EPISODE 20: KEPUNGAN BAYANGAN

EPISODE 20: KEPUNGAN BAYANGAN

Bulan purnama bersinar terang, seolah ingin menyaksikan pertumpahan darah.

Di padang rumput, obor-obor bergerak perlahan, seperti kunang-kunang raksasa yang mendekat. Bukan sepuluh. Bukan dua puluh. Tapi puluhan—mungkin lima puluh atau lebih. Cahaya mereka memantul di wajah-wajah keras, di senjata-senjata yang siap digunakan. Mereka datang dalam formasi, tidak berteriak, tidak bergembira. Ini bukan perampok kacangan. Ini prajurit.

Di pos utama, Raka menggenggam parangnya erat. Keringat dingin membasahi punggungnya, tapi ia tidak gentar. Di sampingnya, Karta dan beberapa lelaki lain siap dengan tombak bambu dan cangkul. Di pos lain, para perempuan menjaga anak-anak, dengan pisau dapur tersembunyi di balik kain.

Arka duduk di depan gubuk, memeluk lututnya. Wulan duduk di sampingnya, tangannya gemetar tapi tetap memeluk anaknya erat. Mereka tidak bicara. Tidak perlu. Di langit, bulan purnama seolah tersenyum dingin, menyaksikan drama yang akan terjadi.

"Bu," bisik Arka, suaranya kecil. "Aku takut."

Wulan mencium rambutnya. "Ibu juga, Nak. Tapi kita harus kuat."

Arka mengangguk. Di dadanya, mana itu berdenyut kencang. Sangat kencang. Seperti jantung kedua yang siap meledak. Ia merasakan panggilan itu lagi—panggilan dari pria bermata satu. Panggilan yang tidak bisa ia jelaskan.

Dan dari kejauhan, teriakan perang memecah keheningan malam.

***

Mereka datang dari dua sisi.

Timur dan selatan. Persis seperti yang dikatakan Paijo—pagar selatan yang baru diperbaiki adalah titik terlemah. Jebakan-jebakan di timur sudah mereka ketahui, mereka lewati dengan hati-hati. Beberapa jatuh ke lubang, kena pancang, tapi jumlah mereka terlalu banyak. Yang mati digantikan yang hidup.

"MEREKA MASUK!" teriak Karta dari pos selatan.

Pagar bambu itu jebol dalam hitungan detik. Lima belas orang bayangan menerobos, berteriak, mengayunkan pedang dan pentungan. Warga yang menjaga di sana—hanya empat orang—bertahan mati-matian. Dua jatuh seketika. Dua lainnya mundur, berlari meminta bantuan.

Raka berlari ke arah selatan, diikuti lima lelaki lainnya. Mereka bertemu di tengah desa, di dekat dapur umum. Pertempuran jarak dekat pecah.

*DRAK!* Parang Raka bertemu pedang lawan. Kilatan api di logam. Pria di hadapannya—bandit bertato di lengan—tersenyum kejam. Tapi Raka tidak memberi waktu. Tendangan ke perut, tebasan ke leher. Satu lawan tumbang.

Tapi di belakangnya, dua lawan lain sudah siap.

Pertempuran sengit. Karta terkena pukulan di kepala, jatuh pingsan. Seorang warga lain—Tukinem, petani yang ikut menggali parit—tertusuk tombak di dadanya. Ia jatuh, tidak bergerak lagi.

Tiga warga tewas dalam sepuluh menit pertama.

Raka berteriak, marah, berduka. Parangnya bergerak lebih cepat, lebih liar. Dua lawan lagi tumbang. Tapi dari arah timur, gelombang kedua masuk.

Dan di tengah kekacauan, seseorang melemparkan obor ke lumbung pangan. Jerami kering langsung menyala. Api menjilat ke langit, menerangi medan pertempuran dengan cahaya merah yang mengerikan.

Wulan menjerit. Lumbung—sumber makanan mereka—terbakar. Tapi ia tidak bisa berbuat apa-apa. Ia harus melindungi Arka.

***

Di tengah kepanikan, sesosok muncul dari bayangan.

Bajak. Pria bermata satu itu melangkah tenang di tengah kekacauan, seolah tidak ada yang bisa menyentuhnya. Matanya yang satu—dingin, tajam—langsung tertuju pada Raka. Ia tersenyum. Senyum yang sama seperti malam itu.

"Raka." Suaranya dalam, bergema. "Sudah lama."

Raka tertegun. Ia mengenal suara itu. Dari masa lalu. Dari medan perang yang sudah ia kubur dalam-dalam.

"Bajak..." bisiknya. "Kau..."

"Masih ingat?" Bajak tertawa kecil. "Resimen ke-7, divisi timur. Kau kopral, aku sersan. Kita pernah satu tenda."

Raka tidak bisa percaya. Mantan prajurit. Satu resimen. Satu medan perang. Dan kini mereka berhadapan sebagai musuh.

"Perang sudah usai, Bajak." Raka menggenggam parangnya. "Kenapa kau lakukan ini?"

"Usai?" Bajak tertawa lagi, lebih keras. "Perang tidak pernah usai, Raka. Hanya berganti bentuk. Dulu kita lawan musuh kerajaan. Sekarang kita lawan siapa pun yang punya sesuatu yang kita inginkan."

Ia melangkah maju, menghunus pedang panjangnya. "Air kalian. Lahan kalian. Desa ini. Semua milikku sekarang."

Raka tidak menjawab. Ia hanya mengangkat parangnya. Dua mantan prajurit, satu resimen, kini berhadapan dalam duel hidup-mati.

***

Pertarungan sengit.

Raka lebih kuat, tapi Bajak lebih terampil. Pedangnya bergerak cepat, menusuk, menebas, menekan Raka dari berbagai arah. Parang Raka yang berat kalah cepat. Ia mendapat luka di lengan, di pinggang, di paha. Darah mengalir, tapi ia tidak menyerah.

"Menyerahlah, kawan lama." Bajak mencibir. "Kau dulu prajurit tangguh. Sekarang cuma petani tua."

Raka terhuyung. Ia melihat sekeliling—warga bertarung mati-matian, tapi kalah jumlah. Lumbung terbakar. Karta tergeletak. Tukinem mati. Harapan mulai pudar.

Tapi di sudut matanya, ia melihat sesuatu.

Arka.

Anaknya berdiri di depan gubuk, menatapnya. Wulan memegang pundaknya, mencoba menariknya masuk. Tapi Arka tidak bergerak. Matanya—matanya bersinar. Bukan sinar biasa, tapi sinar redup, seperti cahaya kunang-kunang di malam gelap.

Mana.

Raka ingin berteriak, menyuruhnya lari, menyuruhnya sembunyi. Tapi suaranya tidak keluar. Ia hanya bisa menatap, melihat sesuatu yang akan mengubah segalanya.

***

Arka melihat ayahnya terdesak.

Darah mengalir dari luka-lukanya. Ia hampir jatuh. Dan pria bermata satu itu—Bajak, pria dari mimpinya—tersenyum kejam, siap menghabisi.

Di dadanya, mana itu meledak.

Bukan lagi denyut. Bukan lagi aliran. Tapi ledakan. Seperti bendungan yang jebol. Seperti gunung yang meletus. Seperti sesuatu yang selama ini terpendam, akhirnya bebas.

Arka tidak tahu apa yang ia lakukan. Ia hanya memejamkan mata, merasakan energi mengalir deras dari tubuhnya, meresap ke tanah, ke akar-akar di bawah Dusun Karang.

Dan tanah itu menjawab.

*BRUK!*

Tanah di sekitar Bajak retak. Bukan retak biasa—retak dalam, lebar, seperti gempa bumi kecil. Bajak terhuyung, mencoba menjaga keseimbangan. Tapi dari dalam retakan itu, akar-akar kering tiba-tiba hidup. Mereka bergerak, melilit, menjerat kaki Bajak seperti ular-ular kayu.

"A-Apa?!" Bajak menjerit, bukan takut tapi tak percaya. Ia mencoba meronta, tapi akar itu terlalu kuat. Terlalu cepat. Dalam hitungan detik, kedua kakinya terjerat erat. Ia jatuh, tersungkur di tanah.

Raka tidak menyia-nyiakan kesempatan. Dengan sisa tenaga, ia mengayunkan parangnya. Bukan untuk membunuh—tapi untuk melumpuhkan. Parang itu menghantam gagang pedang Bajak, membuat senjatanya terpental. Lalu Raka menginjak dada Bajak, parang di lehernya.

"MENYERAH!" teriak Raka.

Bajak terbaring di tanah, matanya yang satu membelalak. Bukan karena kalah, tapi karena apa yang baru saja terjadi. Ia menatap Raka, lalu ke akar-akar yang masih melilit kakinya, lalu ke arah gubuk—ke arah di mana Arka berdiri.

"Kau... kau punya..." bisiknya, suaranya nyaris tidak terdengar. "Darah Karang..."

Raka tidak memberinya waktu. Ia memukul kepala Bajak dengan gagang parang. Pria itu pingsan.

Di sekeliling mereka, pertempuran berhenti. Bandit-bandit lain melihat pemimpin mereka jatuh, tergeletak tak berdaya. Mereka ragu. Lalu satu per satu, mereka mundur. Berlari kembali ke gelap, meninggalkan pemimpin mereka, meninggalkan teman-teman yang mati.

Tapi dua orang—anak buah paling setia—berlari maju, menyeret Bajak yang pingsan, dan kabur sebelum Raka bisa bereaksi.

Mereka lolos. Tapi desa selamat.

***

Keheningan menyelimuti Dusun Karang.

Api di lumbung masih menyala, tapi warga berhasil memadamkannya sebelum menjalar ke gubuk lain. Asap mengepul, bau hangus di mana-mana. Mayat-mayat bergelimpangan—tiga warga, sebelas bandit. Darah membasahi tanah yang baru beberapa hari lalu dialiri air.

Karta sadar, tapi kepalanya luka parah. Tujuh warga lain luka berat. Wulan dan para perempuan sibuk merawat mereka dengan kain pembalut dan ramuan obat.

Di tengah semua itu, Arka duduk di depan gubuk. Tubuhnya lemas, mananya habis total. Ia nyaris tidak bisa membuka mata. Yang ia lihat hanya bayangan-bayangan samar, suara-suara jauh.

"Arka! ARKA!"

Suara Wulan. Ia diguncang, dipeluk. Tapi Arka tidak bisa menjawab. Mana-nya habis. Tubuhnya kosong. Ia pingsan di pelukan ibunya.

***

Beberapa warga yang masih sadar, melihat.

Mereka melihat tanah retak. Melihat akar bergerak. Melihat anak kecil berdiri dengan mata bercahaya. Dan sekarang, melihat anak itu pingsan di pelukan ibunya.

Bisik-bisik mulai terdengar. Bukan bisik curiga seperti dulu. Tapi bisik takjub. Takut. Atau mungkin—mungkin kagum.

"Anak itu..."

"Dia... dia lakukan itu?"

"Akar bergerak... tanah retak..."

"Dia selamatkan kita."

Raka berlari ke arah Arka, mengambilnya dari pelukan Wulan. Ia memeriksa napas anaknya—masih ada, meski lemah. Ia memeluk Arka erat, menangis tanpa suara.

"Nak... Nak..." bisiknya berulang-ulang. "Ayah di sini. Ayah di sini."

Di pojok, Kepala Desa Joko terbaring dengan luka di perutnya. Wajahnya pucat, napasnya tersengal. Ia memanggil Raka dengan tangan gemetar.

"Ra... Raka..."

Raka mendekat, masih menggendong Arka. "Joko, kau..."

"Aku... tidak apa." Joko tersenyum tipis, meski nyawanya jelas melayang. "Anakmu... dia..."

Raka menunduk. "Aku tahu."

"Lindungi dia." Joko meraih tangan Raka. "Lindungi dia, Raka. Atau... atau kita semua akan kehilangan dia."

Matanya menatap Arka yang pingsan. "Dia bukan... bukan anak biasa. Dia... dia masa depan kita."

Raka mengangguk, air mata jatuh. "Aku janji."

Joko tersenyum, lalu matanya terpejam. Napasnya masih ada—ia masih hidup. Tapi lukanya parah. Malam ini, mereka kehilangan tiga warga. Joko hampir menyusul.

***

Dalam pingsannya, Arka bermimpi.

Ia berdiri di tengah padang rumput yang tidak pernah ia lihat sebelumnya. Rumputnya hijau, setinggi lutut, bergoyang lembut ditiup angin. Di kejauhan, ada pohon besar dengan daun-daun keemasan. Dan di bawah pohon itu, ada batu. Batu besar, setinggi rumah, dengan ukiran-ukiran yang tidak ia pahami.

Tapi ia mengenal satu ukiran. Ukiran yang sama persis dengan kalung ayahnya—kalung yang selalu ia lihat tapi tidak pernah ia tanyakan.

Ia melangkah mendekat. Ingin menyentuh. Ingin tahu.

"Datanglah ke sumbernya, pewaris Karang."

Suara itu bergema, dalam, tua, seperti gemuruh dari dalam tanah. Arka menoleh, mencari asal suara. Tapi tidak ada siapa-siapa. Hanya batu. Hanya rumput. Hanya angin.

"Siapa kau?" tanyanya.

Tidak ada jawaban. Tapi batu itu... batu itu bersinar. Cahaya redup, hangat, seperti matahari pagi. Dan Arka merasa—merasa ada yang memanggilnya. Memanggil dari dalam batu. Dari dalam tanah. Dari dalam darahnya sendiri.

***

Arka terbangun dengan suara jeritan di telinganya.

Bukan jeritan ketakutan—tapi jeritan kaget. Ia duduk, napas tersengal, keringat dingin membasahi sekujur tubuh. Di sampingnya, Wulan tertidur lelah, tangannya masih memegang tangan Arka.

Di pojok gubuk, Mbah Ranggawarsita duduk dengan mata terbuka, menatapnya. Kakek tua itu tersenyum. Senyum yang tahu. Senyum yang bijak.

"Kau dengar panggilannya, Nak?" bisiknya.

Arka menatapnya. Di dadanya, mana yang tadi kosong, kini mulai berdenyut lagi. Pelan. Tapi pasti.

"Itu... itu apa, Mbah?" tanyanya, suara serak.

Mbah Ranggawarsita tersenyum lebih lebar. "Itu warisanmu, Nak. Warisan darah Karang. Dan perjalananmu... baru saja dimulai."

Arka terdiam. Ia menatap ke luar gubuk, ke langit malam yang mulai memudar. Fajar akan segera tiba. Hari baru. Era baru.

Dan ia, Arka, anak lima tahun yang baru saja menyelamatkan desanya, tahu bahwa ini bukan akhir. Ini awal dari sesuatu yang jauh lebih besar.

Di luar, asap masih mengepul dari lumbung yang hangus. Tiga nyawa melayang. Luka menganga di hati setiap warga. Tapi desa masih berdiri. Mereka masih hidup.

Dan di dalam gubuk kecil itu, seorang anak memegang kalung ayahnya, merasakan denyut mana di dadanya, dan bertanya: "Sumbernya... di mana, Mbah?"

Mbah Ranggawarsita tertawa pelan. "Itu, Nak, untuk cerita lain waktu."

Arka tersenyum. Ia tahu, ini baru awal.

--- TAMAT ARC 1: AKAR YANG TUMBUH DI BATU ---

Bersambung ke ARC 2: AKAR YANG MENGGAPAI MATAHARI...

Karakter: Arka (5 tahun), Raka (ayah), Wulan (ibu), Mbah Ranggawarsita (sesepuh), Kepala Desa Joko (luka parah), Bajak (pemimpin bandit, lolos), Karta (luka), Tukinem (tewas), warga desa

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

Fajar setelah pertempuran. Seorang anak kecil terbaring di pangkuan ibunya, pucat lemas. Di sampingnya, seorang prio besar dengan luka di sekujur tubuh memeluk mereka berdua. Latar belakang: lumbung hangus masih mengepulkan asap, mayat-mayat bergelimpangan, warga yang selamat duduk lemas di tanah. Cahaya matahari terbit yang jingga keemasan menciptakan kontras antara kehancuran dan harapan. Di pojok, seorang kakek tua tersenyum tipis, tahu bahwa ini bukan akhir, tapi awal.

EPISODE 20: SHADOW SIEGE

The full moon shone brightly, as if wanting to witness the bloodshed.

In the grassland, torches moved slowly, like giant fireflies approaching. Not ten. Not twenty. But dozens—perhaps fifty or more. Their light reflected on hard faces, on weapons ready to be used. They came in formation, not shouting, not celebrating. These weren't petty raiders. These were soldiers.

At the main post, Raka gripped his machete tightly. Cold sweat wet his back, but he didn't waver. Beside him, Karta and a few other men stood ready with bamboo spears and hoes. At other posts, women guarded the children, kitchen knives hidden in their cloth.

Arka sat in front of the hut, hugging his knees. Wulan sat beside him, her hands trembling but still holding her child tightly. They didn't speak. No need. In the sky, the full moon seemed to smile coldly, watching the drama about to unfold.

"Mother," Arka whispered, his voice small. "I'm scared."

Wulan kissed his hair. "Mother is too, Son. But we must be strong."

Arka nodded. In his chest, that mana pulsed rapidly. Very rapidly. Like a second heart about to explode. He felt that call again—the call from the one-eyed man. A call he couldn't explain.

And from the distance, war cries shattered the night's silence.

***

They came from two sides.

East and south. Exactly as Paijo had said—the newly repaired southern fence was the weakest point. The traps in the east they already knew, they bypassed carefully. Some fell into pits, hit stakes, but their numbers were too many. The dead were replaced by the living.

"THEY'RE THROUGH!" Karta shouted from the southern post.

The bamboo fence collapsed in seconds. Fifteen shadowy figures broke through, shouting, swinging swords and clubs. The villagers guarding there—only four people—fought desperately. Two fell immediately. The other two retreated, running for help.

Raka ran south, followed by five other men. They met in the middle of the village, near the communal kitchen. Close combat erupted.

*CLANG!* Raka's machete met an enemy's sword. Sparks flew from metal. The man before him—a bandit with arm tattoos—smiled cruelly. But Raka didn't hesitate. A kick to the stomach, a slash to the neck. One enemy down.

But behind him, two more were ready.

Fierce battle. Karta was hit on the head, fell unconscious. Another villager—Tukinem, a farmer who had helped dig the trenches—was stabbed in the chest. He fell, not moving again.

Three villagers died in the first ten minutes.

Raka screamed, angry, grieving. His machete moved faster, wilder. Two more enemies fell. But from the east, a second wave entered.

And in the midst of chaos, someone threw a torch at the food granary. Dry straw ignited instantly. Fire licked the sky, illuminating the battlefield with horrifying red light.

Wulan screamed. The granary—their food source—was burning. But she could do nothing. She had to protect Arka.

***

In the midst of panic, a figure emerged from the shadows.

Bajak. The one-eyed man walked calmly through the chaos, as if nothing could touch him. His single eye—cold, sharp—immediately fixed on Raka. He smiled. The same smile as that night.

"Raka." His voice was deep, resonant. "Long time."

Raka froze. He recognized that voice. From the past. From the battlefield he had buried deep within.

"Bajak..." he whispered. "You..."

"Still remember?" Bajak chuckled softly. "7th Regiment, eastern division. You were a corporal, I was a sergeant. We shared a tent once."

Raka couldn't believe it. A former soldier. Same regiment. Same battlefield. And now they faced each other as enemies.

"The war is over, Bajak." Raka gripped his machete. "Why are you doing this?"

"Over?" Bajak laughed again, louder. "War is never over, Raka. It only changes form. Before, we fought the kingdom's enemies. Now, we fight anyone who has something we want."

He stepped forward, drawing his long sword. "Your water. Your land. This village. All mine now."

Raka didn't answer. He just raised his machete. Two former soldiers, same regiment, now faced each other in a life-or-death duel.

***

Fierce battle.

Raka was stronger, but Bajak was more skilled. His sword moved quickly, thrusting, slashing, pressing Raka from all directions. Raka's heavy machete was slower. He received wounds on his arm, waist, thigh. Blood flowed, but he didn't give up.

"Surrender, old friend." Bajak taunted. "You used to be a tough soldier. Now you're just an old farmer."

Raka staggered. He looked around—villagers fought desperately, but were outnumbered. The granary burned. Karta lay unconscious. Tukinem dead. Hope began to fade.

But from the corner of his eye, he saw something.

Arka.

His son stood in front of the hut, looking at him. Wulan held his shoulders, trying to pull him inside. But Arka didn't move. His eyes—his eyes shone. Not ordinary light, but a faint glow, like fireflies in the dark night.

Mana.

Raka wanted to shout, tell him to run, tell him to hide. But his voice wouldn't come. He could only stare, watching something that would change everything.

***

Arka saw his father cornered.

Blood flowed from his wounds. He was about to fall. And that one-eyed man—Bajak, the man from his dreams—smiled cruelly, ready to finish him.

In his chest, that mana exploded.

Not a pulse. Not a flow. But an explosion. Like a dam breaking. Like a volcano erupting. Like something long buried, finally free.

Arka didn't know what he was doing. He just closed his eyes, feeling energy surge from his body, seeping into the ground, into the roots beneath Dusun Karang.

And the earth answered.

*CRACK!*

The ground around Bajak split. Not ordinary cracks—deep, wide cracks, like a small earthquake. Bajak staggered, trying to keep his balance. But from within the cracks, dry roots suddenly came alive. They moved, coiled, wrapped around Bajak's legs like wooden snakes.

"W-What?!" Bajak screamed, not from fear but disbelief. He tried to struggle, but the roots were too strong. Too fast. In seconds, both his legs were tightly bound. He fell, face down on the ground.

Raka didn't waste the opportunity. With his remaining strength, he swung his machete. Not to kill—but to disable. The machete struck the hilt of Bajak's sword, sending it flying. Then Raka stepped on Bajak's chest, machete at his throat.

"SURRENDER!" Raka shouted.

Bajak lay on the ground, his single eye wide. Not from defeat, but from what had just happened. He stared at Raka, then at the roots still binding his legs, then toward the hut—toward where Arka stood.

"You... you have..." he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Karang blood..."

Raka didn't give him time. He struck Bajak's head with the machete's hilt. The man went unconscious.

Around them, the battle stopped. The other bandits saw their leader fall, lying helpless. They hesitated. Then one by one, they retreated. Ran back into the darkness, leaving their leader, leaving their dead comrades.

But two—his most loyal men—ran forward, dragged Bajak's unconscious body, and fled before Raka could react.

They escaped. But the village survived.

***

Silence enveloped Dusun Karang.

The fire in the granary still burned, but villagers managed to extinguish it before it spread to other huts. Smoke rose, the smell of burning everywhere. Corpses lay scattered—three villagers, eleven bandits. Blood soaked the ground that had only recently been irrigated.

Karta regained consciousness, but his head was badly wounded. Seven other villagers were severely injured. Wulan and the women busied themselves treating them with bandages and herbal medicine.

In the midst of it all, Arka sat in front of the hut. His body was limp, his mana completely depleted. He could barely open his eyes. All he saw were faint shadows, distant sounds.

"Arka! ARKA!"

Wulan's voice. He was shaken, embraced. But Arka couldn't answer. His mana was gone. His body empty. He fainted in his mother's arms.

***

A few villagers who were still conscious, saw.

They saw the ground crack. Saw roots move. Saw a small child standing with glowing eyes. And now, saw that child faint in his mother's arms.

Whispers began to be heard. Not suspicious whispers like before. But whispers of awe. Fear. Or maybe—maybe wonder.

"That child..."

"He... he did that?"

"Roots moving... ground cracking..."

"He saved us."

Raka ran to Arka, taking him from Wulan's arms. He checked his son's breath—still there, though weak. He hugged Arka tightly, crying silently.

"Son... Son..." he whispered repeatedly. "Father's here. Father's here."

In the corner, Village Chief Joko lay with a wound in his stomach. His face was pale, his breath short. He called Raka with a trembling hand.

"Ra... Raka..."

Raka approached, still holding Arka. "Joko, you..."

"I'm... fine." Joko smiled faintly, though his life was clearly slipping away. "Your son... he..."

Raka looked down. "I know."

"Protect him." Joko grasped Raka's hand. "Protect him, Raka. Or... or we will all lose him."

His eyes looked at the unconscious Arka. "He's not... not an ordinary child. He's... he's our future."

Raka nodded, tears falling. "I promise."

Joko smiled, then his eyes closed. His breath was still there—he was still alive. But his wound was severe. Tonight, they lost three villagers. Joko almost joined them.

***

In his unconscious state, Arka dreamed.

He stood in a grassland he had never seen before. The grass was green, knee-high, swaying gently in the wind. In the distance, there was a large tree with golden leaves. And under that tree, there was a stone. A huge stone, as tall as a house, with carvings he didn't understand.

But he recognized one carving. The same one as his father's pendant—the pendant he always saw but never asked about.

He stepped closer. Wanting to touch. Wanting to know.

"Come to the source, heir of Karang."

The voice echoed, deep, ancient, like thunder from within the earth. Arka turned, looking for its source. But there was no one. Only the stone. Only the grass. Only the wind.

"Who are you?" he asked.

No answer. But the stone... the stone glowed. A faint, warm light, like the morning sun. And Arka felt—felt something calling him. Calling from within the stone. From within the earth. From within his own blood.

***

Arka woke with a scream in his ears.

Not a scream of fear—but a scream of surprise. He sat up, gasping, cold sweat soaking his entire body. Beside him, Wulan slept exhausted, her hand still holding Arka's.

In the corner of the hut, Mbah Ranggawarsita sat with open eyes, watching him. The old man smiled. A knowing smile. A wise smile.

"You heard the call, child?" he whispered.

Arka stared at him. In his chest, the mana that had been empty was now beginning to pulse again. Slowly. But surely.

"What... what was that, Elder?" he asked, voice hoarse.

Mbah Ranggawarsita smiled wider. "That is your inheritance, child. The inheritance of Karang blood. And your journey... has only just begun."

Arka was silent. He looked outside the hut, at the fading night sky. Dawn would soon arrive. A new day. A new era.

And he, Arka, a five-year-old child who had just saved his village, knew that this was not the end. This was the beginning of something far greater.

Outside, smoke still rose from the burned granary. Three lives lost. Wounds gaping in every villager's heart. But the village still stood. They were still alive.

And inside that small hut, a child held his father's pendant, felt the pulse of mana in his chest, and asked: "The source... where is it, Elder?"

Mbah Ranggawarsita chuckled softly. "That, child, is a story for another time."

Arka smiled. He knew, this was only the beginning.

--- END OF ARC 1: ROOTS GROWING IN STONE ---

Continued in ARC 2: ROOTS REACHING FOR THE SUN...

Characters: Arka (5 years old), Raka (father), Wulan (mother), Mbah Ranggawarsita (elder), Village Chief Joko (severely wounded), Bajak (bandit leader, escaped), Karta (wounded), Tukinem (deceased), villagers

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

Dawn after the battle. A small child lies in his mother's lap, pale and weak. Beside them, a large man with wounds all over his body holds them both. Background: the burned granary still smoking, corpses scattered, surviving villagers sitting limply on the ground. Golden orange sunrise light creates contrast between destruction and hope. In the corner, an old man smiles faintly, knowing this is not the end, but the beginning.

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