EPISODE 6: API FITNAH

EPISODE 6: API FITNAH

Matahari belum sampai di atas kepala, tapi Dusun Karang sudah terbakar. Bukan api—tapi amarah.

Arka merasakan panasnya bahkan dari dalam gubuk Mbah Ranga. Teriakan massa menggema sampai ke sini, kata-kata yang tidak jelas tapi nadanya mengancam. Kepalanya masih berdenyut, mana-nya hanya 10/50—cukup untuk bertahan hidup, tidak cukup untuk menggunakan kekuatan.

“Mereka di rumah Ayah,” bisiknya. “Mbah, aku harus ke sana.”

Mbah Ranga memegang bahunya. Tangan tua itu gemetar, tapi cengkeramannya kuat. “Kau lemah, Nak. Mana-mu hampir habis. Kalau kau ke sana sekarang...”

“Aku tahu.” Arka memotong. “Tapi itu Ayah. Itu Ibu. Aku harus.”

Mbah Ranga menatapnya lama. Matanya yang tua berbinar—antara bangga dan cemas. Lalu ia menghela napas panjang.

“Kalau begitu, kakek ikut.”

Arka terkejut. “Tapi Mbah, umur Mbah...”

“Umur kakek tinggal tiga tahun, kau bilang. Tiga tahun, atau tiga hari, apa bedanya kalau hanya duduk diam?” Mbah Ranga meraih tongkatnya, berdiri dengan susah payah. “Ayo.”

***

Di depan rumah Raka, api unggun besar menyala—bukan untuk menghangatkan, tapi untuk meneror. Puluhan warga berdiri mengelilinginya dengan wajah keras. Di tangan mereka, tombak, golok, pentungan. Alat-alat yang biasanya untuk berburu dan bertani, kini diarahkan ke keluarga sendiri.

Karta berdiri di atas batu besar, menjadi pemimpin massa. Suarara lantang, gesturnya dramatis—seperti dalang yang menarik tali wayang.

“Sudah dua tahun kita biarkan mereka tinggal! Dua tahun kita tutup mata! Tapi lihat sekarang—Bajak datang! Utusan mereka muncul di balai desa! Dan apa yang mereka cari?”

Ia menjeda, menatap satu per satu warganya.

“Anak itu! Arka! Anak dengan darah aneh yang tidak jelas asalnya!”

Massa bersorak. Sarmo, petani yang melihat daun berputar, berteriak paling keras. Tapi di antara kerumunan, ada juga yang diam. Yang menunduk. Yang tangannya gemetar memegang senjata yang sebenarnya tak ingin mereka pakai.

Di pinggir kerumunan, seorang anak kecil bersembunyi di balik pohon. Rambut acak-acakan, mata cemas. Ragil.

Ia mengepalkan tangannya. Di balik bajunya, terselip sekop kayu pemberian Arka—sekop yang dulu dibuat saat mereka pertama kali bertemu, saat mereka menggali lubang rahasia, saat mereka menemukan air bersama.

“Lo harus sabar, Arka,” bisiknya. “Gue tunggu saat yang tepat.”

***

Di balai desa, suasana tak kalah panas. Rapat darurat digelar, meski sebenarnya keputusan sudah diambil di luar sana. Joko duduk di kursi rodanya, wajahnya pucat pasi. Di sekelilingnya, 29 warga—perwakilan dari setiap keluarga—duduk dengan ekspresi tegang.

“Ini gila,” ujar Joko lemah. “Kita mau mengusir keluarga Raka? Setelah semua yang mereka lakukan untuk desa ini?”

Seorang wanita paruh baya, Ratmi, mengangkat tangan. “Aku setuju sama Joko. Raka dan Wulan sudah banyak bantu kita. Wulan mengobati luka kita gratis. Raka membantu membangun rumah yang terbakar.”

“Tapi anaknya!” teriak seorang pria dari sudut. “Anaknya yang bawa bencana! Sejak dia lahir, kita terus dapat masalah! Kebakaran, Bajak, sekarang utusan mereka datang!”

“Itu bukan salah anak itu!”

“Terus salah siapa? Salah kita yang nerima orang asing?”

Perdebatan memanas. Joko memukulkan tongkatnya ke lantai berkali-kali, tapi suaranya tenggelam. Di sudut ruangan, Arka yang baru tiba bersama Mbah Ranga menyaksikan semuanya dari balik pintu.

“Mbah... aku mau lihat.”

Mbah Ranga mengangguk. “Tapi jangan paksakan. Kau tahu batasmu.”

Arka memejam. Sensasi hangat menjalar—lebih lambat, lebih berat, seperti aliran air di musim kemarau. Ia membuka mata.

Warna-warna muncul di atas kepala warga satu per satu. Sebagian besar merah—tapi bukan merah pekat seperti Karta. Merah jambu, merah kusam, merah yang dicampur abu-abu. Artinya: marah, takut, ikut-ikutan.

Tapi di antara mereka, ada biru. Lima titik biru. Ratmi—biru hangat, seperti biasa. Dan empat lainnya: keluarga petani Mulya, pasangan muda Surti dan suaminya yang diam-diam bersimpati, dan seorang pengembara tua yang kebetulan singgah di desa.

Lima keluarga. Hanya lima dari 29 yang benar-benar berniat baik. Sisanya... ikut arus. Takut. Marah. Bingung.

Jendela Status berkedip. Mana-nya turun jadi 8/50. Arka memejam, menghentikan skill sebelum habis total.

“Sudah, Mbah,” bisiknya lemas. “Lima keluarga. Sisanya... merah. Atau abu-abu.”

Mbah Ranga menghela napas. “Cukup untuk memulai hidup baru. Tapi tidak cukup untuk melawan.”

***

Rapat berakhir dengan keputusan yang sudah bisa ditebak: 25 suara mendukung pengusiran, 4 suara menolak. Joko tak bisa berbuat apa-apa. Kursi rodanya seperti simbol ketidakberdayaannya.

Di luar, Karta menyambut hasil rapat dengan senyum puas. Tapi ia belum selesai. Ada satu hal lagi yang perlu ia lakukan—tugas dari Wira yang harus ia selesaikan dengan sempurna.

“Warga Dusun Karang!” serunya. “Keputusan sudah diambil! Tapi sebelum mereka pergi, aku punya bukti! Bukti bahwa keluarga Raka memang berkomplot dengan Bajak!”

Ia mengeluarkan sesuatu dari kantongnya—sebuah jimat kecil. Ukiran pohon dan akar. Sama persis seperti yang dibawa Wira.

“Ini!” Karta mengangkat jimat itu tinggi-tinggi. “Aku temukan ini di rumah Raka! Terselip di bawah tikar! Ini lambang Bajak! Bukti bahwa mereka memang bekerja sama!”

Massa bergemuruh. Teriakan kemarahan memecah langit.

“KELUARKAN MEREKA!”

“BAKAR RUMAHNYA!”

“TANGKAP ANAK ITU!”

Di dalam rumah, Raka memeluk Wulan. Wajahnya tegang, tapi matanya—matanya seperti prajurit yang sudah melihat terlalu banyak pertempuran. Ia tahu kapan harus bertahan, dan kapan harus menyerah.

“Wul,” bisiknya. “Kita harus pergi.”

Wulan menangis, tapi mengangguk. Ia meraih tas kecil—hanya berisi beberapa helai pakaian dan ramuan-ramuan penting. Sisanya, rumah ini, kenangan-kenangan di dalamnya, harus mereka tinggalkan.

Pintu terbuka.

Arka berdiri di ambang, bersama Mbah Ranga. Wajah anak itu pucat, matanya sayu, tapi ia berdiri tegak.

“Ayah, Ibu,” ucapnya. “Aku tahu. Aku tahu Karta pengkhianat. Tapi... mereka tidak akan percaya.”

Raka berlutut, meraih bahu anaknya. “Nak, dengar. Ini bukan salahmu. Kau dengar? BUKAN SALAHMU.”

Arka ingin menjawab, tapi tenggorokannya tercekat. Ia hanya bisa mengangguk.

“Raka!” suara Karta dari luar. “KELUAR SEKARANG! BAWA KELUARGAMU! KAMI BERI KESEMPATAN TERAKHIR!”

Raka berdiri. Ia menatap Wulan, Arka, lalu Mbah Ranga. “Kita keluar bersama. Apapun yang terjadi, jangan melawan. Jangan beri mereka alasan untuk melukai.”

Pintu dibuka.

Cahaya matahari menyilaukan, tapi di belakangnya ada puluhan wajah—marah, takut, bingung—dan di tangan mereka, senjata-senjata yang siap digunakan.

Karta tersenyum. “Akhirnya. Aku pikir kau akan bersembunyi di dalam seperti tikus.”

Raka tidak menjawab. Matanya memindai kerumunan, mencari siapa saja yang mungkin masih bisa diajak bicara. Tapi yang ia lihat hanyalah kebencian yang dipupuk ketakutan.

“Kami akan pergi,” ujar Raka tenang. “Tapi ingat ini, Karta: suatu hari, kau akan menyesal.”

Karta tertawa. “Menyesal? Aku menyesal tidak melakukan ini dari dulu!”

Massa bersorak. Sarmo dan beberapa lainnya melangkah maju, siap memastikan keluarga Raka benar-benar pergi.

Tapi di tengah kerumunan, seseorang bergerak.

Ragil.

Ia berlari kecil, menyelinap di sela-sela orang dewasa, lalu tiba-tiba muncul di samping Arka.

“Gue ikut,” katanya singkat.

Arka terkejut. “Ragil? Lo... lo mau ikut?”

“Gue udah bilang dulu, ingat? 'Gue yang jagain rahasia lo. Siapa pun yang coba ganggu lo, harus lawan gue dulu.'” Ragil tersenyum—senyum nakal khasnya. “Lo kira gue cuma omong doang?”

Arka ingin menangis. Tapi ia tahan.

Dari kerumunan, Ratmi juga maju. “Aku juga ikut. Desa ini sudah gila. Aku tidak mau tinggal di tempat yang memangsa warganya sendiri.”

Keluarga Mulya—petani dengan istri dan dua anaknya—melangkah ragu. “Kami... kami ikut juga. Raka sudah banyak bantu kami. Tidak adil kalau kami diam saja.”

Surti dan Jasio, pasangan muda yang diam-diam bersimpati, ikut maju. “Kami juga.”

Seorang pengembara tua yang kebetulan singgah—Kang Bijak, panggilannya—tersenyum tipis. “Aku sudah keliling banyak tempat. Tapi baru kali ini lihat desa yang mengusir pahlawannya sendiri. Aku ikut. Setidaknya untuk melihat bagaimana cerita ini berakhir.”

Karta tertawa mengejek. “Silakan! Pergi saja kalian! Desa ini lebih baik tanpa pengkhianat dan pengikutnya!”

Tapi matanya—matanya menatap Arka dengan intensitas aneh. Tugasnya belum selesai. Ia harus memastikan Arka lemah. Sangat lemah. Tapi dengan semua orang ini ikut, mungkin itu akan semakin mudah. Semakin banyak yang harus dilindungi, semakin terpecah perhatian.

“Hitung,” bisiknya pada Sarmo. “Berapa mereka?”

Sarmo menghitung cepat. “Keluarga Raka tiga, Mbah Ranga satu, Ragil satu, Ratmi satu, Mulya empat, Surti-Jasio dua, Kang Bijak satu... total 13 orang.”

“13 dari 32,” Karta tersenyum. “Biarkan. Mereka akan mati di luar sana. Dan kita... kita akan aman.”

Tapi di balik senyumnya, ada kegelisahan. Wira bilang tugasnya membuat Arka lemah. Tapi Arka, meski pucat dan lemas, masih berdiri tegak. Masih menatapnya dengan mata yang... tahu.

Mata yang seperti bisa melihat kebusukannya.

“PERGI!” teriak Karta, mengusir perasaan tidak nyaman itu. “PERGI SEKARANG SEBELUM AKU UBAH PIKIRAN!”

Raka memimpin rombongan kecil itu. Mereka berjalan melewati kerumunan yang membelah, melewati tatapan-tatapan penuh kebencian, melewati api unggun yang masih menyala.

Di gerbang desa, Raka berhenti. Ia menoleh ke belakang, ke rumah yang selama tujuh tahun menjadi tempat berlindung. Ke desa yang dulu ia bela. Ke orang-orang yang dulu ia sebut tetangga.

Ia berlutut di depan Arka. Tangannya meraih wajah anaknya, ibu jarinya mengusap pipi yang mulai basah.

“Nak,” bisiknya, suaranya pecah. “Maafkan Ayah. Ayah... Ayah gagal melindungimu.”

Arka menggenggam tangan ayahnya. “Ayah tidak gagal. Kita masih bersama. Itu sudah cukup.”

Raka tersenyum getir. Lalu ia berdiri, menatap rombongan kecil di belakangnya—13 orang yang memilih ikut ke tidakpastian.

“Terima kasih,” ucapnya. “Aku tidak tahu apa yang menanti di luar sana. Tapi aku janji, aku akan lindungi kalian dengan nyawaku.”

Ratmi tersenyum. “Kami juga akan lindungi kalian, Raka. Itu artinya keluarga.”

Di kejauhan, di balik gerbang desa, hamparan padang rumput luas terbentang. Tanah tak bertuan. Tempat di mana hukum tidak berlaku, di mana hanya yang kuat yang bertahan.

Di pinggir padang itu, di balik bayang-bayang senja, sesosok hitam berdiri. Wira. Utusan Bajak.

Ia tersenyum melihat rombongan kecil itu keluar dari gerbang.

“Bagus, Karta. Tugasmu hampir selesai. Sekarang biarkan alam yang bekerja.”

Ia berbalik, menghilang dalam kegelapan yang mulai turun.

***

Malam turun cepat di padang rumput. Rombongan kecil itu berhenti di bawah pohon besar, satu-satunya tempat berlindung di hamparan luas. Mereka tidak punya tenda, tidak punya persediaan cukup. Hanya pakaian di badan dan tekad di hati.

Arka duduk bersandar di batang pohon. Mana-nya masih 8/50—cukup untuk bertahan, tapi tidak cukup untuk apa pun. Kepalanya pusing, tubuhnya demam, tapi ia tidak bisa tidur.

Ragil duduk di sampingnya. “Lo ingat pertama kali kita ke lubang rahasia?”

Arka mengangguk lemah.

“Waktu itu lo bilang, 'Gue enggak tahu apa yang bakal terjadi, tapi setidaknya gue enggak sendiri lagi.'” Ragil tersenyum. “Sekarang juga sama. Lo enggak sendiri.”

Arka menatap sahabatnya. Di tengah semua kekacauan ini, di saat ia kehilangan rumah, kehilangan desa, kehilangan segalanya—ia masih punya Ragil. Masih punya keluarga. Masih punya 12 orang asing yang memilih untuk percaya padanya.

“Makasih, Ragil.”

“Sama-sama, kawan. Sekarang tidur. Besok kita harus jalan lagi.”

Arka memejam. Tapi di dalam gelap, ia masih bisa melihatnya—warna merah Karta, warna biru teman-temannya, dan teks yang terputus itu: “Memastikan Arka tidak bisa mempertahankan diri saat...”

Saat apa? Saat Bajak datang? Saat mereka paling lemah? Saat...

Ia tidak tahu. Tapi satu hal yang ia tahu: ini baru awal.

Di kejauhan, lolongan serigala terdengar. Bukan satu—tapi banyak. Terkoordinasi. Seperti pasukan yang memberi kode.

Mbah Ranga, yang duduk agak jauh, tiba-tiba membuka mata. Matanya yang tua menatap ke arah suara itu.

“Mereka tahu kita di sini,” bisiknya. “Raja Hutan... akan datang.”

Tapi Arka tidak mendengar. Ia sudah tertidur, kelelahan setelah hari yang panjang.

Di luar lingkaran rombongan, di balik semak-semak, sepasang mata besar menyala dalam gelap. Bukan mata serigala biasa—lebih besar, lebih cerdas, lebih... mengancam.

Makhluk itu mengamati rombongan kecil itu lama. Lalu perlahan, tanpa suara, ia mundur ke dalam kegelapan.

Belum sekarang. Belum waktunya.

Tapi nanti. Saat mereka paling lemah. Saat mereka paling takut. Saat anak dengan darah Karang itu tidak bisa mempertahankan diri.

Bersambung...

Karakter yang muncul: Arka, Raka, Wulan, Mbah Ranggawarsita, Karta, Joko, Ratmi, Ragil, Keluarga Mulya (petani dengan istri dan 2 anak), Surti & Jasio (pasangan muda), Kang Bijak (pengembara tua), Sarmo, Wira (utusan Bajak), Massa warga.

EPISODE 6: FLAMES OF SLANDER

The sun hadn't yet reached its zenith, but Dusun Karang was already burning. Not with fire—but with rage.

Arka could feel its heat even from inside Mbah Ranga's hut. The mob's screams echoed here, words unclear but tone threatening. His head still throbbed, his mana only 10/50—enough to survive, not enough to use his power.

"They're at Father's house," he whispered. "Grandfather, I have to go there."

Mbah Ranga gripped his shoulder. That old hand trembled, but its hold was strong. "You're weak, child. Your mana is almost empty. If you go there now..."

"I know." Arka cut him off. "But that's Father. That's Mother. I have to."

Mbah Ranga stared at him for a long time. His old eyes glimmered—a mix of pride and worry. Then he sighed deeply.

"Then I'm coming too."

Arka was surprised. "But Grandfather, your age..."

"I have three years left, you said. Three years, or three days, what's the difference if I just sit idle?" Mbah Ranga reached for his staff, standing with difficulty. "Let's go."

***

In front of Raka's house, a large bonfire blazed—not for warmth, but for terror. Dozens of villagers surrounded it with hardened faces. In their hands, spears, machetes, clubs. Tools meant for hunting and farming, now aimed at their own kin.

Karta stood on a large rock, leading the mob. His voice was loud, his gestures dramatic—like a puppeteer pulling strings.

"Two years we've let them stay! Two years we closed our eyes! But look now—Bajak has come! Their envoy appeared at the village hall! And what are they looking for?"

He paused, looking at his villagers one by one.

"That child! Arka! The child with strange blood of unknown origin!"

The mob cheered. Sarmo, the farmer who saw the leaves spinning, shouted the loudest. But among the crowd, there were also those who were silent. Those who looked down. Those whose hands trembled holding weapons they never wanted to use.

At the edge of the crowd, a small boy hid behind a tree. Messy hair, worried eyes. Ragil.

He clenched his fists. Hidden beneath his shirt, there was a wooden shovel—Arka's gift from long ago, when they first met, when they dug the secret hole together, when they found water.

"Hold on, Arka," he whispered. "I'm waiting for the right moment."

***

At the village hall, the atmosphere was no less heated. An emergency meeting was held, though the decision had already been made outside. Joko sat in his wheelchair, his face pale. Around him, 29 villagers—representatives from each family—sat with tense expressions.

"This is insane," Joko said weakly. "We want to expel Raka's family? After all they've done for this village?"

A middle-aged woman, Ratmi, raised her hand. "I agree with Joko. Raka and Wulan have helped us so much. Wulan treated our wounds for free. Raka helped rebuild burned houses."

"But it's the child!" a man shouted from the corner. "That child brings disaster! Since he was born, we've had nothing but problems! Fire, Bajak, now their envoy appears!"

"That's not the child's fault!"

"Then whose fault is it? Ours for accepting outsiders?"

The debate grew heated. Joko pounded his staff on the floor repeatedly, but his voice was drowned out. In the corner of the room, Arka who had just arrived with Mbah Ranga watched everything from behind the door.

"Grandfather... I want to see."

Mbah Ranga nodded. "But don't push yourself. You know your limits."

Arka closed his eyes. That warm sensation spread—slower, heavier, like a stream in the dry season. He opened his eyes.

Colors appeared above each villager's head. Most were red—but not the deep red of Karta. Pinkish red, dull red, red mixed with gray. Meaning: angry, afraid, following the crowd.

But among them, there was blue. Five blue dots. Ratmi—warm blue, as always. And four others: Mulya's family, Surti and her husband who silently sympathized, and an old wanderer who happened to be passing through.

Five families. Only five out of 29 with truly good intentions. The rest... following the current. Afraid. Angry. Confused.

The Status Window flickered. His mana dropped to 8/50. Arka closed his eyes, stopping the skill before it drained completely.

"It's done, Grandfather," he whispered weakly. "Five families. The rest... red. Or gray."

Mbah Ranga sighed. "Enough to start a new life. But not enough to fight."

***

The meeting ended with a predictable result: 25 votes for expulsion, 4 against. Joko could do nothing. His wheelchair was like a symbol of his powerlessness.

Outside, Karta greeted the meeting's outcome with a satisfied smile. But he wasn't done. There was one more thing he needed to do—a task from Wira that he had to complete perfectly.

"People of Dusun Karang!" he shouted. "The decision has been made! But before they leave, I have proof! Proof that Raka's family indeed conspired with Bajak!"

He pulled something from his pocket—a small amulet. Tree and root carving. Exactly like the one Wira carried.

"This!" Karta raised the amulet high. "I found this in Raka's house! Hidden under a mat! This is Bajak's symbol! Proof that they've been working together!"

The mob roared. Angry shouts split the sky.

"DRIVE THEM OUT!"

"BURN THEIR HOUSE!"

"CATCH THAT CHILD!"

Inside the house, Raka held Wulan. His face was tense, but his eyes—his eyes were like a soldier who had seen too many battles. He knew when to fight, and when to surrender.

"Wul," he whispered. "We have to go."

Wulan cried, but nodded. She reached for a small bag—just a few clothes and essential herbs. The rest, this house, the memories inside, they had to leave behind.

The door opened.

Arka stood at the threshold, with Mbah Ranga. The child's face was pale, his eyes weary, but he stood straight.

"Father, Mother," he said. "I know. I know Karta is a traitor. But... they won't believe."

Raka knelt, grabbing his son's shoulders. "Son, listen. This is not your fault. You hear? NOT YOUR FAULT."

Arka wanted to answer, but his throat tightened. He could only nod.

"Raka!" Karta's voice from outside. "COME OUT NOW! BRING YOUR FAMILY! WE'RE GIVING YOU ONE LAST CHANCE!"

Raka stood. He looked at Wulan, Arka, then Mbah Ranga. "We go out together. Whatever happens, don't fight back. Don't give them a reason to hurt us."

The door opened.

Sunlight blinded them, but behind it were dozens of faces—angry, afraid, confused—and in their hands, weapons ready to be used.

Karta smiled. "Finally. I thought you'd hide inside like rats."

Raka didn't answer. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who might still be reasoned with. But all he saw was hatred fueled by fear.

"We'll go," Raka said calmly. "But remember this, Karta: someday, you will regret this."

Karta laughed. "Regret? I regret not doing this sooner!"

The mob cheered. Sarmo and several others stepped forward, ready to make sure Raka's family truly left.

But in the crowd, someone moved.

Ragil.

He ran, slipping between adults, then suddenly appeared beside Arka.

"I'm coming too," he said simply.

Arka was surprised. "Ragil? You... you want to come?"

"I told you before, remember? 'I'll guard your secret. Anyone who tries to mess with you, they have to deal with me first.'" Ragil smiled—his signature mischievous grin. "You thought I was just talking?"

Arka wanted to cry. But he held it in.

From the crowd, Ratmi also stepped forward. "I'm coming too. This village has gone mad. I don't want to stay where they prey on their own."

Mulya's family—a farmer with his wife and two children—stepped forward hesitantly. "We... we're coming too. Raka has helped us so much. It's not right to stay silent."

Surti and Jasio, the young couple who silently sympathized, also stepped forward. "Us too."

An old wanderer who happened to be passing through—Kang Bijak, they called him—smiled thinly. "I've traveled many places. But never seen a village expel its own heroes. I'll come. At least to see how this story ends."

Karta laughed mockingly. "Go ahead! Leave! This village is better off without traitors and their followers!"

But his eyes—his eyes stared at Arka with strange intensity. His task wasn't finished. He had to ensure Arka was weak. Very weak. But with all these people following, perhaps that would be easier. More people to protect meant more divided attention.

"Count them," he whispered to Sarmo. "How many?"

Sarmo counted quickly. "Raka's family three, Mbah Ranga one, Ragil one, Ratmi one, Mulya four, Surti-Jasio two, Kang Bijak one... total 13 people."

"13 out of 32," Karta smiled. "Let them go. They'll die out there. And we... we'll be safe."

But behind his smile, there was unease. Wira said his task was to make Arka weak. But Arka, despite being pale and weak, still stood straight. Still stared at him with eyes that... knew.

Eyes that seemed to see his corruption.

"GO!" Karta shouted, pushing away that uncomfortable feeling. "GO NOW BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND!"

Raka led the small group. They walked through the parting crowd, past hate-filled stares, past the still-burning bonfire.

At the village gate, Raka stopped. He looked back at the house that had been their shelter for seven years. At the village he once defended. At the people he once called neighbors.

He knelt before Arka. His hands reached for his son's face, his thumbs wiping the cheeks that were starting to get wet.

"Son," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Forgive me. I... I failed to protect you."

Arka gripped his father's hands. "Father didn't fail. We're still together. That's enough."

Raka smiled bitterly. Then he stood, looking at the small group behind him—13 people who chose to follow into uncertainty.

"Thank you," he said. "I don't know what awaits out there. But I promise, I'll protect you with my life."

Ratmi smiled. "We'll protect you too, Raka. That's what family means."

In the distance, beyond the village gate, vast grasslands stretched. No man's land. A place where laws didn't apply, where only the strong survived.

At the edge of that grassland, in the shadow of dusk, a dark figure stood. Wira. Bajak's envoy.

He smiled, watching the small group leave through the gate.

"Good, Karta. Your task is almost complete. Now let nature do its work."

He turned, disappearing into the descending darkness.

***

Night fell quickly over the grassland. The small group stopped under a large tree, the only shelter in the vast expanse. They had no tents, no supplies. Just the clothes on their backs and determination in their hearts.

Arka sat leaning against the tree trunk. His mana was still 8/50—enough to survive, not enough for anything. His head spun, his body feverish, but he couldn't sleep.

Ragil sat beside him. "Remember the first time we went to the secret hole?"

Arka nodded weakly.

"Back then you said, 'I don't know what will happen, but at least I'm not alone anymore.'" Ragil smiled. "It's the same now. You're not alone."

Arka looked at his friend. In the midst of all this chaos, when he lost his home, lost his village, lost everything—he still had Ragil. Still had family. Still had 12 strangers who chose to believe in him.

"Thanks, Ragil."

"Anytime, friend. Now sleep. Tomorrow we have to walk again."

Arka closed his eyes. But in the darkness, he could still see it—Karta's red color, his friends' blue, and that incomplete text: "Ensure Arka cannot defend himself when..."

When what? When Bajak comes? When they're weakest? When...

He didn't know. But one thing he knew: this was only the beginning.

In the distance, wolf howls were heard. Not one—but many. Coordinated. Like an army signaling.

Mbah Ranga, sitting a little apart, suddenly opened his eyes. His old eyes stared toward that sound.

"They know we're here," he whispered. "The Forest King... will come."

But Arka didn't hear. He was already asleep, exhausted after the long day.

Outside the group's circle, beyond the bushes, a pair of large eyes glowed in the dark. Not ordinary wolf eyes—bigger, more intelligent, more... threatening.

The creature observed the small group for a long time. Then slowly, silently, it retreated into darkness.

Not yet. Not yet time.

But later. When they're weakest. When they're most afraid. When that child with Karang blood cannot defend himself.

To be continued...

Characters featured: Arka, Raka, Wulan, Mbah Ranggawarsita, Karta, Joko, Ratmi, Ragil, Mulya's family (farmer with wife and 2 children), Surti & Jasio (young couple), Kang Bijak (old wanderer), Sarmo, Wira (Bajak's envoy), Village mob.

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