In the depths of Jaggra Forest, the law of the jungle was the only truth. Ritsuki learned that from the highest branch of a tall tree where he perched like an owl. Below him, by a clear riverbank, a pack of Goblins was hunting. They moved without sound—small, cunning predators with beady eyes gleaming in anticipation.
Their target was a graceful antlered deer drinking quietly. Ritsuki held his breath—not out of fear, but fascination. He pulled out a small notebook and a charcoal pencil, sketching every motion. He observed how the Goblin leader signaled with his filthy claw, how two others spread out to block escape routes, and how the executor leapt from the bushes.
"Kiiiii!"
The first strike failed. The deer bolted with natural instinct, but a throwing knife from the second Goblin embedded in its hind leg, causing it to limp. That single moment was enough. The third Goblin—the swiftest—used a tree as a launch board, soaring through the air, his body arched like a bow, and his rusty blade slashed through the deer's neck in one clean motion.
The Goblins cheered wildly in their strange shrieks. Ritsuki noted everything—not only their physical moves, but their strategy, coordination, and use of the terrain. *They're weak individually,* he wrote, *but deadly as one. No Potential, only instinct and teamwork.*
He closed his notebook, feeling a pang of strangeness. Until now, Zidane had always been by his side—pushing him forward. Now, there was only silence. Suddenly, the ground below trembled. A herd of giant rhinos stampeded past in panic, crashing into the tree he was hiding in. Ritsuki almost fell but clung tightly.
"WHY IS IT ALWAYS FROM BEHIND!?" he yelled in frustration.
Behind the rhinos came the cause of their terror—three Jaggra Panthers, apex predators of the forest. Their bodies were lean yet muscular, black fur gleaming like obsidian, and their eyes burned with hunger. One of them looked up, locking eyes with Ritsuki.
Time froze.
Then, the panther growled—a low, rumbling sound that made Ritsuki's hair stand on end. With a mighty leap, it began to climb the tree.
"Oh, crap!"
Ritsuki didn't think—he moved. Jumping from branch to branch, faster than he ever thought possible. Adrenaline surged through him. He could feel the panther's claws slicing the air just inches behind his heels. The forest that had once been his place of observation had become a labyrinth of death. He ran, gasping, until he reached a dead end—a steep cliff with a yawning chasm below.
The panther approached slowly, savoring the moment as its prey cornered itself. Ritsuki frantically scanned around. His eyes fell upon an old tree leaning over the cliff, its branches stretching across to the other side. It was a mad gamble. Remembering the Goblin's launching motion, he grabbed a handful of pebbles and threw them to the right. The panther glanced that way for a split second—and Ritsuki took the chance, sprinting left toward the tree.
"HAAAAA!"
He leapt, propelling his small body with every ounce of strength. For a moment, he flew. Time slowed as he crossed the gap, branches slashing his clothes and skin. He crashed onto the other side, tumbling until he stopped. Pain racked his body—but he was alive. The panther growled furiously from across the ravine.
When the pain dulled, Ritsuki stood and looked ahead. There, beyond the grassland, stood a vast traditional building—majestic in design. A martial arts dojo. Hope flickered in his chest.
---
**The Closed Gate**
Night fell swiftly, bringing with it a biting cold. Ritsuki approached the tall gate of the silat dojo and knocked timidly.
"Excuse me... is anyone there?"
A raspy voice replied from inside. "Who?"
"I... I want to learn silat," Ritsuki answered, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
The gate creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man. He scanned Ritsuki from head to toe. "Whose child are you? Lost?"
"I have no one. I came on my own to become a student."
The man sighed. "Wait here. I'll call the Grandmaster."
Five minutes later, an old man with a long white beard and an intimidating aura appeared. His eyes were as sharp as an eagle's. He was Tok Zaffar, the Grandmaster. His gaze locked onto Ritsuki—and his face hardened.
"I know who you are," Tok Zaffar hissed. "You're Mizuha's son. The cursed boy without Potential." He turned and slapped the disciple who had opened the gate. "Are you blind!? You brought a curse to my doorstep!"
"S-sorry, Master! I didn't know!" The student bowed in fear and fled inside.
Tok Zaffar glared at Ritsuki, who remained bowing respectfully. "Leave. We don't accept people like you here."
The gate slammed shut with a thunderous *thud*, leaving Ritsuki alone in the dark. Despair crept through him like ice. But as he looked up at the moon, he could almost see his mother's smile. *No,* he thought. *I won't give up. If they won't teach me... I'll steal their knowledge.*
His eyes fell upon a massive banyan tree whose branches stretched over the dojo wall. Using what strength he had left, he climbed the tree, set up his hanging tent among the hidden branches, and made it his new home.
---
**Stealing Knowledge**
For the next six weeks, Ritsuki lived as a shadow. Each morning, when the students began their ten-lap runs, Ritsuki was already in position with a cheap toy binocular in hand, recording every move, every stance, every breath technique. By noon, when they practiced combat forms, he sketched attack flow diagrams in his notebook. By night, when the dojo slept, he descended to the courtyard to train under the moonlight, mimicking what he had learned. His small body moved fluidly among the shadows.
He learned more than just movement—he learned rhythm, habits, and even the guards' blind spots. One night, driven by hunger for knowledge, he snuck into the library and stole a beginner's book on silat philosophy.
But his luck ran out on the forty-second day. Heavy rain made the branches slippery. While practicing a difficult stance, his foot slipped. He fell to the ground with a loud *thud.*
"Who's there!?"
"That must be the spy Master mentioned!"
Voices approached. Ritsuki thought fast and dove into a pile of dried leaves. He held his breath, heart pounding.
"I sense metal energy that way!" shouted one student—his Potential could detect metal, and he felt the kitchen knife in Ritsuki's bag.
The pile was torn apart—and in seconds, he was found. "Got him!"
A muscular hand grabbed his hair and yanked him up. Before him stood five of Tok Zaffar's best students. "Explain yourself, boy!?" barked the leader.
Pain and fear surged through Ritsuki. He wanted to cry for his mother—but he swallowed it. Instead, instinct took over. He kicked upward, aiming for the man's face. The attack was blocked—but Ritsuki immediately bit the blocking hand with all his might.
"ARGHHH!"
He dropped to the ground and instantly assumed a silat stance he had learned. The students froze. "Impossible! That's our stance!"
"Don't be fooled! He must have some mimic Potential! Get him!"
The fight was brutal. Five against one. They were trained; Ritsuki was self-taught. But he had something they didn't—knowledge of their weaknesses. He knew the first always led with his right, the second turned too slowly, and the third had an unbalanced stance.
He moved not like a fighter—but like a wild beast. He blocked the first punch and countered with an elbow to the gut. He rolled under a sweeping kick and struck his opponent's knee from below. A hard blow from behind sent him sprawling, but pain only fueled his will. One by one, through stolen techniques and sheer feral instinct, the five students fell unconscious around him.
Panting, bruised, and bloodied, Ritsuki stood victorious. Before he could breathe, a shadow flashed. A kick smashed into his jaw, hurling him against a tree.
Tok Zaffar stood there, eyes blazing with fury. "Impressive. You defeated my best students," he said coldly. "For a cursed child—where did you find that strength!?"
Ritsuki spat blood, forcing himself back into stance. "You'll never beat me with techniques I created myself," Tok Zaffar said, shifting into a strange, unfamiliar stance.
This was the end. Ritsuki knew he didn't stand a chance. But he wouldn't run. With his last strength, he charged forward. Tok Zaffar caught his arm effortlessly—as if swatting a fly—and drove his fist into Ritsuki's stomach. The world went white with pain. He coughed, blood spilling from his lips.
"Die, cursed one. The world will thank me," Tok Zaffar hissed, raising his hand for the final strike.
At that brink of consciousness, Ritsuki's mind became crystal clear. He saw everything—the master's new stance, the weight shift, the tensing of shoulder muscles. In a fraction of a second, his brilliant mind analyzed, calculated, and found an opening.
As Tok Zaffar's fist descended, Ritsuki didn't dodge. Instead, he shifted slightly left, letting the punch graze his shoulder. At the same moment, he used the momentum to spin his body and deliver a palm strike—a high-level technique he had seen in the stolen book—right into Tok Zaffar's chest.
*BLAM!*
It wasn't a powerful hit—but the position and timing were perfect. Tok Zaffar staggered back a step, eyes wide—not in pain, but disbelief. Before he could retaliate, Ritsuki struck again, backhanding his temple.
The Grandmaster didn't fall—but he froze, stunned. He stared at the battered boy before him, who now stared back with burning eyes, refusing to yield.
Ritsuki didn't wait for a response. He knew this was his only chance. He grabbed his bag and tools, limped away from the dojo, never looking back.
He walked on—past the gate, through the grasslands—until his body could carry him no farther. He collapsed in tall grass beneath a starry sky. Blood dripped from his lips, forming a faint smile.
"Mom... I won, Mom... I fought back..." he whispered to the wind, before darkness claimed him.
[TO BE CONTINUED]