Silence blanketed the western slope of Mount Tunggul. Clouds and mist veiled the peak of Mount Tangkuban Parahu from view.
Those two mountains—Mount Tunggul and Tangkuban Parahu—were remnants of the legend of Sangkuriang.
For more than a dozen years, Resi Darmakusumah had spent his days in peace on Mount Tunggul, awaiting the moment of moksha when the time was right.
Yet, that peace now seemed on the verge of being tainted. His sharp senses could feel that the once serene air had shifted, stirred by distant, faint waves of unrest.
“Why is it,” he wondered, “that after vanishing from their resting place for so long, these sacred books suddenly feel like fugitives? Have people been blind to their existence all this time? Why does something become so precious only after it is no longer where it once belonged?”
These questions swirled in the mind of Resi Darmakusumah.
He wrapped the sacred texts he had safeguarded in a piece of cloth that had long served as his headband. He packed a few pieces of his clothing into a small cowhide pouch.
That was all the wealth he possessed.
Just a small kujang blade tucked beneath his robe—a blade with no name, no title.
There were no tears as Resi Darmakusumah left his humble hut behind and slowly descended the slopes of Mount Tunggul, walking toward the rising sun.
It was a decision born purely from instinct. Weruh sadurunge winarah—a knowing before knowing.
Three days after he departed, a group of men arrived and ransacked the abandoned hut once belonging to Resi Darmakusumah.
Resi Darmakusumah felt no fear, even as he sensed that he might become a hunted man in the twilight of his life.
What he truly wished was to avoid entanglement—especially with those who might twist the noble teachings of the sacred tomes.
How his ancestors would mourn if they saw the books fall into the wrong hands.
And so, Resi Darmakusumah continued to follow his instincts and the rhythm of his footsteps, wherever they led.
He once resided on the slopes of Mount Indrakila—a mountain later known as Mount Cerme—which stood to the south of the land of Cerbon. But he stayed there for less than two full moons before moving on.
His journey finally brought him to Mount Sagara, a small hill that seemed far removed from the bustling centers of the former Kingdom of Pajajaran, and equally distant from the eastern realms.
For years, Resi Darmakusumah lived in solitude, surrendering his life to the Almighty while delving into the secrets of the three ancient tomes he had brought.
Until, one day, he sensed that his solitude would be disturbed once more. And this time, it felt like a great event was brewing—one that revolved around those three sacred books he had hidden away.
“So, where exactly did Grandfather—sorry, I mean, Resi Darmakusumah—hide the sacred tomes?” asked Jaka Wulung.
Resi Darmakusumah drew a deep breath and smiled.
“One day, you will know,” he replied.
Jaka Wulung’s heart raced at his master’s words. “Truly?”
The old sage nodded.
Jaka Wulung gazed out at the dark sky beyond. But in his eyes, it shone bright with light.
He imagined the day when he would read and study those legendary books.
He dreamed of becoming a mighty warrior, just like his teacher—Ki Karta, now known as Resi Darmakusumah.
He would vanquish evildoers, uproot those who sow chaos in the land, punish those who brought suffering to the people... yes, all of them.