Chapter 9: The Mark of 212

“Why are you so surprised?” asked the old crone, Sinto Gendeng.

“Are you scared?”

“Eyang… you’re going to injure me again?” Wiro asked cautiously, body tense and ready. But the old woman only let out another shrill, manic laugh and stepped back seven paces.

“Close your eyes, Wiro!” she commanded.

“But… what are you going to do—”

“Eeek! You little monkey! I said close your eyes, not ask questions! Now do it!”

Wiro reluctantly obeyed. His eyelids lowered, but not tightly enough.

“Tighter!” barked Sinto Gendeng, and Wiro quickly squeezed his eyes shut.

“Take off your shirt.”

Wiro slipped off his tunic and laid it on the ground. Eyes still shut tight.

“Raise your right arm and open the palm. Face it toward me.”

Wiro did as told. Sinto Gendeng gripped her massive axe by the blade, pressing a hidden mechanism near the dragon-shaped hilt—crafted from pale white iron.

“Whatever happens, do not open your eyes,” she said coldly. “And don’t move, unless you want to die!”

“Eyang—”

“Silence! You’re driving me mad!” she snapped.

Then—hisssshhh!

From the dragon’s maw at the head of the axe, thirty-six white needles exploded out with a deafening whoosh. They struck Wiro’s bare chest, embedding themselves neatly and precisely in a pattern that formed the numbers:

212

Wiro screamed in agony and fell to the ground. Before he could recover, another press of the mechanism released twenty-four black needles, which drove into the palm of his right hand. The pain was excruciating. The boy blacked out.

By the time Wiro regained consciousness, Sinto Gendeng had already removed the needles from his chest and palm. He looked down. On his chest, burned into the skin, was the dark bluish mark: 212. On his palm, the same numbers were faintly etched in white.

“Stand up, Wiro,” said his master.

He rose unsteadily, still dazed. “What… what happened?”

“You’ve seen the mark on your chest and palm?” the old woman asked.

He nodded.

“Then remember this. I have sealed within you the mark of the world—and the remembrance of God. So you never forget: your powers are for helping others, and your life belongs to the Almighty. Understand?”

“I understand, Eyang… but… my body feels three times lighter! My energy’s surging like never before!”

Sinto Gendeng chuckled wickedly. “That’s the power of the Fire Dragon Axe 212—Kapak Naga Geni 212.” She then explained the true nature of the weapon and the hidden art she had just passed into him. Wiro fell to his knees, trying to show his gratitude.

“No need for that,” she snapped. “Get up. I still have more to say.”

From her robes, she retrieved the massive axe and a black stone inscribed with the number 212. She held them out.

“This weapon,” she said, “is named the FIre Dragon Axe 212. It took me ten years to forge, and I’ve carried it for over twenty. But it belongs to you now.”

Wiro stared, dumbstruck.

“What are you waiting for? Take it.”

He reached forward. The moment the weapon touched his hands, a surge of icy power flooded his body. His strength doubled—no, tripled! It was as if he had reached a whole new level of mastery.

“Tuck it at your waist, and put your shirt back on.”

Wiro did as told.

“Kapak Naga Geni 212 is no ordinary weapon. Don’t wield it carelessly. Use it only when your life is in grave danger. You’ve already seen its power—but there’s more. If you press the hidden spot beneath the blade, dozens of needles will shoot out from the dragon’s mouth. The same ones I used on you—laced with deadly poison. Thanks to them, your body is now immune to all venom. Your right hand alone carries enough hidden poison to kill a man. Don’t use it unless absolutely necessary.”

Wiro began to kneel again, but a fierce glare from his teacher stopped him.

“Thank you, Eyang,” he said simply, voice full of emotion.

The old woman only laughed again and scratched her sparse hair, held up with two ivory pins. Then she began to sing the haunting verse once more:

---

Pitulas taun wus katilar,
Pucuking Gunung Gede isih panggah kaya biyen mulo,
Langit isih tetep biru,
Wulan lan suryo isih tetep mandeng lan kangen,

Pitulas taun agawe kang tua tambah tua.
Pitulas taun ndadekake bayi abang dadi pemuda kang gagah,
Pitulas taun wektu perjanjian,
Pitulas taun wiwitane perpisahan,
Pitulas taun wekdaling pamales….

---

Seventeen years have passed.
The peak of Mount Gede remains unchanged.
The sky still blue,
The sun and moon still gazing longingly from afar.

Seventeen years have made the old older.
Seventeen years turned a red-faced baby into a handsome youth.
Seventeen years since a pact was made.
Seventeen years since a parting began.
Seventeen years—the time for vengeance.

When she finished, Wiro asked, “Eyang… what does that song mean?”

The old woman’s laugh this time was strange—fragile, like a mask hiding sorrow. Her eyes shimmered with unspoken weight.

“I told you… today is your last day on this mountain.”

“Why, Eyang?”

“Because I’ve passed down everything I know. It is time for you to descend. To walk the world. To follow your path as written by the hand of Heaven.”

She paused, then continued.

“But before you go, there’s one task you must complete.”

“What task?”

“Listen well, Wiro… Over forty years ago, I took in a disciple named Suranyali. He was only two when I found him. I raised him, trained him, taught him everything. But I made a mistake. I should never have accepted that boy.”

Wiro listened closely, face tightening.

“I sent him down the mountain, armed with skills and wisdom. But he betrayed them all. He turned to evil. Became a bandit chief. A predator of the innocent. Now he seeks to bring bloodshed to Pajajaran. He calls himself Mahesa Birawa.”

Sinto Gendeng’s face darkened. Wiro clenched his fists.

“Find him, Wiro. Command him to return and answer for his sins.”

“And if he refuses?”

“Then kill him.”

Silence. Wiro trembled. Not from fear—but from the fire now boiling in his chest.

“For years, you’ve wondered about your parents. I’ll tell you now. Your father’s name was Ranaweleng. He was murdered by Mahesa Birawa. Your mother was taken by him—she ended her life in shame. You were nearly burned alive when he set your home aflame. I happened to pass by…”

Wiro dropped to his knees, overwhelmed. “If not for you, Eyang—”

“Stand up!” she barked. “Don’t thank me—thank God! Now listen.”

She recounted the events of that fateful day, seventeen years past. Everything was clear. The song. The numbers. The truth. Wiro’s heart burned with sorrow, rage, and purpose.

“Eyang… when you found my family, why didn’t you strike down Mahesa Birawa then and there?”

Her lips curled in a pained smile. “I could have. But when I saw the baby in the flames, I had another thought. Let him grow. Let him learn. Let him deliver the final justice. That is your destiny. That… is 2-1-2.”

“Do you think he’s still in Jatiwalu?”

“Uncertain. That’s your mission now. Find him before he rains blood on Pajajaran. Bring him back. If he refuses—kill him.”

A long silence passed between them.

“Are you ready to go, Wiro?”

Wiro nodded solemnly.

“From this day forward,” said Sinto Gendeng, “you shall be known as—Wiro Sableng. The Mad One. A proper name… for the student of the Mad Mistress.”

And with that, she burst into a wild, high-pitched laugh. But her laughter was only a veil—behind it was grief, a sorrowful farewell she could not speak aloud.

“Eyang…” Wiro said, voice cracking. “When will we meet again?”

“As long as the skies remain blue, as long as the forests are green, and the rivers still flow to the sea… we shall meet again, Wiro Sableng.”