Chapter 04: The Path to the Dragon's Nest

4. 1: Extinguishing the Rebel Fire

Arok walked through the remaining darkness of the night, leaving the camp and his companions behind. Each step felt like a cut, separating him from the only world he had ever known. His back felt bare without the sword his father had left him. The mountain air, usually liberating, now felt suffocating, as if mourning his separation. He kept walking, not looking back, for he knew that if he did, his resolve might waver.

He arrived at a small, hidden waterfall, the place where he first met his destiny. Reverend Lohgawe was waiting for him there, sitting cross-legged on a rock with a calmness that seemed untouched by the turmoil of the world.

"Are you ready?" Lohgawe asked without opening his eyes, as if he could sense Arok's arrival through the vibrations in the air.

"I'm ready," Arok replied, his voice steady, hiding the storm raging in his heart.

"Good," said Lohgawe, finally opening his eyes. His clear eyes stared at Arok with incredible intensity. "Because to be reborn, you must first truly die. Arok, the leader of Laskar Panji Keadilan, the feared fugitive, must disappear from the face of this earth. Not even the slightest trace must remain."

Those words sounded like a verdict. Arok nodded, resigned.

"What should I do, Master?" he asked, calling the priest by that name for the first time.

"First," said Lohgawe as he stood up, "let go of everything that still ties you to your past."

He pointed to Arok's clothing, made of rough tree bark, typical of rebels. "Take that off."

Arok, although a little hesitant, obeyed the order. He took off his clothes until he was only wearing a simple loincloth. His strong body, full of battle scars, was now exposed to the cold morning air.

"Now, enter the pool under the waterfall," Lohgawe ordered. "Not to bathe. But to cleanse yourself of the blood and grudges that have been clinging to your skin. Soak. Close your eyes. And feel this mountain water carry away every anger, every hatred, every memory of who you are."

Arok stepped into the bone-chilling water. He waded in until the water reached his neck, then he submerged himself completely, following his teacher's instructions. Beneath the roaring surface, the world seemed silent. He tried to clear his mind, but the images kept coming. His father's dying face, Sari's blank face, the faces of the starving farmers. These images were the fuel that had kept him burning. How could he let them go?

When he resurfaced, gasping for breath, Lohgawe was waiting for him at the edge of the pool.

"You can't let it go, can you?" the priest asked, as if reading her mind. "Because you tried to erase it. That was a mistake. Resentment and anger are fire. Fire cannot be erased; it can only be transformed."

Lohgawe picked up a small clay bowl. "Don't try to extinguish the fire, Arok. Instead, gather it. Draw in all your anger, all your resentment, all your pain. Concentrate it into a burning ball of fire within your chest. Don't let it spread to your head or your hands. Lock it there. Make it the core of your power, a furnace that will keep you warm in the coldest moments in the palace. Controlled fire is a weapon. Wild fire is a disaster."

Arok closed his eyes again. This time he didn't try to fight the images. Instead, he embraced them. He felt his anger, his revenge. He no longer let it consume him. He drew it in, condensed it, until it became a fiery magma core at the center of his soul. The process was excruciatingly painful, as if he were swallowing hot coals. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

After what felt like an eternity, he succeeded. He could feel the fire now locked inside him. On the outside, he felt calmer, cooler. But inside, he knew the volcano was still there, ready to erupt at any moment if he wanted it to.

"Good," said Lohgawe, sensing the change in his student's aura. "Now, the second part. Changing your form."

Lohgawe pulled out a small, very sharp knife and a dull bronze mirror from his bag. "Your long hair is the hallmark of a rebel. We must cut it."

For a warrior of that era, hair was a symbol of strength and pride. Cutting it felt like castration. But Arok knew this was part of a long process of dying to himself. Without hesitation, he climbed out of the water and sat on a rock, allowing Lohgawe to cut his long, unkempt hair.

Strand by strand, his thick black hair fell to the ground. Each strand felt like a lost piece of his past. When he was finished, Lohgawe showed him the mirror. Arok barely recognized himself. With his hair cut short and neatly, his stern face looked younger, yet also stranger. The wild fire in his eyes seemed to have dimmed slightly.

"Now your face," Lohgawe said. He took a kind of herbal mud from a bag. "Your face is too sharp, too wary. We need to make it look softer, more innocent."

She smeared the mud on Arok's face. "Let this dry. It will make your skin a little paler and disguise some of your more obvious scars."

The transformation process continued. Lohgawe gave him a new set of clothes that he had prepared. Clothes made of coarse, faded brown cloth, the kind of clothes usually worn by poor nomads or villagers looking for work in the city.

"And lastly," Lohgawe said. He pointed to Arok's hands. They were sturdy, calloused, with knuckles hardened by thousands of blows. "These are the hands of a fighter. It's too obvious."

Lohgawe had Arok soak his hands in a strange-smelling herbal concoction. Slowly, the calluses on his hands softened. Then, Lohgawe gave him a most demeaning task. He had Arok rub the stones at the edge of the pool with his bare hands, until some parts of his skin were slightly blistered and raw, like the hands of a manual laborer unaccustomed to his work.

"In the palace, you'll start at the bottom," Lohgawe explained. "Perhaps as a gardener, or a horse groomer. Your skills must be suited to your role."

Each of these steps was an insult to Arok's warrior spirit. Cutting his hair, wearing shabby clothes, even intentionally injuring his own hands. Each step was a process of killing his ego, extinguishing his pride. Several times he wanted to rebel, wanting to shout that he was a leader, not a slave.

But every time the turmoil arose, he would refocus on the fireball within his chest. He remembered his purpose. His goal was no longer to prove himself as a warrior, but to become a victor in the real war. And to do that, he would have to be willing to become anything, even a worm.

As the sun began to rise, the transformation was complete. Arok looked back into the mirror. The figure staring back at him was a stranger. A thin, pale-faced, and somewhat foolish-looking young man with a blank stare and blistered hands. Arok the rebel had truly vanished. All that remained was his shell.

"Perfect," said Lohgawe, satisfied. "Now, you're ready for the next lesson. The lesson on how to be a sheep."

Arok thought his spiritual forging was complete. It turned out to be just the beginning. In a hidden cave shown to him by Lohgawe, a process far more torturous than any physical torture he had ever endured began.

***

 3.2: Forging the Mask of the Servant

The cave Lohgawe showed him was not the one Arok usually used for hiding. This one was smaller, deeper, and located in a more remote part of the mountain, behind a sheer waterfall wall that perfectly disguised its mouth. Inside, the air was damp and cold, illuminated only by a thin sliver of light filtering through a crack in the ceiling. It felt like an earthly womb, silent, sacred, and completely isolated from the outside world.

"For the next few days, this place will be your crucible," Lohgawe said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "We won't be forging your body. It's already as strong as steel. We'll be forging something far more fragile and yet more important: your character, your tongue, and your face."

Arok, now fully transformed into a poor village youth, thought the hardest part of his transformation was over. He was very wrong. Killing Arok's physical form was, as it turned out, much easier than killing his soul.

On the first day, Lohgawe didn't teach anything related to martial arts or strategy. He simply instructed Arok to do one thing: walk.

"Walk around this cave," he ordered.

Arok, though confused, complied. He walked with his usual stride: upright, steady, with his chest slightly puffed out and his gaze straight ahead. The stride of a leader.

"WRONG!" Lohgawe snapped, his suddenly loud voice startling Arok. "Who are you leading here? The ants on the floor? That step of yours is the step of a ruler! A step that will get your head chopped off before you even have a chance to say hello at the palace gates!"

Lohgawe then stood up and gave an example. He walked in a strange way. His back was slightly bent, his shoulders slightly lowered, his head always lowered as if he was looking for a fallen coin, and his steps were small but hurried. It was the steps of a servant who always felt chased by time and was afraid of his own shadow.

"This is the step of a servant," Lohgawe explained. "A step that does not attract attention. A step that shows humility and obedience. Now, imitate me. Repeat it over and over until it becomes part of your breath."

Arok tried to imitate him. And it was torture. Every time he tried to hunch his shoulders, every muscle in his usually firm back screamed in rebellion. Every time he tried to lower his head, his ever-vigilant warrior instincts forced him to raise his face again. It felt so awkward, so humiliating. He felt like an eagle forced to walk like a chicken.

For hours he continued walking, circling the narrow cave, while Lohgawe relentlessly corrected him. "Hung your shoulders back! Don't look ahead, look at your fingertips! If you walk too slowly, you'll be whipped for laziness! Too fast, you'll be considered impolite! Find your rhythm!"

Sweat drenched Arok's body, not from physical exhaustion, but from mental exhaustion. This was more difficult than fighting ten men at once.

The second day was a tongue test.

"Now, we're going to learn to speak," said Lohgawe. He pointed at Arok. "Try saying: 'I'm hungry.'"

"I'm hungry," said Arok, his voice deep and clear.

"WRONG!" Lohgawe snapped again. "Your voice is that of a commander giving orders! Full of authority and confidence! A servant has no authority! His voice should be even, slightly raised, and always sound as if he were apologizing for having dared to open his mouth."

Lohgawe gave another example. He uttered the same sentence, but with a completely different intonation. His voice sounded slightly nasal, his tone pleading, and there was a hint of hesitation at the end.

"Furthermore," Lohgawe continued, "in the palace, you must discard your egoic words. Not 'I,' but 'servant.' Not 'you' to your superiors, but 'Lord' or 'Sir.' Every sentence should be an offering, not a statement. Now, try again. Say: 'Excuse me, Lord. I feel a little hungry.'"

Arok tried. "Forgive me, Lord. I… am feeling a little hungry."

"Overconfident! Repeat! Show that you don't deserve to be hungry!"

This training continued. Lohgawe gave him various scenarios. How to accept orders, how to refuse orders subtly, how to report bad news without angering your master. Every sentence, every syllable, every breath, everything was analyzed and corrected. Arok felt his tongue, which was used to giving firm orders, now became numb and stiff.

The culmination of the inner torment came on the third day. It was a test of facial expression control.

"You have the face of a rebel, Arok," Lohgawe said, staring intently at him. "Your eyes are too honest. When you're angry, they blaze. When you think, your brow furrows. In the palace, a face like that is an open book. You must learn to be an unreadable stone wall."

Lohgawe told Arok to stand in front of a pool of clear water in the cave, which functioned as a mirror.

"Now, I'm going to insult you," Lohgawe said. "I'm going to curse your father and mother. I'm going to spit in the face of all your struggles. And your job is one: don't show any reaction. Keep your face blank, and put on a faint, submissive smile. Understand?"

Arok nodded, thinking he was ready.

Lohgawe began. He used the sharpest, most piercing words that Arok had ever heard.

"Who do you think you are? A hero?" Lohgawe began, his voice cold and filled with scorn. "You're nothing but the illegitimate son of a criminal of unknown origin! Your father was probably a dog, and your mother a wild boar!"

Blood immediately rushed to Arok's head. He didn't care if he was insulted, but insulting his parents was a different matter. His jaw clenched, his fists clenched, and his eyes blazed with anger.

"Look!" Lohgawe exclaimed, pointing to the reflection in the water. "Look at that face! The face of a tiger ready to pounce! If you show that face in front of Tunggul Ametung, your life will end! Repeat! Control yourself!"

Arok took a deep breath, trying to suppress his anger.

Lohgawe continued even more viciously. "Your struggle? You call your band of robbers a struggle? You're just a bunch of sewer rats stealing scraps of food! You're no better than the leeches you despise! You only want power for yourselves!"

Every word was like a whip lashing at Arok's pride and idealism. He could feel the fire in his chest boiling, threatening to explode. He lowered his head, biting his lip so hard it bled, forcing the muscles in his face to remain limp, forcing his lips into a meek smile that felt like a burn. Cold sweat the size of kernels of corn drenched his entire body. This was the most intense battle he had ever faced, a battle against the demons within himself.

He failed over and over again. Every time Lohgawe insulted something he held sacred—his friends, his cause—a shiver of anger would always escape and show on his face.

"Not enough!" said Lohgawe mercilessly. "You must turn off your feelings, Arok! Be a mirror. A mirror only reflects, it never feels. If your master is angry, reflect a little fear. If your master is happy, reflect a little joy. But never let what is in your own heart be seen on the surface."

This painful forging process continued for days. Walking, talking, smiling, bowing. Simple things that now felt like the highest level of martial arts. Slowly, but surely, Arok began to master them. He learned to separate his body and soul. His body could bow, his tongue could lick, his face could smile submissively, while his soul, the fire within his chest, remained burning wildly and untouched in its deepest recesses.

He had succeeded. He had forged the perfect mask. The mask of a servant named Gajah. A mask so convincing that sometimes, when he saw his reflection in the water, he felt afraid. Afraid that one day, he would forget the true face hidden beneath.

***

 3.3: Farewell on the Slopes of Kawi

The seventh day inside the silent cave came with a different kind of silence. No more harsh shouts from Lohgawe, no more soul-torturing exercises. Arok awoke to find the priest sitting quietly at the cave entrance, gazing at the dawn just breaking on the eastern horizon.

"It's done," said Lohgawe without looking back. "Your forging is enough."

Arok stood up. He felt like a different person. His body was still as strong, but his soul felt both lighter and heavier. He walked to the pool of water that had been a mirror of his suffering. The figure staring back at him was now a complete stranger.

His face was pale and always seemed to harbor a hint of a resigned smile. His once-fiery eyes now looked blank and harmless. Even his stance had changed, his shoulders slumping slightly, as if bearing the weight of an invisible destiny. He was no longer Arok. He was Gajah. The mask had become one with his skin.

"Remember, Gajah," said Lohgawe, now using the new name for the first time, as if to confirm it. "From now on, you are not my disciple. I am a stranger you have never known. And Arok… he has gone on a very long ascetic practice. He has disappeared, swallowed up by the forest and the mountains. Never forget that story."

Arok bowed his head. "I understand, Your Holiness."

"Good," said Lohgawe. "Now, there's one last thing you have to do before you descend the mountain. A farewell. You can't just disappear. That would arouse suspicion and a search. You have to say goodbye properly."

Arok's heart sank. Saying goodbye meant he had to return to camp. He had to face Tanca, Mahesa, and his friends in this new form. He had to say goodbye to the only family he had.

The journey back to camp felt like a death row inmate's journey to the gallows. Every step was heavy. How would they react when they saw him? Would they still recognize him? Would they laugh at his now despicable appearance?

He arrived near the campsite as the sun was beginning to rise. He deliberately made noise, stepping on dry twigs, to make his presence known. Instantly, several alert guards emerged from behind the bushes with their weapons drawn.

"Stop! Who are you?!" one of them shouted.

Arok stopped, raised both hands, and bowed his head deeply, just as he had practiced.

"Don't hurt me, Gusti," he said in a trembling, nasally voice. "I'm just a lost traveler."

The guards looked at each other. They didn't recognize the figure in front of them. Suddenly, Mahesa and Tanca appeared, drawn by the commotion.

"What is this?" Mahesa asked in a wary tone.

He stared at the unfamiliar figure before him. A thin, pale-faced young man in shabby clothes. There was no sign of danger whatsoever. However, as Mahesa stared more closely into the young man's eyes...

…he felt something. Something very familiar.

Those eyes may have appeared empty on the surface. But deep within, Mahesa could see a familiar glint of fire. The same glint he had always seen in his leader's eyes.

"Brother…?" Mahesa whispered, his voice barely audible, filled with disbelief.

Arok slowly raised his head slightly and gave a thin, sad smile.

Mahesa gasped. He took a step back, as if he had just seen a ghost. "It can't be…"

Tanca, calmer, stepped forward and examined Arok from head to toe. She noticed the cropped hair, the paler face, the bruised hands, and the hunched stance. Then she looked into Arok's eyes. And she understood.

"Let him in," Tanca said to the guards.

In the main cave, in front of his most loyal followers, Arok stood in awkward silence. They all stared at him with the same look: a mixture of shock, confusion, and a little pity. It was as if they were seeing the spirit of their leader enter the body of a beggar.

"As I said," Arok began, his voice now returning to his original, though deeper, voice. "Arok the rebel must die. This is my new form. This is the mask I will carry into the dragon's lair."

He briefly described the forging process he went through, of course without mentioning the most demeaning details.

"Starting today, I will descend the mountain. I will walk towards Tumapel as a village youth named Gajah, seeking work to make a living. I will start from the bottom, from the dirtiest mud, until I can crawl up and stab my venom into its heart."

He looked at them each in turn. "I know this looks like defeat. I know you might see me as a coward. But I ask you to believe. Believe in this plan. Believe in me."

A painful silence followed his words. He could see the doubt in some people's eyes. He could see the disappointment on Mahesa's face, still unable to fully accept it.

He knew words wouldn't be enough. He needed something to bind them, something to remind them of their vows.

He walked to the corner of the cave, to where his father's sword, which he had driven into the stone, now lay reverently on a simple altar. He picked it up.

"This sword," he said, raising it aloft, "is the soul of our struggle. It symbolizes every drop of blood and tear that has been shed on this land. I cannot bring it into the palace. It does not belong there."

He then walked towards Tanca. "Uncle Tanca, as the oldest and wisest, I entrust this sword to you. Make it our banner. Take care of it. Sharpen it every day. Let its sharp blade be a reminder to all of you of our true purpose."

He handed the sword to Tanca. The old man accepted it with both hands, as if receiving a sacred relic.

Then, Arok turned to Mahesa. "Mahesa, my friend, my little brother," he said. "I know you're the one who doubts this path the most. And that's good. Because I need your doubts. I need you to be my reminder. I'm entrusting you with a task."

He drew the small dagger that was always tucked into his waist, the only weapon he had left.

"Take this," he said, handing it to Mahesa. "If someday, after I'm in the palace, you hear that I've completely forgotten my oath, that I've been lulled by luxury and become a sycophant to the tyrant… then come. Find me. And use this dagger to rip out my heart. I give you the right to be my executioner."

Mahesa gasped. Everyone in the cave held their breath. This was a blood oath. A surrender of life.

Mahesa's hands trembled as he accepted the dagger. All his doubts vanished, replaced by a feeling of emotion and boundless loyalty. He finally understood the weight of the burden his leader would bear.

"I… I will protect it with my life, Brother," she swore, her eyes welling with tears. "And I will wait for you. We will all wait for you."

The atmosphere in the cave had changed now. The doubts had vanished, replaced by an emotional bond stronger than ever. They were no longer just followers. They were the keepers of the oath.

Arok knew it was time to leave. A longer separation would only make things harder.

He looked at them all one last time, trying to imprint each face into his memory.

Then, he turned around.

"Take good care of yourselves," he said without looking back.

He stepped out of the cave, back into the hot sun, leaving the warmth of brotherhood behind him. He didn't look back.

He walked down the mountain path, alone. Behind him, he left everything: his name, his honor, his friends, and his heart. Before him lay an uncertain path, leading to a city full of enemies.

He paused at the last bend that still gave him a view of their camp. He saw Mahesa standing at the mouth of the cave, holding his dagger, staring down at him. He saw Tanca raising her father's sword high in a final salute.

An incredible pain ripped through Arok's heart. But he didn't cry. Snakes never cry.

He turned around and continued his journey. Every step he took now felt lighter, but also quieter. Arok the rebel was dead, buried on the slopes of Kawi with his sword. Now, the only one walking towards the dragon's lair was Gajah. An empty shell, a mask, with a fireball of revenge and a promise to return stored in his chest. The question was, would he return as a liberator, or would he be burned in the fire he would ignite? Only fate knew the answer.

***

Tobe continued chapter 05