At Rangkabhumi's words, a few soldiers waver. The young ones, once so determined to sacrifice themselves, become hesitate.
Their minds drift to the dreams they have yet to fulfill, the loved ones waiting for them in Talang Asri village.
Rangkabhumi sees it in their eyes. And he smiles, not with disappointment, but with understanding.
"Young ones, stay inside the fortress," he says, his voice firm but kind. "Let me and the five commanders handle this outside."
"Outside?" one of them whispers, disbelief flashing across his face.
But Rangkabhumi stands unwavering, his confidence unshaken. Beside him, his five remaining commanders exchange knowing glances.
They understand the situation. They know the odds. Still, they follow their general without question.
The six warriors ride out beyond the fortress gates, their silhouettes stark against the pale moonlight. Hooves strike the earth in unison as they move toward the enemy camp.
At the front, Rangkabhumi carries the banner of Chakradwipa, unfurled even in the dead of night, a silent challenge beneath the stars.
"You think they'll see us coming?" a commander mutters.
"There's no way they're expecting this," another replies.
"This might actually work," a third says, grinning. "We could cut them down before they even react."
"Don't get cocky," a more seasoned commander chimes in. "You'll tire yourself out before we even get through half of them."
"What? You doubting my kanuragan* now?"
Rangkabhumi smirks but interrupts before the banter escalates. "No sneak attacks. No tricks." His tone is final. "We hold them off, make them busy until Senapati Kagendra arrives. We fight them head-on."
His fingers tighten around his sword hilt. A ripple of energy distorts the air around the blade.
And the five commanders tense, recognizing the technique immediately.
Rangkabhumi kicks into a gallop, his blade cutting through the night like a flash of vengeance.
With a single swing…
WHOOSH!
A crescent-shaped wind blade erupts, flying fast in the air, slashing through enemy tents and tearing through Galuguh soldiers like paper.
Panic spreads through the enemy camp. Bamboo alarms clatter as frightened soldiers scramble to alert the others.
In the distance, they see a horde of men rushes toward them.
Rangkabhumi, still thundering forward, arcs his sword in another vicious sweep, swift and unforgiving.
WHOOSH!
Another blade of spirit carves through the charging warriors, leaving only mangled bodies in its wake.
One of the commanders grins. "That's the Great Warrior of Mount Saringgih for you. Even time hasn't dulled his edge."
"Idiot!" another scolds, kicking his horse to gallop. "He's burning his life force using that technique. He can't keep this up forever!"
"Then we better move fast," a third growls. "Let's go! Don't let him die before us!"
***
By dawn, the cavalry from Muncar Regency finally arrives.
At the head of the troops, not just Senapati Kagendra, but also Mahapatih* Abimana, the greatest warrior of Chakradwipa, the Supreme General whose position only second to Prabu Jayantaka himself.
Unlike the others, Abimana immediately senses something is wrong. His sharp gaze locks onto the battlefield ahead.
Even from a distance, he recognizes the technique being used.
And his blood runs cold.
"By the gods… are there no men left in that fortress?!" he mutters.
One of the Talang Asri boys, still inside the fort, rushes to Abimana.
"Only Senapati Rangkabhumi and his five commanders are out there. They've been fighting alone for five incense sticks*."
Abimana's eyes widen.
Without another word, he spurs his horse forward.
Kagendra and his soldiers hesitate. It's unheard of for a Mahapatih, a supreme commander, to charge ahead without issuing orders.
"Kanda Abimana! Wait!" Kagendra calls out, his voice sharp with disbelief.
He rarely used that word Kanda, a title reserved for an elder brother-in-arms. It carried both closeness and respect, a bond forged through shared battles and trust.
But in that moment, it slipped out, born from instinct, fear, and a desperate attempt to pull his senior back.
But Abimana doesn't stop. He understands what's happening. He knows Rangkabhumi too well; his instincts, his pride, the way he bears the weight of duty without complaint.
They had once trained together for years, forged in the same discipline, hardened by the same trials.
Abimana doesn't need to see the battlefield to know what his old friend is doing now.
***
Right now, Rangkabhumi is still fighting, with his life as the price. He stands alone, drenched in blood. His commanders are all dead, their bodies scattered around him.
And yet…
He still fights.
An arrow juts from his back. Another is lodged in his right thigh.
His chest is slick with blood, deep wounds carved across his torso. A broken spearhead remains buried in his stomach.
But he keeps swinging. His grip on his sword never wavers.
In his left hand, he clutches the banner of Chakradwipa, its crimson fabric drenched in the blood of friends and foes alike.
The enemy falters.
"By the old gods… Who is this man?"
"How is he still swinging that sword?"
They should have killed him already. But Rangkabhumi's still standing.
But fate isn't done with them yet. As if one monster weren't enough, another one arrives.
"Rangkabhumi!!!"
A voice crashes across the battlefield like thunder. Even without turning, Rangkabhumi knows who it is.
A faint peaceful smile touches his lips. Slowly, he drives the banner into the ground, securing it upright.
And with a weak breath, he whispers, "Long live Jayantaka… Long live Chakradwipa…"
His fingers loosen. His eyes close.
And at last…
Blug!
He drops to his knees.
Abimana leaps from his horse, soaring high into the sky.
And then…
WHOOSH!
His blade slashes through the air, unleashing a devastating crescent of wind energy, the same Spirit Blade technique Rangkabhumi had been using toward his end.
Just one swing, one crescent flying blade, the front line of Galuguh soldiers is obliterated.
Abimana lands in a crouch, breathing hard. But his attention isn't on the enemy. It's on the man behind him.
Rangkabhumi kneels, motionless, his hand still gripping the banner.
Abimana approaches, eyes stinging.
"…How can you smile like that, brother?" he murmurs.
A swell of pride and sorrow rises in Abimana's chest.
Rangkabhumi had met his end as a warrior should, his blade unyielding, his banner planted firm in the soil of Talang Asri.
He had not fallen in despair. He had entrusted his final breath to Abimana. And Abimana would not let that trust go unanswered.
The moment of mourning is fleeting.
Abimana's hand tightens around his sword. His body stills, his presence shifts. Mourning fades, leaving only fury.
The Galuguh soldiers tense. They know who stands before them.
"That's Abimana the Wise..." one enemy whispers, voice laced with unease. "The strategist who wins wars before the battle even begins."
Another swallows hard. "They say he never fights anymore…"
But here they are, watching as Abimana lifts his sword. The air around him twists. The blade gleams, not just with steel, but with something more, something deadly, something merciless.
And in that instant, they remember, before he was a Supreme General, before he was a legend, before he was Abimana the Wise, he was a swordsman bathed in blood.
And now, that swordsman is about to return, to prove his legacy once more.