Eight

The bedroom door opened.

Wisnumurti stepped inside, yawning. He shut the door behind him.

Jaladri and Bajul, already stretched out on the wide wooden platform bed, immediately sat up. Both had been ready to sleep, wrapped in the sarongs Ki Soma had packed for them before they left home.

“I thought you were planning to stay up until dawn,” Jaladri said, yawning as well.

“Ki Buyut and the others certainly hoped so,” Wisnumurti replied as he removed his lower garment and pulled a sarong from his travel bundle. “They love it whenever a martial artist passes through. Those old men can talk all night about anything—ghost sightings, haunted places, strange happenings.”

Jaladri leaned against the bamboo wall. Truth be told, he was no different. As long as Wisnumurti was telling stories, he could stay awake until sunrise without complaint.

“So it’s true?” he asked. “Senopati Natpada was actually going to have Sarni’s family beheaded just because Sarni was sick? I heard Ki Rantang talking about it during dinner.”

Because of the unusual events that afternoon, the three travelers had abandoned their plan to continue on to Kenipir.

Besides, the village elder of Brabo had practically begged them to stay once he learned that Ki Somanagara’s eldest son was visiting. The old man had even offered them his entire house for the night. Feeling embarrassed, Wisnumurti had insisted they only needed a single room.

It had taken a lengthy argument before Ki Buyut finally accepted that compromise.

Even then, he slaughtered enough chickens to feed half the village.

The village people shared a feast with their honored guests beneath a sky overflowing with stars, seated on woven mats spread across the ground.

They felt indebted to the three young men. Without them, disaster might have struck.

What nobody understood was why Senopati Natpada had suddenly ordered a retreat and completely abandoned his mission of taking Sarni to the royal court as a gift for Prince Candrakumala.

Whatever the reason, the village men had remained outside talking deep into the night long after the women and children went home.

Jaladri and Bajul had surrendered to exhaustion shortly before midnight.

Wisnumurti arrived some time later.

The others, including Ki Buyut and Ki Tanu—Sarni’s father—were still outside. Their voices carried clearly through the bamboo walls.

“That’s what I heard too,” Wisnumurti said as he climbed onto the bed and settled at the edge. “Natpada decided Sarni’s illness wasn’t a valid excuse. He dragged her outside. Her mother held on to her. Then it turned into a tug-of-war.”

Jaladri snorted.

“I almost lost my temper when that baby slipped from Nyai Tanu’s arms because they were shoving her around like that. Good thing the kid wasn’t hurt.”

“Right.”

Wisnumurti crossed his legs beneath his sarong.

“Now we get to the interesting part.”

Jaladri blinked.

“What interesting part?”

Pulling the sarong over his head like a hood, Wisnumurti rotated until he was facing him directly.

Intrigued, Bajul sat up as well. Sleep could wait.

“Let’s review the sequence of events,” Wisnumurti said. “You got angry when the baby fell. You nearly charged Natpada. So he kicked you square in the chest.”

He pointed at Jaladri.

“And that was no ordinary kick. A normal man would’ve died on the spot. His rib cage would’ve shattered.”

Jaladri rubbed his chest instinctively.

“You did go flying,” Wisnumurti continued. “But why did the senopati fly farther than you? Far enough to crash into a tree and knock the thing over?”

Jaladri stared blankly.

“That’s what I don’t understand either. I couldn’t explain it when the villagers kept asking why the senopati suddenly decided to become a bird.”

“Which brings us back to Bajul’s question.” Wisnumurti narrowed his eyes. “What exactly did you do to Senopati Natpada?”

Jaladri scratched his head.

“Do to him? Nothing.”

Wisnumurti sighed.

“Listen carefully. In martial arts, there’s something called inner force—a supernatural power cultivated through breathing techniques. A skilled fighter doesn’t automatically possess it. If someone without inner force got kicked the way you did, he’d hit the ground and never get back up. But a person who possesses it, when faced with a lethal attack, that power instinctively erupts to protect its owner. Natpada definitely has inner force. He’s a senopati. That much is obvious.”

Wisnumurti spread his hands.

“But for him to be launched that far after striking you? There’s only one explanation. He was hit by a counterforce vastly stronger than his own.”

He jabbed a finger toward Jaladri’s chest.

“And since you were the one who got kicked, that force came from inside you—not from beneath a spinach bush or from the sacred essence of a coconut.”

Only then did Jaladri begin to look shaken.

“No way.”

“The funny thing is,” Wisnumurti said, “that you genuinely don’t aware about it. If you already knew how to awaken inner force through breathing exercises, you’d have recognized what happened immediately.”

Jaladri scratched his head again.

“Yeah... I guess.”

“You haven’t secretly been training behind my back, have you?” Bajul asked.

“Of course not. Just the other day you were explaining all those breathing exercises that require fasting—white-rice fasting, total darkness fasting, fire fasting, all that nonsense. I got exhausted just listening to it.”

Without warning, Wisnumurti grabbed his shoulder. A stream of strange warmth sensation immediately flowed through Jaladri’s body.

“That’s what’s strange,” Wisnumurti murmured. “You definitely have it. I can feel it clearly.  It’s just that you haven’t become aware of it yet. But it’s there. And when death threatened you this afternoon—when Natpada kicked you—it burst out to protect you. A burst of deadly force powerful enough to hang a royal senopati from a tree.”

Wisnumurti tightened his grip.

“Tell us again about the figure you saw during your dream last night.”

Jaladri’s eyes widened.

“Good God...!  You think it was him? The one who did this to me? The thing he said he wanted to teach me?”

“Well,” Wisnumurti replied, “something impossible changed inside you afterward.”

He released Jaladri’s shoulder.

“That level of inner force usually requires more than a month of relentless breathing practice. And lots of fasting rituals. Yesterday you were practically a beginner. Today, you’re carrying something extraordinary.”

Bajul leaned forward.

“Think carefully. What exactly did he do to you?”

Jaladri frowned in concentration.

“The more I remember, the more it seems like he struck me right here.” He touched his solar plexus. “After that, the pain was unbelievable. I could barely breathe. Then everything goes blank. Maybe I passed out from the pain and slept until morning.”

Bajul looked at Wisnumurti.

“Can core energy really be transferred that easily? I thought people had to train for years.”

“The greatest masters can do it,” Wisnumurti replied. “They can awaken someone’s energy channels with a touch, a strike, even a slap. The energy could be hidden. The recipient may not even realize what’s been given. After that, mastery level depends entirely on training and dedication.”

Bajul exhaled slowly.

“So if what happened to Jaladri was real...” his voice dropped. “Then he was visited by someone from the absolute highest level.”

“The question is who, and why would someone like that suddenly appear in Jaladri’s room?”

His eyes remained fixed on his friend.

“Was it planned? Or was Jaladri chosen at random?”

“He said he knew I was leaving on my first journey,” Jaladri answered. “He said I needed something before I went. Maybe this was what he meant.”

Wisnumurti stared at him for several long seconds.

“He actually said that?”

Jaladri nodded.

“The details are coming back one by one. That’s one thing I remember.”

Wisnumurti drew a slow breath.

“Then this wasn’t random. No. He chose you deliberately.”

Jaladri sat frozen.

“But who?”

A chill crept down his spine.

“And why?”