeply disheartened by the weakness of Prabu Siliwangi’s successors. Surawisesa, Siliwangi’s heir, had sought aid from pale-skinned foreigners—the Peranggi—to counter the rising threat from Cerbon. During his reign, Pajajaran suffered repeated assaults, and its territories were gradually claimed by Cerbon.
His successor, Sang Ratu Dewata, neglected worldly affairs, showing little concern for governance. The next ruler, Ratu Sakti, ruled with cruelty, driven by insatiable greed. He slaughtered the innocent, plundered his people, scorned the priests, and even took his own stepmother as his wife.
Prabu Nilakendra was scarcely better than Ratu Sakti. He indulged in ceaseless revelry, ignoring the famine and suffering of his people. Under his rule, Pajajaran was already gasping for breath. By the time of the final king, Prabu Ragamulya, the kingdom was merely waiting for its death knell.
One regret haunted Darmakusumah’s soul: neither he nor the remaining Sunda warriors could defend Pakuan Palace—renowned as Sri Bima-Punta-Narayana-Madura-Suradipati, the very emblem of Pajajaran’s unity—when it was simultaneously assaulted from two fronts: Banten’s forces from the west and Cerbon’s from the east.
Thus, Pajajaran vanished from the face of the earth.
Even now, Resi Darmakusumah could still see the infernal blaze consuming Pakuan Palace that night, the fire stretching toward the heavens in a crimson inferno.
Following the path of his master, Resi Jaya Pakuan, the legendary Bujangga Manik, Resi Darmakusumah had found solace in a secluded retreat—Bukit Tunggul, not far from the legendary Mount Tangkuban Parahu—after years of wandering across Java Dwipa.
Before his life ended, he wished to write at least one manuscript to be passed down to generations yet to come.
Thus, in addition to his devotion to the Almighty, Resi Darmakusumah spent his days writing, inscribing words onto palm leaves and nipah fronds.
But his peace was shattered by an ominous vision that haunted his nights.
That night, the moon, not yet full, had begun its descent from the zenith, casting a silver glow upon the sprawling branches of the ki hujan trees. Its dim beams gently touched the thatched roof of a humble wooden dwelling.
Resi Darmakusumah was about to rest on a wooden bench after completing his evening meditation. Sleep beckoned, his eyelids heavy, when suddenly, an image seared into his mind—a chamber within Pakuan Palace appeared vividly before him. The sky stretched black, only to be pierced by a raging inferno. Screams of agony echoed. The acrid scent of burning nipah leaves filled the air.
Resi Darmakusumah jolted awake, breathless. The early morning wind bit through his robes, but his forehead was damp with sweat.
Three consecutive nights, the vision had returned, growing clearer. Three times—an undeniable omen.
He tightened his robes, adjusted his headcloth. He would not wait any longer.
It would take at least two days to reach Pakuan Palace.
His premonition had been true. Smoke assailed his senses as he reached the outer perimeter of Pakuan. The night was painted in hues of yellow, red, and black.
Pakuan was nearly leveled to the ground. Fires raged everywhere, consuming the wooden homes of the capital’s inhabitants. Almost nothing remained.
The palace no longer housed Pajajaran’s people. Instead, the cries of victorious invaders filled the air.
Darting through embers and smoke, Resi Darmakusumah slipped unseen. He was nearly too late.
With mere moments to spare, he rescued three invaluable relics: Patikrama Galunggung, written by Prabu Darmasiksa centuries ago; Bujangga Manik, penned by his own master, Resi Jaya Pakuan, decades earlier; and the Kitab Siliwangi, which may have been compiled by Prabu Siliwangi himself.
He caught sight of others converging upon the same chamber, but there was no time to ponder their intentions.
Mere heartbeats after securing the manuscripts, the library collapsed into a sea of flames.
Standing at a distance, Resi Darmakusumah gazed upon the ruin of Pakuan Palace—once built of sturdy teakwood, meant to endure for centuries—now reduced to ashes.
His eyes brimmed with sorrow.
Tears traced down his weathered cheeks, clinging to his white beard before falling to the earth—the land of his ancestors, no longer named Pajajaran.
Pajajaran was no more!
Resi Darmakusumah awoke from his bitter reverie. The sky remained streaked with red and black. He turned to leave.
But he halted in shock.
Before him stood three figures, each with a sword at their waist. How had he not sensed their arrival? Ah, surely because his heart was clouded with grief. A wounded heart dulled the senses.
His hand instinctively brushed against the three tomes hidden beneath his robes.
“Sampurasun, Resi,” one of the men spoke—tall, broad-shouldered, around forty years old. His tone was low, respectful.
“Rampes, Ki Dulur,” Resi Darmakusumah regarded them carefully. Their attire marked them as separate from the forces that had razed Pakuan Palace. “What is it that you seek?”
“It seems you carry something stolen from the palace,” the leader said.
Resi Darmakusumah’s eyes narrowed.
“Who are you, really?” Munding Wesi’s voice rang out, impatient.
“Just call me Karta,” Resi Darmakusumah replied nonchalantly.
Munding Wesi burst into laughter, his large body shaking violently as if he had just heard the funniest joke. His two brothers laughed along with him.
Looking at the three men, Resi Darmakusumah felt a deep sense of concern. His face darkened. They were far from the image of Prabu Siliwangi’s noble descendants.
When the laughter subsided, Munding Wesi fixed Resi Darmakusumah with a sharp gaze. “There’s no way a descendant of Siliwangi would have such a ridiculous name!”
“Ridiculous or not, I am still a descendant of Prabu Siliwangi.”
“You old liar!”
“Isn’t every Sundanese person a descendant of Prabu Siliwangi?”
Munding Wesi’s face flushed with anger. “Hey! Where did you get such a crazy idea?”
“If you live long enough, you will see that my words are true.”
“Enough! I’m getting a headache listening to you!”
A faint smile formed on Resi Darmakusumah’s lips. “In that case, let me leave in peace.”
Munding Wesi gritted his teeth. “Who says we’ll let you leave in peace?”
Ignoring Munding Wesi’s words, Resi Darmakusumah turned to walk away.
But of course, Munding Wesi had no intention of letting him go so easily. He stepped forward, blocking Resi Darmakusumah’s path.
Resi Darmakusumah hesitated for a moment, weighing his chances of breaking through their encirclement.
He took a deep breath.
It had been years since he last used his hands and feet in combat. In truth, he had no desire to resolve matters through violence anymore.
But he saw no clear path to escape. He was certain there were others hiding beyond these three men—at least three or four more, concealed behind the trees.
For the sake of the sacred texts he carried, it seemed he had no choice but to act.
“Hand them over before we use force!” Munding Wesi lunged forward, arms outstretched. His movement was completely unexpected—lightning fast, like a starving tiger.
Resi Darmakusumah sidestepped.
But Munding Wesi had anticipated his evasion. His other hand shot out like a striking viper, fingers open, aiming to grasp Resi Darmakusumah’s robe. No one would have expected such a massive man to move with such agility. The sheer speed of his attack seemed to generate a heated gust of wind around him.
Munding Wesi had no intention of underestimating the old man. When he and his brothers had nearly achieved their goal at the Pakuan Palace, he had seen firsthand how the old sage had darted through flames and smoke with incredible speed.
Even so, he believed that if he used his full speed and strength from the start, he could finish this quickly. Then he could return to his master and study the contents of the sacred texts, which surely contained the ancestral secrets of their forebears.
Once they mastered those ancient arts, Munding Wesi envisioned himself and his allies becoming a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps, in time, they could gather followers and build a new kingdom, reviving the lost glory of Pajajaran under Prabu Siliwangi.
But Munding Wesi was dreaming too high.
Resi Darmakusumah had already sensed the threat. He bent his right knee and leaned slightly backward. Munding Wesi’s open-fingered strike missed his face by mere inches.
In that fleeting moment, Resi Darmakusumah caught a scent carried by the wind of the attack—a poisonous mixture, laced with the distinct body odor of Munding Wesi.
The realization made him shudder. If those claws so much as scratched his skin, death was almost certain.
He had a chance to strike back, to land a decisive blow on Munding Wesi’s exposed neck. But he hesitated. He did not wish to stain his hands with unnecessary violence.
At the same time, he felt a pang of sorrow. A man who shared his bloodline had resorted to using poison. Never before, in all of Sunda’s history, had he heard of warriors who relied on such treacherous means. It went against everything Prabu Siliwangi and his ancestors had stood for: the spirit of true warriors!
“Damn you!”
Resi Darmakusumah snapped out of his thoughts.
Even in the face of death, he had allowed himself to be distracted!
Munding Wesi’s two brothers charged at him simultaneously, swords flashing. The blade from the right gleamed red, reflecting distant firelight as it aimed for his shoulder. The left sword, no slower, slashed toward his waist.
He had not yet secured the sacred texts beneath his robe. He had to protect them with one hand, leaving only one free to defend himself.
But of course, his legs were just as quick as his arms. Using one foot as leverage, he leaped into the air, somersaulting. Before he even touched the ground, he struck one brother’s hand, causing his sword to fly from his grip and clang against the rocks. At the same time, he lightly tapped the temple of the other brother.
A pained cry rang out as the man staggered backward, his head throbbing as if struck by a rock.
Munding Wesi was stunned. In just a single move, he and his brothers were already struggling.
Gritting his teeth, he whistled sharply.
Suiiit!
Three figures emerged from the shadows, weapons gleaming in their hands. They formed a tight triangle around Resi Darmakusumah.
The first man, appearing to be in his early thirties, had an average build and wielded a spear. The second, an older hunchbacked man, held a three-pronged trident. The third, bald and sharp-eyed, gripped a keris, his gaze filled with malice.
Resi Darmakusumah had no time to wonder where they had come from. He could tell they were not of his homeland.
He quickly secured one of the texts deeper within his robe, then drew out the other two. Lontar manuscripts were typically three fingers wide and nearly two handspans long. Bound together with thread and reinforced with wooden covers, in their folded state, they resembled flat sticks.
And so, Resi Darmakusumah wielded them like a pair of batons—one in each hand.
However, he had no intention of clashing directly with metal weapons. The deadly wind trailing from his enemies' blades confirmed they were no ordinary foes.
But Resi Darmakusumah was no ordinary man. Once feared across the martial world, he had spent years refining his skills in exile.
The battle was just beginning.
The solid wooden tip in Resi Darmakusumah’s hand suddenly transformed into a deadly weapon, poised to strike the hunchbacked man’s back.
Resi Darmakusumah’s speed left his opponents momentarily stunned. For warriors of their caliber, a simultaneous attack from all three of them should have been impossible to evade. Yet not only had he managed to dodge, but he had also launched a counterattack, aiming for the hunchback’s exposed weak point.
The hunchback had no chance of escaping Resi Darmakusumah’s sudden strike. His two companions, positioned more freely, realized this and reacted simultaneously, attacking the sage with their kris and short spear.
If Resi Darmakusumah continued his attack, his defense would be left open, making it likely that one of the weapons would strike him. Thus, he was forced to abort his assault on the hunchback’s back and instead leaped backward to evade the attacks.
The battle between Resi Darmakusumah and his three assailants escalated quickly, with each side unleashing their signature techniques.
None of them wished to prolong this conflict. Resi Darmakusumah had no quarrel with Munding Wesi or his men, and wasting time here would be pointless. On the other hand, Munding Wesi wanted to seize the sacred manuscripts as quickly as possible—artifacts that were now undeniably in the possession of this strange sage.
The young warrior wielding the spear fought fiercely, using a combat style typical of the eastern coastal regions of Jawa Dwipa. His strikes were relentless, infused with raw power, like a raging bull that knew no retreat.
The hunchback, wielding a trident, was no less terrifying. His weapon stabbed forward without pause, his movements rough and wild, reminiscent of the mountain tribes from the Sewu Highlands.
Meanwhile, the bald man with the kris relied on agility and speed. He moved so swiftly that his feet barely seemed to touch the ground. Using only the tips of his toes for balance, he leaped and twisted through the air, much like the yellow-clad warriors of the Ming Dynasty.
Strangely enough, despite their vastly different fighting styles—like heaven and earth—the three warriors complemented one another. Each filled in the gaps left by the others, merging their techniques into a singular, deadly force. Their combined skills intertwined seamlessly, as if one plus one plus one equaled not just three, but something far greater.
Inwardly, Resi Darmakusumah admired their mastery. It was no simple feat to harmonize such contrasting martial arts into a unified strength.
However, Resi Darmakusumah was no ordinary man. In his youth, after training under Resi Jaya Pakuan, he had wandered through every corner of Jawa Dwipa and even beyond its shores. With each journey, his knowledge and martial prowess deepened. He had encountered and studied countless fighting styles from various lands.
Thus, the battle between Resi Darmakusumah and his three adversaries grew ever more intense. It was impossible to predict who held the upper hand. His opponents attacked in relentless waves, their kris, trident, and spear flashing toward his throat, chest, and stomach, never giving him a moment’s reprieve.
Yet, Resi Darmakusumah moved as if he had ten eyes, wielding his simple weapons with breathtaking precision. The lontar manuscripts in his hands twisted and swirled like a whip with ten striking ends. Steadily, though imperceptibly, he began to gain control over the fight.
Munding Wesi, watching from the sidelines, grew restless. Despite the formidable combination of his three warriors, they could not overpower the old sage. He could not afford to wait any longer.
With his sword drawn, Munding Wesi joined the fray, adding his force to the attack against Resi Darmakusumah.
However, the truth was undeniable—Munding Wesi’s skills were two or three levels below his hired warriors. On one hand, Resi Darmakusumah found this disheartening. A descendant of Prabu Siliwangi should have been a warrior worthy of his lineage. On the other hand, this development worked to his advantage. Within just a few exchanges, it became clear that Munding Wesi’s presence disrupted the harmony of the three fighters’ synchronized assault.
It was like a gamelan ensemble where the three warriors played the rebab, saron, and kendang in perfect harmony. But then Munding Wesi struck the gong out of rhythm, completely out of sync with the melody. When he should have played the small gong, he struck the large one instead. When a grand finale required the deep resonance of a final gong strike, he played nothing at all.
The worst part was that Munding Wesi did not even realize that his interference was ruining the rhythm of battle.
As a result, the well-coordinated attacks of his three warriors fell into disorder. Sometimes Munding Wesi’s sword clashed with the bald man’s kris or disrupted the hunchback’s trident strikes. At times, his blade nearly collided with the young spearman’s weapon.
Each of the three warriors inwardly cursed. Although their opponent was formidable and would take time to defeat, they had been confident in their ability to gradually wear him down. After all, nature had its own laws—no matter how skilled an old master might be, age inevitably sapped one’s breath and muscle strength. Being younger, they had been certain that, given enough time, victory would be theirs.
“Master Munding Wesi, let us handle this ourselves!” the hunchback finally shouted, dodging a swift strike from Resi Darmakusumah aimed at his head.
“Yes, Master, you should step back and rest!” the bald man added.
“I will help you capture the old man—” Munding Wesi’s sentence was cut short.
A sudden sting struck his wrist. His sword flew into the air, spinning toward the sky. Before it could reach its peak, it vanished.
Munding Wesi barely had time to register what had happened before a sharp but light slash tore through his clothing, grazing the skin of his chest.
“You damn old demon—!”
His own poisoned blade had betrayed him. If he did not apply the antidote quickly, his life would soon be forfeit.
“Retreat!” he croaked, his voice hoarse as he leapt back into the thickets.
Seeing their leader wounded, the three warriors immediately withdrew as well, evading Resi Darmakusumah’s next attack before vanishing into the night.
Resi Darmakusumah stood motionless for a moment. He had no intention of pursuing them. He had a far more important duty—to safeguard the three sacred manuscripts.
He tossed Munding Wesi’s sword aside.
Without another moment’s delay, Resi Darmakusumah sprinted toward the rising dawn.
The eastern sky shimmered with silvery light.
From a hilltop, he cast one last glance at the crimson glow and the plumes of black smoke still rising into the heavens.
His homeland was gone.