Nine

“This just got interesting, didn’t it? Especially because we already know exactly who’s around you that could’ve trained you in martial arts. There’s Bajul. Ki Gede. Pratiwi. If any of them thought you had talent and wanted to help, they’d simply call you over—or better yet, drag you into a sparring match. So why all the cloak-and-dagger nonsense? Who was that man? Why did he choose you instead of Bajul?”

“And you don’t feel anything unusual now, do you?” Bajul asked. “Because that kick from the Senopati wasn’t meant to scare you. It was meant to cripple you. I honestly thought you were dead. At the very least, unconscious for a week. But you’re walking around like nothing happened.”

Jaladri rubbed the spot on his chest where Natpada’s foot had landed.

“It hurt right here for a minute. I couldn’t breathe for a little while. Then... it just went away. I’m fine now.”

“It was Senopati Natpada who took the real beating,” Wisnumurti said. “He’s probably still seeing stars. He flew halfway across the yard before slamming into that tree.”

“And now the villagers are happy because they can sell that giant log for a fortune,” Bajul shook his head. “You’re one lucky bastard, Dri.”

“Something else caught my attention,” Wisnumurti said. “After Natpada got back on his feet, I heard him say the words ‘Lintang Abyor’. Twinkling Stars. If my guess is correct, he seems to be referring to a particular technique or some legendary strikes in martial arts.”

Bajul frowned, trying to follow his reasoning.

“You mean... the strike he got hit with? The one that launched him across the field?”

“Exactly.”

Jaladri stared.

“So that’s what it’s called? Lintang Abyor?”

Wisnumurti nodded.

“I think so. And that’s our first real clue to the identity of the man who appeared in your room and struck your solar plexus to unlock your inner force. Especially since Natpada immediately ordered his men to withdraw. Chances are, hearing—or recognizing—that technique changed everything.”

“Can someone really do that?” Jaladri asked. “Get hit once by an inner force attack and instantly recognize both the technique and its name?”

“A well-read master absolutely can,” Wisnumurti replied. “Someone who’s studied the countless schools and lineages of the martial world. To a certain extent, I can do it myself. I meet someone, watch the way they move, and I can usually tell what school they came from. The same goes for the way they channel their inner force—especially if I’ve been hit by it. And Senopati Natpada is exactly that kind of man. Sharp. Educated. He took one look at my physique and immediately knew I was a martial artist.”

“So which school does Lintang Abyor belong to?” Bajul asked.

Wisnumurti shook his head.

“No idea. I don’t have every school and every signature technique memorized. Sometimes completely different schools even use the same name for different techniques. We’d need someone with broader knowledge.”

“Ki Gede Nipir,” Bajul said immediately.

“Exactly.”

“Then we’ll ask him tomorrow.”

“And we’ll bring Sarni’s family with us.”

Bajul looked at him.

“You’re taking them to Kenipir?”

“Yeah. I already spoke to Ki Buyut and Ki Tanu. They agreed. If they stay here, another envoy from Prince Candrakumala could show up at any time. With no one to protect them, Ki Tanu could be executed on the spot. Kenipir is the safest place for them to start over. Ki Gede will find work for him. If they’re lucky, Ki Tanu might even end up working directly under him.”

Bajul nodded thoughtfully. For a moment, his calm expression revealed the man beneath the jokes—a veteran far older and wiser than either of the two young men beside him.

“You’re right. It’s the safest solution. We can also report everything that happened today to Ki Gede. Brabo falls under Kenipir’s Free Territory. Inside his domain, no one gets to throw their weight around like that.”

“Not even nobles from the Royal Court,” Wisnumurti agreed.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Get some sleep. At sunrise we’ll head for Kenipir with Ki Tanu’s family. They don’t have horses, so we’ll be traveling on foot. It’ll take longer. We probably won’t get there until sometime after midday.”

Bajul nodded and lay back down.

“So what am I supposed to do with... this?” Jaladri asked.

“You train it,” Bajul said. “Little by little, until you can feel it and control it. But I can’t teach you. Wisnumurti knows this stuff better.”

“I can’t do much either," Wisnumurti admitted. “I can teach you the basics, that’s all. I’m not going to be around every day. Training your inner force requires constant supervision. An experienced master has to monitor your progress, every day, every step of the way. Only someone who’s done it before knows when you’re ready to move to the next stage.”

“But you can teach it.”

“I’ve got the skills, yes,” Wisnumurti said. “Just not the experience of being a teacher.”

“So?”

“You seriously expect me to settle down in Karang Bendan for the rest of my life just to train you?” Wisnumurti snorted. “What kind of logic is that? I’m a smiling and proud wanderer. Have you lost your mind?”

Jaladri pouted.

“Then who am I supposed to train with? Bajul can’t. You won’t. You two are completely useless!”

Wisnumurti lay down, rolled himself inside his sarong, and turned his back on Jaladri.

“Practice with the ghosts haunting your house,” he muttered. “Maybe the shroud ghost and the lady in white can coach you.”

Jaladri grumbled under his breath, still sitting upright while his two companions settled in to sleep.

***

After relieving himself, Senopati Natpada climbed back up the riverbank toward where his soldiers had camped.

The morning air was bitterly cold. A blanket of mist floated just above the river’s surface. One of the soldiers stamped out the campfire, leaving only a bed of glowing embers.

Natpada stood in silence. Yesterday’s encounter had shaken him to the core.

He had expected an easy assignment, easy enough that he’d brought only ten soldiers. Instead, everything had gone catastrophically wrong. The experience had disturbed him so deeply that he had no desire to speak.

This was something he needed to discuss directly with Prince Candrakumala.

Only a handful of people even knew that technique existed—let alone possessed it. Matters involving sacred martial knowledge demanded extreme caution. Carelessness invited disaster.

“Everyone ready?” he finally asked, securing the last of his belongings to the pack strapped behind his saddle.

The soldiers exchanged glances.

There were only eight of them present. Footsteps approached through the morning mist.

Natpada turned.

Three men emerged. Two were his soldiers. The third was a gaunt, frail-looking man who seemed barely able to stay on his feet.

The moment he reached Natpada, one of the soldiers shoved him forward.

The man collapsed face-first at the Senopati’s boots.

“Who is this?” Natpada asked coldly. “A spy?”

“No, My Lord,” replied the soldier named Galih. “He insisted on seeing you personally. Said he has something important to tell you. We found him near the river pool.”

The man—perhaps in his late thirties—prostrated himself before Natpada, his clothes soaked through, his entire body trembling violently.

“He says he stole someone’s horse,” Galih continued, “and rode through half the night from Brabo just to catch up with us.”

Senopati Natpada extended his right foot, hooking it beneath the man's chin and forcing his head up.

“Well?” he said coldly. “What is it you came all this way to tell me?”