Chapter 4: First Trials in the Concrete Jungle
1. A New Kind of Battle
Azril wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stacked another crate behind the school's canteen.
The heat was unbearable, and the heavy boxes felt endless, but he didn't complain.
Hardship was something he had worn like armor long before stepping into this city.
The part-time job wasn't glamorous — cleaning tables, carrying supplies, helping the canteen aunties — but it was honest work.
It paid just enough to afford simple meals and save a little for his dreams.
He adjusted the strap of his old, faded sling bag and took a deep breath.
Another day survived.
Another step forward.
"Azril!" one of the canteen workers called, waving from inside. "Break time! Come eat!"
Azril smiled politely and jogged over, wiping his hands on a towel tucked at his waist.
As he entered the kitchen, he caught the scent of fried noodles and warm curry puffs — and for a moment, he felt like he was back home, in the village pasar malam, where laughter and food filled the night.
2. Strangers and Shadows
During his break, Azril sat quietly at a corner table, savoring every bite of the simple meal the aunties prepared for staff.
Around him, groups of students came and went, laughing loudly, playing games on their phones, living lives so different from his own.
He didn't mind.
Azril was used to being an outsider.
But today, something felt... off.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed three senior boys leaning against the vending machine, whispering and glancing his way.
Their jackets had the school's martial arts club logo — bold, aggressive designs that screamed strength and dominance.
Azril recognized the posture immediately: challengers.
Not from what they said — they hadn't spoken to him yet — but from the way they stood.
Balanced. Ready.
It was the same way seasoned fighters back home carried themselves during village tournaments, just before the opening bow.
Azril looked away casually, pretending not to notice.
No need to start a war before it began.
3. The Spark
Later that afternoon, while wiping tables near the back hall, the same three boys cornered him.
The tallest one — broad-shouldered, with a cocky grin — stepped forward.
"Hey, kampung boy," he said, flicking Azril's cap off his head with two fingers. "Heard you're trying to play tough here."
Azril bent down calmly, picked up his cap, and dusted it off.
He placed it back on his head without a word.
The boy laughed, nudging his friends.
"What? Cat got your tongue?"
Azril met his gaze steadily, his voice calm.
"I'm not here to fight," he said. "Just here to work. And study."
Another boy snorted. "Big talk from someone who smells like curry all the time."
The third boy, thinner but with sharp eyes, stepped closer, smirking.
"Maybe you need to be taught your place."
Azril's fingers tightened slightly around the rag he was holding.
He straightened slowly, standing upright, his posture loose but... grounded.
The way a silat practitioner does — relaxed, but ready to move at any second.
It wasn't intentional.
It was simply who he was.
4. Respect Earned
The thin boy reached out as if to shove him — but stopped midway.
There was something in Azril's stance that made him hesitate.
Something old.
Something dangerous.
Azril tilted his head slightly, still calm, still peaceful.
"I don't want trouble," he said, voice low but firm. "But I won't let you step on me either."
For a long second, no one moved.
Then, strangely, the lead boy grinned.
He clapped his friend on the shoulder, breaking the tension.
"Maybe this kampung boy's got some bite after all," he said.
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping.
"This city... it eats the weak alive. But you... maybe you're not so weak."
Without another word, they walked away, laughter echoing down the hallway.
Azril let out a slow breath, loosening his body from the silent alertness he had held.
A small victory.
No fists thrown.
No pride lost.
Only a flicker of respect earned — the real kind, the one you build quietly, not demand loudly.
5. Fire Within
That night, Azril stood alone on the rooftop again, gazing out at the endless lights of the city.
Behind him, the school bustled with life, with competition, with dreams crashing against dreams.
In his pocket, he carried a small tasbih his mother had given him before he left.
The beads were worn smooth from years of prayers whispered into them.
He rolled them between his fingers, heart steady.
"I am not here to fight for fame," he whispered into the night.
"I am here to fight for a future."
"And I will not lose my soul to this place."
Above the neon skyline, the stars fought to shine against the haze.
Azril smiled softly.
No matter how bright the city burned, he would burn brighter.
Not with anger.
Not with pride.
But with purpose.
[End of Chapter 4]