3.1: Echoes of Victory and Whispers of Doubt
The Morning After Ki Glondong's Ambush
Dawn broke over the eastern horizon, a slow but inevitable process. It tore away the thick veil of night with its pale fingers of light, then slowly painted the sky with impossible colors. The clouds in the sky, once gray like extinguished charcoal, now began to redden with purple and orange, before finally igniting in a brilliant golden light. The clear morning dew, dripping from every leaf and tip of grass, glittered like priceless jewels scattered by the gods over the green expanse of the mountains. A new life seemed to be beginning, bringing with it a breath of fresh air, cool and pure, cleansing the remnants of the night's tension and filling the lungs with hope.
In the courtyard of their cave hideout, hidden behind stone walls and a tangle of ancient roots, the atmosphere was different than usual. There was a new energy pulsing in the air, an almost palpable thrill of victory. Some of Arok's followers, especially the younger and more enthusiastic ones, could not hide the glint of triumph in their eyes. They gathered in small groups, some around dying campfires, others under the shade of shady trees, telling the story of the Jatiwangi raid with passion and drama. Their laughter, previously restrained by caution, now sounded crisper and freer, an outpouring of joy long pent up in the depths of their souls.
"You should have seen Ki Glondong's face when Kakang Arok broke his machete!" exclaimed a thin but agile young man named Kertu. He was indeed the natural storyteller among them. His eyes lit up as he leaped to his feet, reenacting the scene with gusto. He grabbed a thick branch and, mustering all his strength, snapped it on his knee, making a loud crack. "His face, which was as red as a boiled crab... klep!... instantly turned as white as cotton! I swear, I saw a little water well up in those greedy eyes!"
The others greeted him with laughter that echoed through the rocks. They could all picture the scene vividly, a sight that brought immense satisfaction. Mahesa, one of the main characters in the evening's drama, stood among them, his chest deliberately puffed out. His face beamed with undisguised pride. He was a young panther who had just caught his first major prey, and he wanted the whole forest to know it. He relished every look of admiration and praise directed his way.
"That's nothing," Mahesa replied with a tone of mock arrogance and casualness, accepting a coconut shell filled with clear water from one of his colleagues. "If only Brother Arok had given me a signal, that fat head would have rolled across the floor of the pavilion. But Brother Arok has his own considerations, the considerations of a great commander." He spoke as if he were the only one who understood the depth of Arok's strategy, positioning himself as his closest and most understanding lieutenant.
Ironically, however, amidst the festivities celebrating his leadership, Arok remained alone. He chose to distance himself from the warmth of the fire and the echoes of victory. He sat cross-legged with his back straight on a flat rock jutting out into the ravine, his back facing away from his companions. This position gave him an unobstructed view of the horizon, piercing the sea of mist that still billowed thickly in the valley below. His sharp, stone-carved face appeared as calm as the surface of a lake at dawn. But deep within, his feelings rumbled like a storm in the middle of the ocean.
Last night's victory hadn't given him the satisfaction he'd hoped for. Instead, it left a strange, cold residue of anxiety deep within him. He'd lit a fire, it was true. The fire of hope in the hearts of the people of Jatiwangi. But he'd also lit another fire, the fire of arrogance and lust in the hearts of his followers. And he was well aware that uncontrolled fire could turn and burn his own master. He replayed last night's events in his mind. Not the heroic scene of breaking the machete, but other smaller moments. The tremor of fear in Ki Demang's body. The soldiers' eyes widening in horror before they fainted. And what disturbed him most was the glint of brutal satisfaction in Mahesa's eyes as he maimed his opponent. He feared, deeply feared, that they were enjoying the violence itself, no longer merely as a means to achieve justice.
Tanca, who had been observing everything from the cave entrance, saw everything through the lens of his wisdom. He saw the youths' excitement, Mahesa's pride, and most importantly, Arok's isolation. With steady, almost silent steps—a habit that betrayed the depth of his knowledge—he slowly approached Arok. He carried no air of judgment, only a calm presence. He stopped beside Arok, sharing his gaze with the misty expanse below them.
"The sky is beautiful this morning," Tanca said, opening the conversation in a low, raspy voice. "A good sign, perhaps. The gods are smiling on our struggles.
Arok didn't look up. His gaze remained fixed on the slowly moving mist, as if searching for an answer there. "The sky can be deceiving, Uncle. Behind its beauty, it can hide a powerful storm. A storm that comes without warning and can topple even the sturdiest teak tree."
Tanca smiled faintly, a knowing smile. "Just like in the human heart, isn't it? Outwardly calm and triumphant, within turbulent and uncertain. You don't look like a winner this morning, Arok. What burden are you still carrying? Wasn't last night a pure victory? You achieved all your goals without shedding a single drop of blood."
Arok took a deep breath, an exhalation that seemed to release some of the heavy burden on his chest, turning it into vapor that vanished into the morning air. "I hear their laughter, Uncle," he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. "I see the sparkle in their eyes. I should be happy. But instead I feel uneasy. I'm afraid this small victory will breed arrogance. They no longer see the suffering of the Jatiwangi people as the main reason we're moving. They've begun to see it as a stage for their own heroism. They relish the fear in their opponents' eyes, they relish the sense of superiority."
He paused, his sharp eyes now dimmed, revealing a vulnerability he rarely showed. "I fear that our original, pure intention to liberate the people will be tainted by the pleasure of shedding blood and humiliating our opponents. I fear that our ultimate goal will shift from 'justice for all' to 'power for us.' I fear that we will simply become a new storm replacing the old one, destroying everything under the pretext of sounding noble."
Tanca's heart trembled at the honesty and depth of thought. This young man before her was truly special. He wasn't blinded by victory. In fact, victory made him even more vigilant. He wasn't just a leader of a mob, but a thinker, a tactician who considered not just his next move, but also the hundred steps after that. He weighed the impact of each action not only on the enemy, but also on the souls of his own men.
"Your concerns are valid, Arok. More than reasonable, they are concerns every true leader must have," Tanca replied in a steady voice. "Power, even in its smallest form, is an intoxicating drug. It is more dangerous than the strongest palm wine. It can seep into the very marrow of one's bones, transforming the purest intentions into the most vile of desires. Victory is a double-edged sword. One side cuts down the enemy, the other side can unknowingly cut down our own conscience."
Tanca placed a firm hand on Arok's shoulder. "But it is precisely because you have this worry that I believe in you. Dangerous leaders are those who never doubt themselves. It is your duty as a leader, as a keeper of the flame, to constantly remind them, and yourself, of our original purpose. It is your duty to keep the fire within our hearts burning pure, burning away injustice, not burning away our own compassion and conscience. And that is a far more difficult task than defeating a hundred Tumapel warriors."
Their deep conversation was suddenly interrupted by Mahesa's loud, enthusiastic, and carefree voice, breaking the silence. "Brother Arok!"
Arok and Tanca turned their heads simultaneously. Mahesa was walking toward them with firm steps, followed by Kertu and several other youths, who were staring in awe. The fire of passion still burned brightly in their eyes, a sharp contrast to the somber conversation that had just taken place. The echo of victory still echoed so strongly in their ears, drowning out the whispers of doubt that haunted their leader.
***
3.2: Dance of the Rock and Wind
Mahesa approached with steady steps, his sparkling eyes reflecting the fire of passion that had remained unquenched since last night. Behind him, several other young men followed like chicks following their mother, their faces filled with awe that bordered on worship. They stopped a few steps away from Arok and Tanca, but their surging energy seemed to create ripples in the still morning air.
"Brother, we all recognized your greatness last night. Not a single one of us doubted your leadership," Mahesa began, his voice loud and sincere. He stared at Arok with the gaze of a student thirsting for knowledge. "Your blow that knocked Ki Glondong's machete away without touching him was truly extraordinary. It was like a bolt from the blue! We've been talking about it all morning."
He paused for a moment, taking a breath, as if gathering courage for his request. "But, precisely because of that, I'm still curious. We all are curious. We want to test the true depth of your knowledge. Allow me, as a representative of all my friends, to test my Black Panther Skill against yours, Brother." He added hastily, realizing the possibility of his request sounding presumptuous. "Just a friendly exercise, of course! Not to determine whether we win or lose, but to spur us all on. So that we know how far we have to train to be as great as you."
The request hung in the air. Tanca frowned, slightly worried that it would be perceived as a challenge. However, Arok saw more than that. Behind the slightly arrogant tone, he saw an honest look in Mahesa's eyes, filled with genuine curiosity, not a challenge based on arrogance or envy. He saw himself in Mahesa from years ago: a young man, enthusiastic, full of energy, always eager to prove himself and measure his abilities. He also saw a golden opportunity. Not to show off his strength, but to instill an understanding, a piwulang (teaching) that could not be conveyed through words alone. A lesson that must be felt directly through body movement and the clash of energies.
Arok rose from his seat. His movements were fluid and effortless, like water flowing upwards. A faint smile, the first genuine one that morning, played on his lips. "A good request, Adi Mahesa," Arok replied, his voice calm and friendly. "A sword must be occasionally put to the test of its sharpness. Very well, I accept your invitation. But as you said, this is not a fight. Consider it a dance between two opposing forces. A dance between a rock and the wind."
News of the "sparring" between Arok and Mahesa spread like wildfire in a field of reeds. All their followers, young and old, immediately stopped what they were doing and gathered in the larger courtyard, a flat area surrounded by large rocks. They formed a tight circle, their faces filled with anticipation. They all wanted to watch the two strongest among them test their wits. This was not just a spectacle, but also a rare opportunity to learn.
Mahesa stepped into the center of the circle first. With a low growl, he took his stance. He lowered his body, bending his knees until they were almost parallel to the ground. His stance was firm and strong, as if his legs had become roots gripping the earth. His hands formed tiger claws ready to pounce, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensed, revealing incredible latent strength. His entire demeanor radiated an aura of savagery, aggression, and unforgiving aggression. He was the embodiment of a hungry panther.
Across from him, Arok stood in stark contrast. He simply stood there, relaxed, almost without a stance. His arms hung limply at his sides, his shoulders relaxed, and his expression calm. There was no air of hostility, no tension. He looked like a blade of grass surrendering to the wind, or a hermit meditating. To the untrained eye, he seemed completely harmless, an easy target.
The tension in the audience was so thick it could be cut with a knife. They held their breath.
"Get ready, Brother!" Mahesa growled, his voice shaking the air.
With a roar that erupted from his chest, Mahesa lunged forward. The ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble. His movement was fierce, swift, and direct, like a panther pouncing on its prey from hiding. His clenched right fist shot straight at Arok's chest, carrying with it a sharp gust of wind and a force capable of cracking stone.
However, what happened next left everyone watching breathless in disbelief. In the split second before the blow nearly hit its target, Arok's body shifted slightly to the side, just a hair's breadth away. His movement was so smooth, light, and economical, it was as if he had no weight or bones. He didn't jump or dodge in panic, he just… shifted. Mahesa's powerful blow, carrying all his momentum, passed him by, hitting the empty space where Arok's chest had been a moment ago. The strength he had exerted was wasted, causing his body to stumble slightly forward, missing its target.
Mahesa didn't give up. His experience in combat allowed him to quickly regain his balance. He spun like a top, converting his forward momentum into a spinning kick aimed at Arok's waist. A clever and deadly follow-up attack.
But once again, Arok moved in an unexpected manner. This time, he didn't dodge to the side. Instead, he stepped forward slightly, entering striking range. This move was extremely dangerous and went against any survival instinct, as he was actually approaching the source of danger. However, that was precisely what caused Mahesa's kick to lose its power before it could reach its peak. Like a bow released before it was fully drawn, the kick lacked its full destructive power. Arok then placed his palm gently on Mahesa's kicking thigh, as if merely holding him from falling. But that light touch somehow managed to absorb and neutralize all the remaining force of Mahesa's kick, dampening it to nothing.
Mahesa leaped back, gaining distance. His breathing began to quicken, not only from exertion but also from frustration. His face showed utter astonishment. He felt like he was trying to hit the wind or his own reflection in the water. Every powerful, murderous attack he made was met with nothing or was dampened by a seemingly dismissive touch.
"Why aren't you fighting back, Brother?!" Mahesa exclaimed, his voice starting to sound frustrated. "Are you underestimating me?!"
Arok smiled faintly, the smile of a patient teacher. "I'm fighting back, Adi. But not in your way. I'm fighting your attacks, not you."
Without waiting for a response, Mahesa struck again. This time, he was more cunning. He no longer used a single, straight-forward attack. He launched a series of combinations. A quick, baiting jab, followed by a sweeping low kick, and then an elbow aimed at the head. He moved around Arok, changing directions abruptly, trying to confuse his opponent.
Faced with this more complex attack, Arok began to "dance." His body twisted, his feet moved in unpredictable triangular steps, his shoulders swayed, his head lowered and raised. He was like a dry leaf being tossed around by a whirlwind, seemingly flustered and constantly on the verge of danger, yet never once being directly touched. His hands moved occasionally, not to parry forcefully, but to gently tap or nudge Mahesa's elbow, shoulder, or knee. Each touch seemed light, but always succeeded in slightly throwing his opponent's attack off-target, or making Mahesa's stance falter.
Everyone watching was stunned. They witnessed a remarkable sight, a dance between two contrasting elements. Mahesa was a massive, rolling boulder, trying to crush everything with brute force. Arok was a formless wind, surrounding the boulder, gradually distorting its direction, eroding its energy without ever directly colliding. Mahesa, who was attacking so fiercely, seemed increasingly exhausted, his breathing becoming more labored, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. Meanwhile, Arok, who was constantly evading, appeared to be in good health. His breathing remained deep and steady, as if he were simply taking a morning walk.
Mahesa's frustration reached its peak. He felt like he had been toyed with. His pride as the second-greatest fighter among them was shattered. He made a desperate decision. He had to end this "dance," no matter the cost. He let out a loud roar, a roar that was no longer a war cry, but rather the frustrated cry of a trapped beast. He leaped back, took a few steps, and then gathered all his remaining strength and inner power into one point. The air around him seemed to vibrate.
"Take this, Brother! The final attack! Panther's Death Claw!"
He shot forward, faster than any of his previous attacks. His hands, clawed with hardened fingers, aimed straight for Arok's chest. This was his ultimate attack, a technique taught to him by his late father, capable of ripping through even steel plates. A strike that risked everything, one that left no room for evasion or defense.
The audience let out a muffled scream. Even Tanca leaned forward slightly, anxious.
This time, Arok no longer evaded. He stopped dancing. He stood still, waiting for the storm to arrive.
***
3.3: Teaching on the Edge of the Precipice
Arok stood still, his feet seemingly one with the earth. Amidst the storm of attacks Mahesa had created—a maelstrom of punches and kicks that targeted every part of his body—Arok remained calm. His body moved nimbly, weaving left and right, forward and backward in an unpredictable rhythm, as if possessing a logic of its own. He was like a dry leaf being tossed about by a whirlwind, seemingly disoriented and always on the verge of danger, yet never once touched. His lithe hands occasionally moved, not to parry with a hard blow, but to gently tap or nudge Mahesa's elbow, shoulder, or knee. Each touch, seemingly light and almost effortless, somehow managed to throw his opponent's attack slightly off-target, or to make Mahesa's stance waver slightly, disrupting his natural balance.
Arok doesn't fight fire with fire. He becomes the water that flows around the fire, absorbing its heat without having to extinguish it by force. He doesn't fight force with force. He becomes the void that swallows that force, rendering it futile.
Everyone watching was mesmerized, their eyes glued to the extraordinary dance. They saw a sight they had never imagined. Mahesa, the panther who had attacked so fiercely, looked increasingly exhausted. His breathing was now ragged like a blacksmith's, and sweat had soaked his face and back, making his clothes stick to his skin. Meanwhile, Arok, who was constantly dodging and dancing, appeared to be in good health. His breathing remained deep and steady, as if he were just doing a light warm-up. The difference in endurance was striking, a clear testament to the efficiency of the art they practiced.
Seeing his ferocious attacks in vain, and his energy drained by chasing after the shadow, Mahesa made a desperate decision. Frustration and wounded pride consumed the last shreds of his reason. He had to end this. He leaped back, gaining distance, and then gathered all his remaining inner strength and spiritual power into one spot. The air around him seemed to vibrate with concentrated energy.
"Take this, Brother! Panther's Death Claw!"
He shot forward, his hands, clawed with fingers hardened like steel, aimed straight at Arok's chest. This was his ultimate attack, a forbidden technique capable of ripping through leather armor, let alone a human chest. An attack that risked everything, one launched with the blind confidence that no one could withstand it.
This time, Arok no longer shied away. He stopped dancing.
Just as the deadly claw was just inches from his chest, as all the spectators closed their eyes in horror, Arok did something unexpected, something that surpassed their understanding of combat. His body twisted slightly on its axis, like a slow-spinning top. The movement created a small space. And with a speed that the naked eye could not follow, the tips of his right index and middle fingers moved forward. Not to counterattack, not to parry, but to place a seemingly very light tap at the point where the veins on the inside of Mahesa's right arm met.
Ctak!
A nearly silent touch. A contact so brief and gentle. Yet the effects were devastating and instantaneous.
All the strength Mahesa had so painstakingly gathered at the tips of his claws, energy that should have been able to tear through stone, seemed to vanish in an instant. It evaporated like dew in the morning sun. The flow of power from his shoulders to his fingertips was completely cut off, as if a dam had suddenly collapsed in the middle of a river. His body, which had been charging forward at high speed, lost all control and momentum. His feet tripped over his own steps, and he fell heavily in front of Arok's feet. Not from the push, not from the counterattack, but from his own strength suddenly disappearing and betraying him.
Complete silence enveloped the courtyard. Even the wind seemed to have stopped blowing. Everyone gaped in disbelief. Their mouths opened, but no sound came out. Mahesa, the mighty Panther, the second greatest fighter among them, had been defeated. Defeated without Arok landing a single meaningful blow. Defeated by a touch that was more like a caress than a blow.
Arok bowed. His movements remained calm and dignified. He extended his hand and helped Mahesa to his feet. Mahesa's face was pale, covered in beads of sweat, and he wore a look of profound confusion. He stared at his own hands, then at Arok, as if trying to comprehend what magic had just occurred.
"Do you see now, Adi?" Arok whispered softly, his voice barely audible to Mahesa, but his composure palpable to everyone. "The greatest strength doesn't always come from the hardest blow or the loudest shout. Sometimes, it comes from the lightest touch at the most opportune moment."
He patted Mahesa's still limp shoulder. "The fire within you is a gift. Your passion is the strength of us all. Never extinguish it. But don't let it burn you blindly. Learn to control it, to shape it into a focused heat that can melt even the hardest steel, not just a big bonfire that blazes for a moment and then dies out, leaving cold ashes."
Mahesa looked at Arok with a completely new perspective. Gone were the remnants of his arrogance and competitive spirit. His admiration had transformed into a deep respect, almost akin to devotion. He finally understood, not just with his mind, but with his entire body, having just experienced the truth of those words firsthand. He bowed his head deeply, a gesture of acknowledgement and sincere acceptance of the teachings. Speechless, he could only nod slowly.
Arok let go of Mahesa's shoulder and walked back to his original spot, on the edge of the cliff overlooking the ravine. He sat down cross-legged again, gazing out at the valley below, as if nothing had happened. The sparring session was over.
His followers now viewed him differently. They no longer saw him simply as a brave and intelligent leader. They now saw him as a wise teacher, a master of unfathomable depths. The roar of victory last night had been replaced by a reverential silence. They understood that their leader was not merely a solid rock, but an unstoppable force.
However, in Arok's heart, the turmoil had not completely subsided. He had just demonstrated the power of the Ilmu Angin Lereng Kawi (Wind Slope Kawi Technique). A technique capable of defeating great power with gentleness. A technique based on understanding, not destruction. But he also realized that every technique is a double-edged sword. The same technique, which can be used to protect in the most efficient way, can also be a very cunning and dangerous tool in the wrong hands. It can be used to deceive, trap, and destroy from within in the most subtle ways. The power to paralyze without killing is also the power to torture without leaving a mark.
Today's lesson wasn't just for Mahesa. It was also a reminder to himself. He had chosen the path of the wind, a path that was flexible and shapeless. But that path was fraught with temptation. The temptation to be too cunning, too manipulative. The temptation to revel in the power to control others without their awareness.
The question haunted him again, sharper and clearer than ever. Could he truly control this wind? Could he keep it a gentle breeze, not a destructive whirlwind? Or would one day, when he faced greater power, with more complex palace intrigues, the wind would turn against him, throwing him into the abyss of his own destruction?
The question hung in the morning air, unanswered. It was like a dark shadow on the clear horizon, a silent warning on the edge of the abyss for the leader himself. The journey was still long, and the hardest battle lay not with Tumapel, but with the shadow within himself.
⭐⭐⭐🇮🇩🇮🇩🇮🇩
Continued CHAPTER 04