One

Java, 1586

The wind howled across the coast.

The sun blazed from the peak of a sharp blue sky, while massive waves exploded against the black rocks lining Karang Bendan's shoreline.

On a stretch of smooth sand, two men stood facing each other, separated by little more than eight feet.

The first one was tall and lean, sporting a neatly trimmed mustache above his upper lip. He wore a purple tunic tailored from the finest fabric money could buy, and the headband was equally expensive. One glance was enough to tell anyone that this was a man who had never worried about the contents of his purse.

His opponent presented quite a different picture.

The second man wore simple black clothing that looked more suited to a mountain farmer than a warrior. His headcloth was also cheap. He had tall and imposing build, with a thick mustache and bushy sideburn adorning his face. A massive machete rested at his belt.

Taken together, he looked exactly like the sort of outlaw parents warned their children about.

"All right, Bajul," said the tall man. "My offer stands. I'll erase every debt you owe me if you can defeat me in a single exchange. Though frankly, I think that's impossible."

"Watch your mouth, Jaladri!" Bajul growled. "I didn't spend an entire month sharpening my blade skills just to fail at cutting down a spoiled brat like you. Besides, I'm the one who trained you into what you are today. Come on—let's do this! You can even draw that ridiculous kris dagger of yours if it makes you feel safer."

Jaladri smiled.

"Against a snot-nosed thug like you? My hands are more than enough."

"Suit yourself. Rujakpolo's going to make you piss yourself for seven generations."

With a roar, Bajul charged.

His machete—named Rujakpolo after the legendary mace wielded by Bima in the Mahabharata—whistled through the air with murderous force. The blade came screaming toward Jaladri's skull, as if intent on splitting him cleanly into two equal halves.

An inch before impact, Jaladri slipped aside. The machete sliced through empty air. Jaladri pivoted instantly and launched a counterattack.

Bajul was forced to retreat a step. The young man's punch reached far beyond the effective range of the blade.

Before Bajul could reorganize his offense, Jaladri came again.

And again.

And again.

Three rapid assaults in succession.

Bajul blocked with his left forearm and knee, snorting in irritation. Then he abruptly shifted tactics, sweeping his blade in a broad arc designed to force Jaladri backward.

The maneuver worked. Jaladri sprang away to avoid the deadly reach of Rujakpolo.

Seeing space open between them, Bajul surged forward once more. This time he attacked in combination.

The first strike flashed toward Jaladri's throat. When that missed, the machete instantly dropped toward his chest.

Jaladri twisted sideways and slapped the blade aside with his bare palm. Then he spun.

Fast. Punches and kicks came from every angle. Bajul absorbed them patiently, one after another. Then an opening appeared. He drove forward. The collision echoed across the beach.

Jaladri lacked the larger man's raw strength and was forced backward. Bajul pursued relentlessly. His attacks carried tremendous power. Jaladri staggered. For a moment he nearly crashed onto his back. Before he could fall completely, he summoned a reserve of strength just as another crushing attack arrived.

"This is already more than one exchange!" Jaladri shouted.

Bajul ignored him. He attacked again. Another violent collision erupted between them. Jaladri stumbled several steps backward.

Bajul, however, lost his footing and crashed into the sand, tumbling head over heels. Rujakpolo landed nearby.

Just as he regained his feet and reached for the weapon, laughter thundered across the cliffs surrounding the beach.

"That's what happens when two third-rate fighters challenge each other," a voice boomed. "Neither wins because both are equally mediocre! Hahahaha!"

Jaladri and Bajul turned sharply.

Atop the highest cliff sat a young man facing the sea. His long hair danced in the coastal wind. He wore white from head to toe—white shirt, white headcloth—giving him the appearance of a wandering religious student. His build was powerful and athletic, while his youthful face remained mostly untouched save for a few stubborn traces of acne.

"How've you been, my friends?" he shouted. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Without warning, he stepped off the cliff. To an outsider, it might have looked like suicide.

It wasn't. His body floated downward with effortless grace from nearly twenty feet above. He landed beside Bajul as lightly as a leaf.

"Bajul, you've gotten fatter," he said. "Been eating extra meals?"

Bajul sheathed Rujakpolo.

"Where the hell have you been? You disappear without saying goodbye, then show up again without warning."

Wisnumurti grinned.

"That's just who I am, Jul."

Jaladri hurried over and embraced him.

"Good to see you, Brother," he said. "This town's been boring without you."

Standing together revealed the age difference among them.

Bajul was clearly the oldest, already approaching thirty. Jaladri and Wisnumurti, meanwhile, were both around sixteen or seventeen.

"Oh really?" Wisnumurti asked. "Then why were you two beating each other senseless? Run out of better things to do?"

"Bajul and I were discussing financial matters," Jaladri replied. "Since he lost, naturally his debts remain fully collectible."

Bajul snorted.

"And there you have it—the noble landlord exploiting the poor and oppressed masses."

"Don't start with the landlord nonsense. We agreed to the terms beforehand. You failed because you couldn't knock me down in a single exchange."

"Hey, hey!" Wisnumurti interrupted. "No fighting. I'm starving. Come on, Jaladri. Let's go find food."

"Now that's the best idea I've heard all day," Jaladri said.

"Let's go. My treat. You coming, Jul?"

"No."

Bajul waved them off and started walking in the opposite direction.

"I need to brief the boys about tomorrow's trip to Bagelen."

"Suit yourself."

Once the big man disappeared from sight, Jaladri and Wisnumurti left the beach and headed toward town.

The two had been friends for a long time. Despite coming from completely different worlds, they remained remarkably close.

Wisnumurti was a true martial artist. He was the senior disciple of Panembahan Singgih, the renowned religious scholar and master from Mount Cakrabuana Hermitage. Gifted beyond his peers, he had completed his training two years earlier than expected.

By the age of fifteen, he was already wandering from one corner of the archipelago to another. His extraordinary skill made him highly sought after as an escort for wealthy merchant caravans traveling to distant kingdoms. Whenever bandits struck from the wilderness, Wisnumurti invariably emerged victorious.

As a result, the price of his services rose steadily. That profession had also led him to Jaladri.

A year earlier, Ki Somanagara—the richest merchant and landowner in Karang Bendan—had hired him to command the guards protecting a valuable shipment of gold and gemstones bound for Situkancana in the western interior.

Ki Soma had brought along his eldest son. Jaladri.

Meeting Wisnumurti had been a revelation for the young nobleman. For most of his life, his only martial instruction had come from his father's guards, especially Bajul. Suddenly he had found someone closer to his own age who possessed genuine mastery.

The friendship formed almost immediately. Jaladri's fascination with martial arts was somewhat unusual. His father expected him to inherit the family empire one day and govern vast stretches of land, making him effectively the ruler of an entire region.

Yet every time the subject arose, Jaladri brushed it aside. He insisted there would be plenty of time to learn the responsibilities of adulthood after marriage—which, according to him, would probably happen within a year or two.

For now, he was devoted to a far more enjoyable pursuit. The art of fighting beautifully through the arts of pencak silat. His daily instructor and sparring partner was Bajul, officially his personal bodyguard. Like most wealthy merchants, Ki Soma maintained an elite security force made up of highly skilled fighters. Bajul ranked among the strongest.

When Jaladri displayed a strong interest in martial arts, Bajul was assigned to train him personally. The boy's progress proved extraordinary. And after receiving additional instruction from Wisnumurti, his skills improved even faster.

Only one aspect remained beyond his reach: the deeper internal disciplines that cultivated breath control and transformed inner force into supernatural strength.

Unfortunately, training with Wisnumurti could never become a regular thing.

The young wanderer hated staying in one place. He drifted wherever the road called him. No one knew where he had vanished during the past four months after helping escort Ki Soma's caravan to the Royal City of Pasir.

Once the expedition safely returned to Karang Bendan, Wisnumurti had simply disappeared. Now, without warning, he was back.

So it came as no surprise that when the two friends sat down for lunch at a large roadside eatery on the outskirts of town, Jaladri eagerly launched into stories about everything that had happened during Wisnumurti's absence.

Before they had even finished eating, he was already trying to arrange a training session for later that afternoon.

Karang Bendan itself was a prosperous city-state along the southern coast. Though technically a vassal of the Sultanate of Pasir, much of its wealth stemmed directly from Ki Soma's commercial empire. Some joked that the city belonged to him more than it did to its official ruler. Yet Ki Soma had no interest in politics.

The governance of Karang Bendan remained in the hands of Adipati Jayapati, a nephew of the Sultan of Pasir.

"So where exactly have you been these last four months?" Jaladri asked between bites of a hard-boiled egg. "I heard rumors you passed through Mataram and Demak. Is that true?"