Year 1288 AD, Slopes of Kediri Region, East Java
The sky was gray, like a burial shroud stretched over the small village. Mist descended from the hills, swallowing the half-burned bamboo rooftops, while the scent of blood mixed with wet earth spread among the fallen stalks of rice.
Eza sat hugging his knees at the edge of the paddy embankment, his body trembling. A light rain fell on his face, but he couldn't tell which were raindrops and which were tears. A hoarse sound echoed from the distance—the call of crows and the sigh of wind carrying the stench of smoke.
Beside him, the shadow of a man in a black cloak approached, his steps heavy but calm.
"Your name is... Eza, isn't it?" The voice was deep, yet gentle.
The boy didn't answer. He just stared at the ground, where his mother's blood still hadn't dried.
"This child is still alive," the man said again, this time to another figure behind him. Two others dressed in similar garb appeared, carrying lanterns and bowing respectfully.
"We're taking him. He must not die here."
Eza slowly looked up, gazing into the man's eyes. There was something strange—his eyes didn't belong to a stranger. There was sorrow in them, as if he had known Eza far longer than he should have.
"Who are you?"
Eza's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
The man looked at him for a long time before answering,"My name is Raka. I... was a friend of your father."
⚔️
That night, they left the village.Black horses ran through the rain, following the slippery dirt road. In the distance, fire still blazed along the hillsides. The village where Eza was born disappeared into the mist and embers, as if it had never existed.
Raka didn't speak much during the journey. Only occasionally did he glance at the small child behind him, who clutched a worn cloth bundle holding his mother's necklace. The necklace was strange—a small black stone set in a carved gold pendant, shimmering faintly every time lightning flashed.
For days they traveled north, through forests and rivers. The world beyond the village was vast, filled with unfamiliar faces and languages he didn't understand. But one thing he knew: he was now alone, and the man beside him was all he had left.
One night, on the edge of a teak forest, Raka finally spoke.
"Eza, listen. The world isn't like what they taught in the village. There are things seen, and things unseen. There are those who sit on thrones, and those who pull the strings from the shadows. Your parents... were caught in between."
Eza looked at him, his eyes tired but filled with a curiosity he couldn't hide.
"My mother and father... why were they killed?"
Raka took a deep breath.
"Because they knew something that should've remained silent."
Silence fell.
"And you, Eza... will live longer than they did—only if you learn faster than anyone else."
A few weeks later, their journey ended on the highlands along the slopes of Mount Lawu. There stood a gray stone structure behind the mist—Padepokan Watu Langit, a secret stronghold where children were trained to become Watchers of the Realm.
When Eza arrived, his eyes immediately locked onto the wide training yard. Dozens of children, aged between seven and twelve, were running around a circle of stones. In the center, an old man with sharp eyes watched over them, holding a wooden staff.
Raka led Eza inside."From today onward, you'll study here. You are no longer a village boy. You're a student of Watu Langit."
Eza looked around. Some faces were hardened, some frightened. A few glanced at him, as if judging whether this scrawny boy would last.
🌒 Watu Langit Stronghold
The first days were hell.Before the sun rose, they were already on the training grounds. Breathing drills, uphill runs, holding sitting poses on hot stones, and studying ancient Kawi and Sanskrit scripts by night.
Those who failed, weren't fed. Those who refused, were cast into the ravine.
But something was different about the small boy.While others cried and gave up, Eza stayed silent, his eyes cold. He studied every move, every breath, every word. Within a week, he memorized all the basic mantras of Soul Force control, a hidden energy said to transcend human limits.
"That child's insane," one of the trainers whispered to Raka. "His body's too young, but he can hold his breath for thirty beats in freezing water. Even the teens can't do that."
Raka watched from afar, lips pressed into a thin smile."He is insane. But that's his father's blood."
Nights in Watu Langit were the real test.Eza often woke from nightmares—flashes of fire, his mother's screams, and the sound of blades slicing through air. Sometimes he sat before the stone altar in the middle of the stronghold, staring at the strange symbol carved there: a sigil of five eyes, each gazing in a different direction.
One night, Raka approached him, carrying a cup of herbal water.
"Those five eyes," Raka said, looking at the stone carving. "They're the emblem of the Five Shadow Rulers of the World."
"Those who rule kingdoms without wearing crowns. Asia, the West, Europe, Russia, and China. All are bound in a single web."
Eza stared at the symbol for a long time.
"And my father... where did he stand?"
Raka replied quietly,"Beneath the Eye of Asia."
Time passed.Two years at Watu Langit transformed the small boy's body. His movements became calm but precise. His eyes no longer belonged to an eight-year-old—but to someone who had seen the world burn.
He didn't just master martial arts, but also the ability to read minds, sense wind direction, and predict a person's next move through the slightest twitch in their eyes.
But one lesson proved most difficult: Soul Force.This power couldn't be harnessed through physical training alone. It demanded balance between emotion, rage, and self-control.
Raka taught him the basics: channeling breath into the main veins, anchoring energy into the lower abdomen (dantian point), then letting it rotate with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
Eza failed over and over—his body often seized, his nose bled—but he never gave up.
One night, while everyone slept, he trained at the edge of a cliff under the moonlight. The air was thin, his breath labored. In silence, he heard his own voice:
"Father... Mother... I'll find those who made you disappear."
Suddenly, warmth surrounded his body, his breath paused for a moment, and the stone on his necklace trembled.The air around him swirled, forming a thin vortex.He opened his eyes—and for the first time, he saw faint "lines" flowing between the trees: the energy of the world itself.
The next morning, Raka found him unconscious at the cliff's edge, a black spiral mark on his chest—shaped like the eye on his necklace.
When Eza awoke, his eyes were sharper, as if a dim light now lived within them.
"You've opened one gate, Eza," Raka said softly."From today, your training is no longer about survival — but about conquering the world of shadows."
And beneath the cold Lawu sky, a ten-year-old boy stared eastward, where the sun began to rise above the mist.
Inside him, a small fire had ignited—A fire that would one day consume kingdoms...and the world itself.